iiiihhir !in;
1
iitiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiihitiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiliniiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiil I
(nifiiMiinniitiiiMii;! .
iiHIlltttUililttUlllltlililltlt
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
AT LOS ANGELES
fr
-^v
By canon SHEEHAN, D.D
Luke Delmege: A Novel.
Lisheen: or the Test of the Spirits. A Novel.
Glenanaar: A Novel of Irish Life.
The Blindness of Dr. Gray; or, The Final Law.
A Novel of Clerical Life.
Miriam Lucas: A Novel.
The Queen's Fillet: A Novel.
The Graves at Kilmorna: A Story of '67.
Parerga: a Companion Volume to "Under the
Cedars and the Stars."
The Intellectuals: An Experiment in Irish Club-
Life.
Tristram Lloyd: An Unfinished Novel. Edited and
completed by Rev. H. Gaffney, O.P.
Canon Sheehan of Doneraile: The Story of an
Irish Parish Priest as told chiefly by himself in
Books, Personal Memoirs atid Letters. By
Herman J. Heuscr, D.D.
LUKE DELMEGE
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
5 J FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
2Zl EAST 20TH STREET, CHICAGO
TREMONT TEMPLE, BOSTON
2 10 VICTORIA STREET, TORONTO
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. Ltd.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, E C 4, LONDON
5 3 NICOL ROAD, BOMBAY
6 OLD COURT HOUSE STREET, CALCUTTA
167 MOUNT ROAD, MADRAS
LUKE DELMEGE
BY THE
REV. P. A. SHEEHAN
Author of
''My New Curate," "Geoffrey Austin : Student,'' " 77ie
Triumph of Failure,'^ "Cithara Mea," etc., etc.
New Impression
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
NEW \ORK ■ LOiNDOxN • TORONTO
1928
COPTKIGHT, 1900 AND 1901, BY
THE AMERICAN ECCLESIASTICAL REVIEW.
CoPYRUiHT, 1901, BY
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
All riyhin 7eserved.
First Edition, November, 1901. Reijrinted Jan-
uary, 1902; May, 1905; .Tanuarv, 1907; March 1910-
January, 1916; April, 1920; March, 1924; August'
MADE IX THE UNITED STATES
"^'^ NOTE
A.
•arc
Through the courtesy of the Editor of the Ameri-
:•. CAN Ecclesiastical Review, throug-h wliose pages
-) this story has been running as a serial, it is now repro-
, duced in book form.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Introductory .
II. The Illusions of Youth
III. TuK Sagacities of Age
IV. Dies Magna, et — Amara
V. A Novel Thesis .
VI. Adieux ....
VII. En Route
VIII. Aliuun ....
IX. The Realms of Dis
X. "The Strayed Reveller'
XI. Circe ....
XII. Critical and Expository
XIII. Racial Characteristics
XIV. AVeighixg Anchor
XV. Ayleshurgh
XVI. Enchantment
XVII. A Last Aphorism .
XVIII. Disenchantment
XIX. The Stranger am> his Gods
XX. Eclectic Catiioi.k ism .
XXI. The SuitMKinjKo Tenth
XXII. Euthanasia
XXIII. The Rhine Falls .
XXIV. The Hall of Eclis
XXV. Altruism ....
vii
PAGE
3
17
29
42
53
65
79
95
107
118
129
140
153
166
181
194
207
220
233
249
262
275
286
306
321
VIU
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
XXVI. The Secret of the King
XXVII. A Great Treasure
XXVIII. Mary of Magdala .
XXIX. A Parliamentary Dinner
XXX. Cross Currents
XXXI. Greek meets Greek
XXXII. Percussa et Humiliata
XXXIII. Dagox dismembered
XXXIV. Cremona and Calvary .
XXXV. A Lecture on Biology .
XXXVI. A Boast and its Consequences
XXXVII. Disillusion ....
XXXVIII. Logwood Day ....
XXXIX. Martyrdom ....
XL. Reunion
XLI. A Profession Sermon
XLII. Aftermath ....
PAGB
337
350
366
378
392
408
421
431
451
465
480
493
509
527
544
556
570
BOOK I
LUKE DELMEGE
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
It happened in this way. I was absorbed in a day-
dream — an academic discussion with myself as to
whether demand created supply or supply elicited de-
mand — a hoary question throughout all the debating
societies of the world ; and I was making but little
progress toward its solution, when suddenly it solved
itself in a remarkable manner. I thought 1 heard, above
the rumbling and muflled thunder of the colossal printing
press, far away in a certain street in New York, the
word " Copy " shouted up through a telephone. The
voice was the voice of that modern magician, the fore-
man printer. " Copy " echoed in the manager's room,
where, amid piles of paper, damp, and moist, and redolent
of printer's ink, the great potentate sat. " Copy,"' he
shouted through his teleplione, with scmiething that
sounded like a prayer — but it wasn't — to the editor,
many miles away. " Copy," shouted the editor through
his telephone — no! that hasn't come yet, but it will
one of these days. P>ut ''Copy," he wrote three
thousand miles across the bleak, barren wastes of the
turbulent Atlantic to one sitting on a rustic seat in a
quiet garden in a country village beneath the shadows
of the black mountains that separate Cork County from
Limerick, and with Spenser's "-gentle ]\lulla" almost
washing liis feet ; and " Copy " settled the academic
question forever. That mighty modern IMinotaur, the
press, must be glutted, not with fair youths of Arcady
4 LUKE DELMEGE
and fair maidens of Athens, but with thoughts that
spring from the brains of mortals, and dreams that
draw their beautiful, irregular forms across the twilight
realms of Fancy.
This it is that makes literary men irreverent and
unscrupulous. Was it not said of Balzac, that he dug
and dragged every one of his romances straight from
the heart of some woman ? " Truth is stranger than
fiction." No ! my dear friend, for all fiction is truth
— truth torn up by the roots from bleeding human
hearts, and carefully bound with fillets of words to be
placed there in its vases of green and gold on your
reading-desk, on your breakfast-table. Horrid ? So
it is. Irreverent ? Well, a little. But you, my dear
friend, and the rest of humanity will have nothing else.
" Nihil humani a me alienum puto," said the Latin poet.
We have gone a step further. We will have nothing
that is not human. The stage may be gorgeous ; the
scenery painted by a master hand ; the electric light
soft, lambent, penetrating; the orchestra perfect from
bass drum to first fiddle ; but the audience gapes and
yawns, and is impatient. There is something wanting.
Ha! there it is, and we are all alive again. Opera
glasses are levelled, men and women hold their breaths
lest the least trifle should escape them ; the mighty
conductor is nowhere ; all eyes are strained on what ?
— a little child, perhaps ; a clown, an Italian shep-
herdess, a bandit, a fool, — no matter, it is human, and
it is for this figure that stage and scenery, lights,
flowers, and music become at once ancillary and sub-
servient. And so, when Copy ! Copy ! ! Copy ! ! t
tinkled like an impatient electric bell in my ears, I
said : I must seek a type somewhere. Look into your
inner consciousness, said a voice. No use ! It is a
tabula rasa, from which everything interesting has been
long since sponged away. Call up experiences ! Alas !
experiences are like ancient photographs. At one time,
I am quite sure, this elegant gentleman, dressed in the
fashion of the sixties, was attractive and interesting
INTRODUCTORY 6
enough. Now, alas, he is a guy. So with experiences.
They thrill, and burn, and pierce, then fade away into
ghosts, only fit to haunt the garret or the lumber room.
No ! get a living, breathing, human being, and dissect
him. Find out all his thoughts, dreams, sensations,
experiences. Watch him, waking and sleeping, as old
Roger Chilling worth watched Arthur Dimmesdale in
that teri'ible drama by Hawthorne. Then you have
flesh and blood quivering and alive, and the world is
satistied.
Fate, or the Fates, who are always kind, threw some
such subject across my path in those days when imagi-
nation was feeble and the electric bell was growing
importunate. I knew that he had a story. I guessed
at it by intuition. Was it not Cardinal Manning
who said, when he was asked to imitate his great
compeers, Wiseman and Newman, by writing a novel,
" that every man carried the plot of at least one ro-
mance in his head ? " Now, this man was a mystic and
a mystery. He was a mystic, or was reputed one, be-
cause he had once — a young man's folly — written
something about Plato ; he was called a mystery, be-
cause he wore his hair brushed back from his forehead
right down over his coat collar ; and scarce one of the
brethren had ever seen his inner sanctum, or was ever
able to break through the crust of a deportment which
was always calm and gentle and sweet, but which drew
an invisible line somewhere between you and him — a
line of mystic letters : " Thus far shalt thou come, and
no farther." Some thought that he gave himself too
many airs and was conceited ; one or two rough-spoken,
hard-fisted colleagues dul)l)e(l him as Carlyle dubbed
Herbert Spencer : "an immeasurable ; '" but there
he was, always calmly looking out on the tossing, tur-
bulent ocean of humanity from the quiet recesses of an
unluxurious hermitage, and the still deejter and more
sequestered recesses of a quiet and thoughtful mind.
Like all conscientious interviewers, I had made a few
desperate attempts to get inside this mystery and un-
6 LUKE DELMEGE
ravel it, but I had always been repelled. I could never
get beyond the adytum of the temple, though I coughed
loudly, and put the shoes off my feet with reverence.
It was unapproachable and impenetrable. One day,
however, it was borne to his ears that I had done a
kind thing to some one or other. He no longer said
with his eyes : You are a most impertinent fellow !
The outworks were taken. Then I wrote him a hum-
ble letter about some old fossil, called Maximus Tyrius.
To my surprise I received four pages of foolscap on the
Fourth Dissertation : —
Quomodo ah adulatore amicus distingui possit.
Then, one winter's night, I was bowling home in the
dark from the railway station, and became suddenly
aware that voices were shouting warnings from afar off,
and that the line was blocked. So it was — badly. My
mysterious friend was vainly trying to cut the harness
on his fallen mare, whilst his trap, dismembered, was
leaning in a maudlin way against the ditch.
"A bad spill?" I cried.
" Yes ! " he said laconically.
" Is the jar broke ? " I asked.
" I beg pardon," he said stiffly. Then I knew he had
not heard the famous story.
" Pardon me," he said, " I don't quite understand
your allusions."
'' Never mind," I said, with all the contempt of a
professional for an amateur, as I saw him hacking with
his left hand, and with a dainty mother-of-pearl-handled
penknife, the beautiful new harness. " What do you
want mutilating that harness for, when the trap has been
kicked into space ? "
" I thought 'twas the correct thing to do," he mur-
mured. Then I said in my own mind : He is an im-
measurable .
" Here, Jem," I cried to my boy. He came over, and
whilst I held up the mare's head, he gave her a fierce
kick. She was on her feet in an instant.
INTRODUCTORY 7
" Where's your man ? " I asked.
" I don't know," he said wonderingly.
We found the man, safe and sound, and fast asleep
against the hedge.
"Come now," I said, for I had tacitly assumed the
right to command by reason of my su[)erior knowledge,
" montez ! You must come with me ! "
"Impossible ! " he said, "I must get home to-night."
" Very good. Now, do you think that you can get
home more easily and expeditiously in that broken trap
than in mine ? Hallo ! are you left-handed ? "
"No, but my right arm is strained a little, just a
little."
I took the liberty of lifting his hand, and a small,
soft, white hand it was. It fell helpless. Then I saw
that his face was very white. This showed he was a
thorough brick.
" Is the jar, — I mean the arm, — broke ? " he said,
with a smile.
Then I knew he was human. That little flash of
humour, whilst he was suffering excruciating pain, told
volumes of biography. I helped him up to the seat,
and, without a word, I drove him to his house.
Tlie doctor called it a compound comminuted frac-
ture of the ulna ; we called it a broken wrist. But it
was a bad business, and necessitated splints for at least
six weeks. I volunteered to say his two Masses every
Sunday, my own being supplied by a kind neighbour ;
and thus I broke down the barriers of chill pride or
reserve, and saw the interior of liis house and of his
heart.
The former was plain almost to poverty : tlie latter
was rich to exuberance. Four walls lintMl with books
from floor to ceiling, a carefully waxed floor, one shred
of Indian carpet, and a writing-desk and chair — this
was his sitting-room. F)Ut the marble manteliiiece was
decorated with a pair of costly brass Benares vases,
flanked by a pair of snake candlesticks ; and his writ-
ing-desk was of Shisham wood, and it perfumed w ith a
8 LUKE DELMEGE
strange, faint aroma the whole apartment. Over in
one corner, and facing tlie nortliern light, was an easel ;
a painter's palette leaned against it, and on it was a
half-finished oil-painting — one of those dreamy sea
scenes, where the flush of the setting sun is deepening
into purple, and the sleeping sea is curled into furrows
of gold and lead. A large three-masted vessel, its naked
spars drawn like the scaffolding of some airy mansion
against the sky, was passing out into the unknown.
It was the everlasting enigma of futurity and fate.
I had no notion of losing valuable time. I com-
menced business the first Sunday evening we dined
together.
"• I am a story-teller," I said, " and you have a story
to tell me. Now, now," I warned, as I saw him make
a feeble gesture of protest and denial with his left hand
— " don't quote the Needy Knife-Grinder, an' you love
me. You have seen a great deal of life, you have felt a
great deal, you have resolved a great deal ; and I must
do you the justice to say that you have nobly kept your
resolution of retirement and seclusion from your species
— that is, from brother-clerics. Here are all the ele-'
ments of a first-class story — "
" But I've never written even a goody-goody story,"
he said. "I doubt if I have the faculty of narration."
" Leave that to me," I said. " Give me naked facts
and experiences, and Worth never devised such fancy
costumes as I shall invent for them."
" But," he protested, " why not seek more interesting
matter ? Here now, for example, is an admirable book,
exemplifying the eternal adage : ' Human nature is the
same the wide world over.' I dare say, now, you thought
that Anglican clergymen are moulded into such perfec-
tion by university education, and the better teaching of
social life, that there is never room for the least eccen-
tricity amongst them."
" Let me be candid," I replied, " and say at once that
such has been my conviction — that at least so far as
social virtues are concerned, and the balancing and
INTRODUCTORY 9
measuring of daily social environments, tliey were beyond
criticism. But have you discovered any freaks or prod-
igies there ? "
" What would you think," he replied, " of this ? A
dear old rector driven to resign liis parish by his curate's
wife, against whom he had foolishly warned the afore-
said curate in the days of his bachelorship. She affected
to believe that he was an antediluvian, spoke to him
with the sweet simplicity of a child at tennis parties
and five o'clock teas ; then discovered that once he had
preached a borrowed sermon, and ever afterwards re-
monstrated with him in public on the misdemeanour :
' Ah ! you dear old sly-boots, when you can preach so
beautifully, why do you give us that wretched Penny
Pulpit so often ? ' "
" Look here ! " I said, " that's a perfect mine. Have
you any more diamonds like that ? "
" Well, not many. The mine is salted. But what
do you think of the good rector, who advertised for a
curate, married, but childless, to occupy the rectory,
whilst the incumbent was off to Nice on a holiday ? "
" Well, did he get him ? "
'' Rather. Hut tlie ladv was a docf-fancier, and brought
with her fourteen brindled hulldogs. That rectory and
its fjrounds were a desert for three months. No livinsr
being, postman, butcher's boy, baker's boy, dare show
his face within the gates. Occasionally there was a big
row in the menagerie. The mistress alone could quell
it."
" How ? "
" Can't you guess ? "
" I give it up, like Mr. Johnston."
"Well, a red-liot iron, which she kept always in the
kitchen fire for the purpose."
" Rather drastic," I said. "Who could liave thought
it in staid England? Verily, Innnan nature is every-
where the same."
" Which proves ? " he said questioningly.
I waited.
10 LUKE DELMEGE
" Which proves," he continued, "that there is nothing
half so absurd as to deduce general sweeping proposi-
tions about nations and races from very slender premises.
The world is full of strange faces and strange charac-
ters."
Then I knew he was coming around. And he did.
Poor fellow ! he had to take to bed a few days after,
for the pain was intense and the weather was moist. I
had great doubts whether our local physician was treat-
ing that dangerous wound scientifically, and I proposed
a few times to call in some leading surgeon from the
city. The medical attendant indeed assented, and I saw
he looked alarmed. But my poor friend declined.
" It will be all right," he said, " and after all it is but
a weary world. Oh ! to slee^D and be at rest forever :
to know nothing of the weariness of getting up and
lying down, and the necessities of this poor body, its
eating and drinking, and being clothed ; to be free from
the eternal vexations of men, their vanity, and folly, and
pride. I shall dread to meet them even in Heaven.
' Look for me, my dear friend,' as a good poet has said,
'in the nurseries of Heaven.' "
Then my heart went out to him, for I saw his had
been a troubled life, and day by day I sat by his bedside,
whilst partly as an anodyne to pain, partly to please me,
he went over the details of his life. Then, one day, I
hinted that his life had been a carriere manquee^ and
that he was a soured and disappointed man. He raised
himself on his left arm, and looked at me long and wist-
fully. A slight discoloration had appeared above the
fractured wrist. He pointed to it.
" That is the black flag of death," he said. " You will
find my will in the lower locked drawer of my writing-
desk. I have left all to sick and poor children. But
you are wrong. I am not soured, or deceived, or disap-
pointed. I have a grateful heart to God and man. I
have not had an unhappy life. Indeed, I have had more
than my share of its blessings. But, my friend," he said
earnestly, " I am a puzzled man. The enigma of life
INTRODUCTORY 11
t
has been always too much for me. You will have guessed
as much from all that I have told you. I seek the solu-
tion in eternity of the awful riddle of life."
He fell back in great pain, and I forgot my calling
as interviewer in my sympathy as friend. Dear Lord !
and the world called this man proud.
"Now," I said, "you are despondent. Your accident
and this confinement have weighed on your nerves.
You must let me send for Dr. S . I'll telegraph to
the bishop, and he'll put you under obedience."
He smiled faintly.
" No use," he said, " this is septicccmia. I have prob-
ably forty-eight hours to live. Then, Rest ! Rest! Rest!
It's a strange thing to be tired of life when I had every-
thing that man could desire. This pretty rural parish ;
a fair competence ; churches and schools perfect ; and,"
he gave a little laugh, "no curate. Yet, I am tired,
tired as a child after a hot summer day ; and tired of a
foolish whim to reconcile the irreconcilable."
" And why not give up this brain-racking," I said,
" and live ? Nothing solves riddles but work, and stead-
ily ignoring them. Why, we'd all go mad if we were
like you."
"True," he said feebly, "true, m}^ friend. But, you
see, habits are tyrants, and I commenced badly. I was
rather innocent, and I wanted to dovetail professions
and actions, principle and interest (forgive the sorry
pun), that which ought to be, and that which is. It was
rather late in life wdien I discovered tlie utter ini[)racti-
cabihty of such a process. Life was a Chinese [)uzzk'.
Then, too late, I tiung aside all the enigmas of life, and
flung myself on the bosom of the great mystery of God,
and there sought rest. But, beliind the veil! Behind
the veil ! There only is the solution."
He remained a long time in a reverie, staring up at
the ceiling. I noticed a faint odour in the air.
" You know," he said at length, " I was not loved by
the brethren. ^Vhy ? Did I dislike them ? No! God
forbid 1 I liked and loved everything that God
12 LUKE DELMEGE
created. But I was unhappy. Their ways puzzled me,
and I was silent. There was nothing sincere or open
in the world but the faces of little children. God bless
them ! They are a direct revelation from Heaven.
Then, you will notice that there is not a single modern
book in my library. Why ? Because all modern litera-
ture is lies ! lies ! lies ! And such painful lies ! Why
will novelists increase and aggravate the burdens of the
race by such painful analyses of human character and
action ? "
" Now, now," I said, "you are morbid. Why, half
tlie pleasures of life come from works of imagination
and poetry."
" True. But, why are they always so painful and
so untrue ? Do you think that any one would read
a novel, if it were not about something painful ? —
and the more painful, the more entrancing. Men
revel in creating and feeling pain. Here is another
puzzle."
It was so sad, this gentle, pitiful life drawing to a
close, and without a farewell word of hope to the
world it was leaving, that I had neither comment nor
consolation to offer. It was so unlike all my daily
experiences that I was silent with pity and surprise.
He interrupted me.
"Now for the great wind-up. To-morrow morning
you will come over early and administer the last Sacra-
ments. When I am dead, you will coffin my poor
remains immediately, for I shall be discoloured sadly
and shall rapidly decompose. And you know we must
not give our poor people the faintest shock. I wish to
be buried in my little church, right under the statue of
our Blessed Lady, and within sound of the Mass.
There I spent my happiest hours on earth. And I
shall not rest in peace anywhere but where , I can hear
the Mass-bell. You think I am wandering in my mind ?
No. I am quite collected. I often debated with my-
self whether I should not like to be buried outside,
where I should hear the people walking over my grave.
INTRODUCTORY 13
But no ! I have decided to remain where the Divine
Mother will look down with her pitying eyes on the
place where this earthly tabernacle is melting into dust,
and where the syllables of the mighty Mass will hover
and echo when the church is silent betimes. And no
foolish epitaph. 'Here lieth,' and ' pray for his soul.'
That's all."
He was silent for a little while ; but now and again a
faint shudder showed me the agony he was suffering.
"I am tiring you," he said at length ; "but sometimes
I dream that in the long summer twilights, when my
little village choir is practising, some child may allow
her thoughts, as she is singing, to pass down to where
the pastor is lying ; and perhaps some poor mother
may come over to my grave, after she has said her
Rosar}-, and point out to the wondering child in her
arms the place where the man tliat loved little children
is lying. We are not all forgotten, though we seem to
be. Here, too, is another puzzle. I am very tired."
I stood up and left the room, vowing that I would
leave that poor soul at rest forever.
I administered the last Sacraments the following day,
after I had seen the doctor. He was much distressed
at the fatal turn things had taken. " He had not antici-
pated ; 'twas a case for hospital treatment ; the weather
was so sultry ; he had dreaded amputation, etc. No
hope? None." The patient was right.
And so two days later, exactly as he had anticipated,
we were grouped around his bedside to watch and help
])is last struggle. But even in that supreme moment,
his habitual equanimity did not desert him. Courteous
to 11.11 around, apologizing for little troubles, solicitous
ivbout others, eagerly looking forward to the lifting of
the veil, he passed his last moments in life. Then about
six o'clock in the evening, just as the Angelus ceased
tolling, he cried : —
" 'Tis the soul -bell, the passing-bell, is it not?"
"'Tis the Angelus," I replied.
" Say it with me, or rather for me," he said. Then
14 LUKE DELMEGE
a few minutes later : " 'Tis growing very dark, and I
am cold. What is it? I cannot understand — "
And so he passed to the revelation.
An unusually large number of the brethren gathered
to his obsequies, which was again very strange and per-
plexing. He was buried as he had desired, and his
memory is fast vanishing from amongst men ; but the
instincts of the novelist have overcome my tenderness
for that memory, and I give his life-history and expe-
riences. Am I justified in doing so ? Time must tell.
I should, however, mention another circumstance.
At the obsequies were two old priests, one bent low
with years, the other carrying the white burden of his
winters more defiantly. The former asked me : —
" Did Luke speak of me, or wish to see me? "
I had to say " No ! "
He went away looking very despondent.
The other called me aside and said : —
"■ Did Luke express no wish to see me ? "
Now, I was afraid of this man. He, too, was an
oddity, — a deep, profound scholar in subjects that are
not interesting to the multitude. He was one of the
few who knew Luke well.
" Yes,'" I said ; " several times. But he always drew
back, saying : ' Father Martin is old and feeble. I can-
not bring him such a journey in such weather. Don't
write ! It will be nothing.' "
" Did you think that this accident was a trifle, and
that there was no danger of fatal issues?"
I coughed a little and said something.
" And did you think it was right," he continued,
" that the only friend he probably had in the world " —
here his voice broke — " should have been excluded from
his confidence at such a momentous time ? "
" I really had no alternative," I replied. " I did all
I could for him, poor fellow ; but you know he was
peculiar, and you also know that he was supersensitive
about giving trouble to others."
'■'• Quite so. But when you saw danger, you should
INTRODUCTORY 15
have summoned his friends. This is one of those
thinsfs one finds it hard to condone. He has left a
will and papers, 1 presume ? "
'' Yes," I said ; " 1 have charge of all."
" Have you opened the will ? "
"Not as yet."
"Please do so, and see who are the executors."
We opened tiie will then and there, and found that my
troublesome interlocutor, the Reverend Martin Hughes,
was sole executor. He closed the will at once, and said,
coldly : —
" Now, wouhl you be pleased to hand over all other
papers and conlidential documents belonging to my
deceased friend ? You can have no further need of
them — "
" I beg your pardon," I said ; " the good priest just
departed gave me a good deal of his confidence. You
know that I was in hourly attendance on him for six
weeks. I asked him to allow me tell the story of his
life, and lie consented, and granted me full permission
to examine and retain all his letters, papers, diaries,
manuscripts, for that purpose."
" That puts a different complexion on things," said
Father Hughes. " You fellows are regular resurrec-
tionists. You cannot let the dead rest and bury their
liistories witli tliem."
"But if a life has a lesson?" I ventured to say,
humbly.
" For whom ? "
" For tlie survivors and the world."
" And what are survivors and the world to the
dead?" he asked.
I was silent. It would be a tactical mistake to irritate
this quaint i)ld man. He pondered deeply for a long
time.
" I have the greatest reluctance," he said, " about con-
sentinof to such a thinjT. I know nothing more utterlv
detestable than the manner in whieh the secrets of the
dead are purloined in our most prurient generation, and
16 LUKE DELMEGE
the poor relics of their thoughts and feelings scattered
to the dust, or exposed on the public highways for the
ludihrium of an irreverent public. And this would be
bad enough, but we have to face the lamentable fact
that it is not the reality, but a hideous caricature of the
reality that is presented to the public — "
" You can prevent that," I said meekly.
" How ? "
" By simply taking the matter into your own hands.
No man knew Luke Delmege half so well as you — "
" I'm too old and feeble for all that," he said.
" Well, let's strike a bargain," I replied. " Every
page of this history I shall submit to you for revision,
correction, or destruction, as seems fit, if you keep me on
the right track by giving me as much light as you can."
" It is the only way to avert an evil," he replied. I
told him I was complimented.
And so, with bits and scraps of frayed yellow paper,
torn and tattered letters, sermons half-written, and
diaries badly kept, I have clothed in living language
the skeleton form of this human life. On the whole, I
feel I have done it well, although now and again an
angle of the skeleton — some irregularity — will push
forward and declare itself. Sometimes it is an anachro-
nism which I cannot account for, except on the score of
great charity on the part of my deceased friend, who
seemed to have preferred that his ignorance should be
assumed rather than that charity should be wounded.
Sometimes there is a curious dislocation of places,
probably for the same reason. And sometimes I have
found it difficult to draw the seams of some rent to-
gether, and to make times and circumstances correspond
with the modern parts of our history. And if "the
tear and smile " of Ireland alternate in those pages, it
is withal a solemn history ; and many, perhaps, will
find in it deeper meanings than we have been able tc
interpret or convey.
CHAPTER II
THE ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH
He was a young man, a very young man, otherwise
he would not have been so elated when
Lucas Delmege^ X ensis,
was called out for the fourth time, and he had to request
his diocesans to watch the huge pile of premiums he had
already won, whilst he passed up the centre aisle of the
prayer-hall, and his bishop, smiling as he raised another
sheaf of calf-bound volumes, handed them to him, with
a wluspered " Uptime, Luca." And yet, if a little
vanity — and it is a gentle vice — is ever permissible,
it would have been in his case. To have led his class
successfully in the halls of a great ecclesiastical semi-
nary ; to be w^atched envicnisly by live hundred and sixty
fellow-students, as he moved along on his triumphant
march ; to have come out victorious from a great intel-
lectual struggle, and to receive this praise from his
bishop, who felt that himself and his diocese were hon-
oured by the praise reflected from his young subject —
assuredly, these are things to stir sluggish pulses, and
make the face pallid with pleasure. And if all this
was l)ut the forecast of a great career in the Church ; if
it pointed with the steady finger of an unerring fate to
the long vista of life, strewn with roses, and with laurel
crowns dropped by unseen hands from above, there
would be all the better reason for that elastic step, and
that gentle condescension which marked the manner of
the successful student, when his admirers gathered
c 17
18 LUKE DELMEGE
around him, and even his defeated rivals candidly con-
gratulated him upon his unprecedented success. Yet,
withal, he was modest. Just a little spring in his gait ;
just a little silent reception of adulation, as a something
due to his commanding position ; and just a little moist-
ening of his eyelids, as he dreamt of a certain far home
down by the sea, and the pride of his mother as he flung
all his treasures into her lap, and his sisters' kisses of
triumph for the beloved one — ah me ! who would say
nay to this ? Let the sunshine, and the roses, and the
love of thy loved ones play around thee, thou pale and
gentle Levite, while they may. Soon the disillusion
will come, the laurels will fade, and the sunshine turn
to gray ashen shadow, and the tender and strong sup-
ports of home and love will be kicked aside by Time
^ and Fate ; but the arena of life will be ever before thee,
and every fresh triumph will be a fresh conflict, and
thou wilt be a friendless one and naked. But how
didst thou come to believe that the quiet study hall was
the world, and thou the cynosure of all eyes — the prov-
erb in all mouths ? Listen, dear child, for thou art but
a child. The mighty world has never heard of thee,
does not know thy name ; the press is silent about thee ;
the very priests of thy diocese do not even know of thy
existence. Thou art but a pin's point in the universe.
He does not believe it. He has been a First of First,i
and the universe is at his feet.
His first shock was at the Broadstone Terminus of
the Great Midland Railway. A young and unsophisti-
cated porter was so rustic and ignorant as to raise his
hat to the young priest as he leaped from the carriage.
"Why did ye do that?" said an older comrade.
" Sure, thim's but collaygians. They won't be priested
for another year or two."
The porter had not heard of Luke Delmege, and the
First of First.
He ran his eyes rapidly over the newspapers in the
restaurant, where he was taking a humble cup of coffee.
1 First prizeman in his class.
THE ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH 19
There was news from all quarters of the globe — an
earthquake in Japan, a revolution in the Argentine,
a row in the French Chamber of Deputies, a few
speeches in the House of Commons, a wliole page and
a half of sporting intelligence, a special column on a
fav(mrite greyhound named Ben Bow^ an interview with
a famous jockey, a paragrapli about a great minister in
Austria, gigantic lists of stocks and sliares, a good deal
of squalor and crime in the police courts, one line about
a great philosopher who was dying — can it be possible ?
Not a line, not a word of yesterday's triumph in the
academy ! The name of Luke Delmege, First of First,
was nowhere to be seen.
Could he be, by any possible chance, in the photogra-
phers' windoAvs ? Alas, no ! Here are smiling act-
resses, babies in all kinds of postures and with every
variety of expression, favourite pugdogs, dirty beasts of
every kind with tufts of hair on their tails, fashionable
beauties, Portias, and Imogens, and Cordelias ; but the
great athlete of yesterday ?
And the porters made no distinction between him
and his fellow-students as he sped southwards to his
home ; a few school-girls stared at him and passed on ;
commercial men glanced at him and buried themselves
in their papei'S ; a few priests cheerily said : —
" Home for the holidays, boys ? "
But Luke Delmege was but a unit among millions,
and excited no more notice than the rest.
lie could not understand it. He liad always thought
and believed that his college was the Hub of the I'ni-
verse ; and that its prizemen came out into the unlet-
tered world horned and aureoled with light as from
a Holy Mountain. Was not a pri/.e in his college
equivalent to a university degree ; and was it not sup-
posed to shed a lambent light athwart the future i-areer
of the winner, no matter how clouded that career might
be? Did he not hear of men who folded their arms
and leaned on their laurels for the rest of their lives,
and were honoured and respected for their boyish tri-
2C LUKE DELMEGE
umphs far into withered and useless age ? And here,
in the very dawn of success, he was but a student
amongst students ; and even these soon began to drop
their hero-worship, when they found the great workl so
listless and indifferent. He is troubled and bewildered ;
he cannot understand.
Well, at last, here is home, and here is worship, and
here is love. Ay, indeed ! The news had gone on
before him.' Tiie great athlete in the greatest college
in the world was coming home ; and he was their own,
their beloved. It nearly compensated and consoled him
for all the neglect and indifference, when, on entering
beneath his own humble roof, where he had learned all
the best lessons of life, he found the whole family pi^os-
trate on their knees before him. There was his aged
father. He laid his newly consecrated hands on the
gray head, and pronounced the blessing. He extended
his hands to be kissed, and the rough lips almost bit
them in the intensity of aft'ection and love. The old
man rose and went out, too full of joy to speak. The
young priest blessed his mother ; she kissed his hands
— the hands, every line of which she knew with more
than the skill of palmist. The young priest stooped
and kissed her wrinkled forehead. He blessed his
brothers, and laid his hands on the smooth brows of his
sisters. Reverently they touched his palms with their
gentle lips ; and then, Margery, the youngest, forget-
ting everything but her great love, flung her arms
around him, and kissed him passionately, crjdng and
sobbing : '^ Oh ! Luke I Luke ! " Well, this at least
was worth working for. Then the great trunk came
in, and the vast treasures were unlocked, and taken out,
and handled reverently, and placed on the few shelves
that had been nailed by a rustic carpenter in the little
alcove of his bedroom. There they winked and blinked
in all their splendours of calf and gold ; and Peggy re-
fused to dust them, or touch them at all, at all, for how
did she know what might be in them ? They were the
priest's books, and better have nothing to say to them.
THE ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH 21
The priests are the Lord's anointed, you know. The
less we have to say to them the better ! But a few
privileged ones amongst the neighbours were allowed to
come in, and look at these trophies, and offer the incense
of their praise before the shrine of this family idol, and
think, in their own hearts, whether any of their little
flaxen-haired gossoons would ever reach to these unap-
proachable altitudes.
The aged curate, who had given his Luke his First
Communion, came in later.
" Well, Luke, old man, put on the Melchisedech at
last ? How are you, and how is every bit of you ? You
look washed out, man, and as ' tin as a lat,' as Moll Brien
said when her son came out of jail. A few days' cours-
ing on the mountains will put new life into you. The
two dogs, Robin and Jiaven, are in prime condition, and
the mountain has not been coursed since the great match
in May. Ah ! these books 1 these books ! Luke's
prizes, did you say, ma'am ? They're vampires, ma'am,
sucking the rich red blood from his veins. Thank God,
I never bothered much about them ! Here they are, of
course : Camhrensis Eversus! By Jove ! I thought
that fellow was spun out long since. Why, in my time,
thirty years ago, ma'am, — time flies, — that book was
declared out of print ; and here tlie fellow turns up as
spruce as ever. A regular resurrectionist ! Well, it's
all the same. Nobody ever read him, or ever will.
O'Kane on the Rubrics ! A good book. Poor Jimmy !
The best soul tliat ever lived. Hurrah ! Murray on
the Church/ Poor— old — Paddy ! The tub of theol-
ogy I Crolly de Contractibus — "
Here a dreadful shudder shot through his stalwart
frame.
'■'• Now, look here, Luke, you've had enougli of these
fellows. Come up to-morrow and dine with us. No
one but Father Tim and one or two of the neighbours.
What — "
" I've not called on the Canon yet," said Luke, timidly.
" Never mind ! I won't ask him. You can call to-
22 LUKE DELMEGE
morrow. But not too early, mind ! Between four and
six. You may be in time for what he calls ' five o'clock
tea.' Let me see! I'll say half-past four, so that you
can have an excuse for getting away. Don't say you're
dining with me, though. He'd never forgive you. Any-
thing but that."
He fell into a fit of musing. There were some troub-
lous memories called u]3.
" By the way, what about your first Mass ? " he cried,
waking up.
" I shall feel much obliged if you will kindly assist
me. Father Pat," said Luke.
" Of course, of course, my boy," said the curate,
" though, indeed, very little assistance you'll require,
I'm thinking."
'' If I could say my first Mass here under my father's
roof," said the young priest, timidly.
" Of course, of course," said the curate. " Let me
see, though. It's against the statutes of course, with-
out the I3ishop's permission; and I don't know — but
we'll dispense with statutes on this occasion. Will you
take long? "
" About half an hour, I think," said Luke.
" Ay, it will be many a day, your reverence, before
Luke will be able to say Mass like you," said Mrs. Del-
mege. " Sure, 'tis you who don't keep us long waiting."
" No, indeed ; why should I? Do I want ye to have
camels' knees, like the poor old saints over there in
Egypt?"
"• Mike said there was no use trying to keep up with
your reverence. Though you had the Latin, and I be-
lieve there are very hard words in the Latin, and we
had the English, you bate us intirely."
" Look at that for you, now," said Father Pat, looking
around admiringly.
" Thin, the last time he wint to Cork with the butter,
he bought the weeshiest little prayer book j^ou ever saw.
'Twas about half a finger long, and the print was mighty
big. ' I have him now,' sez he ; ' 'tis a quare story if I
THE ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH 23
don't lave him behind.' Troth, and yer reverence, ye
were at the Be Profundis before he got to the Father
Nosther"
" Well, you see, ma'am, that's what comes from long
practice. But I make it up in the preaching, you
know," he said with a smile.
" Troth, an' ye do," said Mrs. Delmege, " 'tisn't much,
but what ye says comes from the heart."
"There now, Luke, there's a critic for you. Look
sharp, old man ; but I forgot. You are going abroad.
Happy fellow ! 'Tis only in Ireland you come in for
sharp hits. Well, don't forget to-morrow. Half-past
four ; not a moment later. I'm a model of punctuality.
Good-day, ma'am ; oh ! by Jove ! I was forgetting.
Give us your blessing, my poor man. Isn't there some
kind of indulgence attached?"
He bent his head reverently as he knelt and received
the benediction.
" There, that will do me some good, whatever, and I
want it."
" The best poor priest within the says of Ireland," said
Mrs. Delmege, wi})ing her eyes, as the curate strode
down tlie little footpatli, and leaped lightly over the
stile.
But though Luke echoed his mother's kind words,
deep down in his heart there was a jarring note some-
where. What was it? That expression, "put on the
jNIelchisedech" ? Well, after all, it was a i)retty usual
colloquialism, and meant no irreverence. Then, saying
Mass in a private house without episcopal sanction?
How did that statute bind? Was it siih gravi? Luke
shuddered at the tli<)U<jfht of celebratiiifr under such cir-
cumstances. He would Avrite that evening to the curate,
and put off his ]Mass till Sunday. There was something
called JEpikeia, of course, but — he was perplexed. Then,
that awful rapidity in cck'l)rating I Tlic ))copk' noticed
it and were shocked. But, after all, they liked it, and
was there not something in the rubrics al)out the pro-
priety of not keeping the people waiting? Who was
24 LUKE DELMEGE
he that he should judge his superior — a man of thirty
years' standing on the mission? Then it dawned on
his perplexed and puzzled mind that Father Casey had
not even once alluded to the high places that had fallen
to the lot of the happy student in his college. He
had spoken to him as to an ordinary student, affection-
ately, but without a note of admiration. Had he not
heard it ? Of course he had. And yet, never an allu-
sion to the First of First, even in the mother's presence!
What was it? Forgetfulness? No. He had seen the
prizes and made little of them. Could it be that, after
all, he had been living in a fool's paradise, and that the
great world thought nothing of these academic triumphs
that were pursued and won at such tremendous cost?
The thought was too dreadful. The Canon will think
differently. He is a highly polished and cultured man.
He will appreciate distinction and academical success.
And poor Luke felt irritated, annoyed, distressed, per-
plexed. It was all so very unlike what he had antici-
pated. He had not read : " For there shall be no
remembrance of the wise no more than of the fool for-
ever."
The next day Luke paid a formal visit to his pastor.
He had an old dread of that parochial house — a shrink-
ing and tingling of the nerves when he opened the gate
and crossed the well-trimmed lawn, and knocked ner-
vously with that polished knob, which sounded alto-
gether too loud for his tastes. It was an old feeling,
implanted in childhood, and which intensified as the
years went by. Custom had not modified it nor habit
soothed it ; and as Luke crossed the lawn at four o'clock
this warm July day, he wished heartily that this visit
was over. He had often striven in his leisure moments
in college to analyze the feeling, but without success.
He had often, as he advanced in his collegiate course,
and had begun to feel a certain self-reliance, tried to
gather his nerves together, and face with coolness this
annual ordeal. It was no use ; and when the servant
appeared in answer to his knock, and announced that the
THE ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH 25
Canon was in his library, his heart sank down, and he
paced the beautiful drawing-room in a nervous and
unhappy condition. Now, this was unreasonable and
unintelligible. Alas ! it was one of the many enigmas
in his own soul, and in the vast universe outside, that
he was perpetually striving to solve.
Here was a man of advanced years, of most blameless
life, of calm, polished manner ; a man who gave largely
to public charities, and who, as an ecclesiastic, was an
ornament to the Church ; and yet men shrank from
him ; and like an iceberg loosened by the Gulf Stream,
he created around him, wherever he went, an atmos-
phere of chilliness and frigidity that almost isolated
him from his fellow-men. What was it ? He was a
formalist that could not be laughed at ; a perfected and
symmetrical character where tlie curious and irreverent
could place no flaw ; the arbiter elegantiarum to his
diocese ; and the frigid censor of the least departure
from the Persian laws of politeness and good deport-
ment. If he had only had the good fortune to be
laughed at, it would have saved him. If men could
make a joke about him, they would have loved him.
But no ! Stately and dignified and chill, there was no
such thing as presuming on such a lofty character ; and
there he was, his forehead in the clouds and his face
above the line of perpetual snow.
Luke sat timidly in a dainty chair, with its wood-
Avork inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He would have liked
to sink into the easy depths of that voluptuous arm-
chair ; but he tliought it would seem too familiar.
How often, in later life, he thought of his nervousness
and reverence, when a young student called on him, and
flung himself carelessly on a sofa, and crossed his legs
nonclialantly ! Which was better — his own gentle awe
and deep-seated reverence for authority and age and
dignity, or the possible irreverence of after years ?
Well, this, too, was a puzzle.
Luke lifted uj) his eyes. They fell on the portrait of
a beautiful woman ; a fair, oval face, with an expression
26 LUKE DELMEGE
of infinite sadness upon it. It attracted him, fascinated
him. It was one of the numberless copies of the Cenci
portrait that third-class artists turn out in Rome. It
was believed by the Canon to be the original. When
better informed in later years, Luke tried to undeceive
the Canon, it was one of the many things that were not
forgiven. But now he turned his eyes rapidly away
from the beautiful face. He was in the first flush of his
ordination. It was not right. It was sinful. His eyes
rested on a glorious picture of the Divine Mother, that
hung over the mantelpiece in the place of honour.
Luke went into raptures over it, studied it, gazed on it,
and every throb of pleasure was a prayer. Just then,
a bevy of artificial birds, in a glass case beneath, began
to flutter and chirp, and a deep gong tolled out musi-
cally the quarter. The door softly opened, and the
Canon entered the room. He was a tall man, about
sixty-five years of age, but remarkably well preserved.
His hair was white, not silvery white, but flaxen-white, a
curious and unpleasant shade of yellow running through
it. He was clad in a soutane, such as canons wear, and
which set off well his fine stately figure. His face, a
strong, massive one, had an appearance of habitual equa-
nimity that was rather acquired by strong self-disci-
pline than natural. He spoke softly, and when he sat
down he arranged his cassock so that the silver buckles
on his shoes could be seen. A subtle, indefinable aroma
exhaled from his garments. Luke remembered it well.
It was one of those mnemonic associations from child-
hood that never fade.
"Sit down. I'm very happy to see you, Mr. Del-
mege," he said.
H he had only said " Luke " or " Father " Delmege,
Luke would have worshipped him. The icy " Mista "
froze him.
" Thank you, Canon," he said.
" I understand you have been ordained ? Yes !
That must be a great consolation to your — excellent
parents. "
THE ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH 27
"Yes. They are very happy," said Luke. "If I
might presume to ask such a favour, it would make
them doubly happier if I could say my first Mass in
my own — in my — in their house."
"Impossible," replied the Canon, blandly, "quite
impossible, I assure you, my — ah — dear Mr. Del-
mege. There is an — ah — episcojjal regulation for-
bidding it; and the Bishop, unhappily — ah — and
unadvisedly, I presume to think, has — ah — restricted
permission to say such Masses to himself. I'm not —
ah — at all sure that this is not a — canonical infringe-
ment on parochial — ah — privileges ; but we must not
discuss the subject. You are — ah — very young ! "
The Canon seemed hurt, and Luke was silent.
"You have had — I hope," said the former, at length,
"a fairly respectable career in College."
Infandum! this man had never heard of the First of
First ! Luke was nettled.
" P'airly," he said laconically. The Canon noticed
his mortification.
"Now tliat I remem])cr, I heard some one — could it
have been my curate? — say that you were doing
fairly well. Indeed, I think he said remarkably well."
" i took ' First of First ' in Theology, Scripture, and
Canon T^aw, and Second of First in Hebrew," said
Luke, now thoroughly aroused by sucli indifference ;
" and I'd have swept the First of First in Hebrew
also — "
"Dear me! liow very interesting," said tlie Canon,
" how very interesting ! I liope it is the prelude to a
— to a — very respectable career in the Church I "
'■'■ I hope so," said Luke, despondently. Alas ! he
had been taught that it was not the prelude, but the
final and ultimate climax of all human distinction.
The Canon continued : —
" If you continue your studies, as every young priest
should, and try to acquire ease and a proper deportment
of manner, and if your life is otherwise — ah — correct
and — ah — respectable, you may, in the course of
i
28 LUKE DELMEGE
years, attain to the honours and — ah — emoluments of
the ministry. You may even in your old age, — that
is, supposing an irreproachable and respectable career,
— you may even attain to — ah — the dignity of being
incorporated into the — ah — Chapter of your native
diocese."
" I could never think of reaching such an elevation,"
said Luke, humbly.
" Oh ! well," said the Canon, reassuringly, " you may,
you may. It means, of course, years and well-estab-
lished respectability ; but it will all come, it will all
eorae."
Luke thought that time M^as no more, and that his
purgatory had begun when those blessed birds shook
out their feathers and chirped, and the deep gong
tolled out musically the lialf-hour.
Tlie Canon rose and said • —
" Could you join us in a cup of tea, Mr. Delmege ?
We are — ah — rather early to-day, as we shall have a
drive before dinner. No ? Well, good-day ! Fm
most happy to have seen you. Good-day ! "
Luke was stepping lightly down the gravelled walk,
thankful for liaving got off so easily, when he was called
back. His heart sank.
"Perhaps, Mr. Delmege," said the Canon, blandly,
" you would do us the favour of dining with us at half-
past six on Sunday ? It's rather early, indeed ; but it's
only a family party.''
Luke rapidly ran over in his mind every possible
excuse for absenting himself, but in vain !
" I shall be most happy, sir," he said ; " the hour will
suit me admirably."
Ah, Luke, Luke !
CHAPTER III
THE SAGACITIES OF AGE
As the young priest made his way hastily across the
fields, .already yellowing to the harvest, he became aware
of a deep feeling of despondency glooming down upon
him, although he was in the high zenith of youth, with
all its prophetic pi'omise, and the heavens were clear
above his head. That engagement to dine Avas an ugly
ordeal to be encountered ; but, after all, what did he
care ? It was a couple of hours' agony, that was all.
What then ? Where did all this dismal anxiety and fore-
boding come from ? He was fond, as has been said, of
analyzing — a dangerous habit ; and now, under the hot
sun, he was striving to reconcile two or three things,
the mystery of wliich the world has already declared to
be insoluble. "A respectable career," "-honours and
emoluments," " a stall in the Cathedral ; " tliese word?
jarred across the vibrant emotions of the young priest,
and made him almost sick witli their dismal and hollow
sounds. Good heavens ! was this the end of all — all
the heaven-sent aspirations, all the noble determinations,
all the consecrated ideals that had peopled lieart and
mind only a week ago, when the oil was wet on his
hands, and he treinl)l('(l as lie touched for the first time
the chalice of the Jilood of Christ? How paltry every
human ambition seemed then ; how ragged the tinsel
of kings; how cheap and worthless the pinchbeck of
earthly thrones ! How his soul burned to emulate the
heroism of saints — to go abroad and be forgotten by
the world, and to be remembered only by Clirist —
to live and die amongst the lepers and the insane —
29
30 LUKE DELMEGE
to pass, with one swift stroke of the dull sword of the
executioner in China or Japan, to his immortal crown !
Why, it was only the prayers of his aged mother made
him tear up that letter he had written to the Bishop of
Natal, asking as a favour to be deputed as chaplain in
Robbin Island, where the outcasts and refuse of human-
ity were located, so that his life might be from start to
finish one glorious holocaust in the sight of God ! And
now there remains, after all the glory, the gray ashes of
a "respectable career," — a comfortable home, honours
and emoluments, and, as a crown of old age, a par-
ish and a prebend ! What an anticlimax ! Luke
groaned and took off his hat, and wiped the hot per-
spiration from his forehead.
But a sharper sting was behind. If all this was a
shock and a surprise, what was he to think of all his
ambitious labours for the last six years ? Had he one
single idea before his mind but self-advancement, glor}-,
the praise of men, the applause of his fellow-students,
except on that holy morning when the intoxication of
divine dreams and hopes lifted him on the highest alti-
tudes of the Holy Mount ? And he said to his soul
amidst its sobbing and tears: " Unam jietii a Domino:
hmic reqidram : ut inliahitem in domo Domini omnibus
iiehus vitae 7neae. Ut videam voluptatem Domini, et vis-
item templum ejus. Impinguasti in oleo cajyut meum : et
calix mens inebrians quam praeclarus est! "
Now, which was right — the tacit denial by men of
the sublime doctrine of self-annihilation and love of
lowly things and places, and, by consequence, their gos-
pel of self-advancement preached from the house tops ;
or that sudden breath of the Holy Spirit — that afflatus
spiced with sanctity and sorrow — that momentary in-
toxication, which has come but once or twice to saints
and heroes, and in which they have spurned with holy
contempt all that this earth holds dear ? Which was
right ? It was the enigma of life, the antithesis of prin-
ciple and practice. He saw, as in a vision, all the vast
corollaries and scholia, that stretched away into the per-
G
I
THE SAGACITIES OF AGE 31
spective of time, from one principle or another ; he saw
himself branded as a madman or a fanatic if he em-
braced the one, and scheduled in the markets of the
world as a respectable and honoured clergyman if he
selected the other ; here was pain, disease, dishonour ;
and here was peace, dignity, health, and wealth. He
knew well whither the Divine Hand, palm-wounded,
blood-stricken, pointed ; but who am I, he said, to set
my opinion before the whole world ? I am a conceited
fool to think that these diseased and morbid thoughts,
that spring from an overstrained mind and irritable
nerves, are to l)e assumed in preference to the calm and
almost vniiversal habitudes of mankind. I shall say to
my soul : Sleep tliee now, and rest. Let the future
solve its own enigmas.
But then came back with trebled force the shame he
felt Avhen his okl pastor put bluntly before him these
dreams of advancement and ambition ; and he just re-
mend)ered that morning having read some strange things
in his book of meditations. It was the articuh\te ren-
dering of all the Sjnrit had been saying. Who now
was right? This old man in the nineteenth century,
or this strange, unnamed, unknown monk, who was
calling to him across six centuries of time ? The world
was grown wise. AVas it ? Circumstances change
principles. Do they? It was all very well in tlie
Dark Ages, but this is the light-illumined nineteenth
century. Indeed ? We are not to go back to medise-
valism for our philosophy of life, when we have ever so
many new systems of our own ; and our Ilhtmhiati know
a little more than your cowled monks with their samlals
and bog- Latin.
"Not in vain tlie distant beacons, forward, forward let us range:
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of
change."
Quite so. The "ringing grooves of change." Are we
going back to manuscripts Avhen we have })rint? Back
to coaches when we have steam ? Back to monasteries
32 LUKE DELMEGE
when we have hotels ? Back to mortification, dishon.
our, forgetfulness, the Innominati of the cell and the
tomb ?
The hoarse wash of the Atlantic surges came mourn-
full}' to his ears, there in the brilliant sunshine ; and as
he turned away from his reverie and the sight of the
restless but changeless ocean, he thought he heard the
rebuke upborne — Be ashamed, Sidon, said the sea.
"Begor, I thought you were petrified into a stone
statue, Luke," said the voice of the good-natured cu-
rate. " I have been watching you, and whistling at you
for the last half-hour ; but I might as well be whistling
to a milestone, and my breath is not now so strong
either. ' The Canon has turned him into ice,' I said to
myself, 'he's a regular patented refrigerator, even on
this awful day.' Phew ! there's no living at all this
weather. Come along. The Murphies are waiting;
and so are two of the hungriest fellows you ever saw.
But are you really alive ? Let me feel you."
So they passed into the humble parlour of the aged
curate ; and, as Luke sank wearily into a horsehair arm-
chair, very much the worse for the wear, dinner was
ordered by a few robust knocks on the kitchen wall.
" Comin'," said a far-away voice, like that of a ven-
triloquist.
" You know Father Tim, Luke ? And this is my old
friend, Martin Hughes, the greatest rascal from this to
Cape Clear. Come along now, boys, we're late, you
know. Bless us, O Lord, Amen. You'll take the liver
wing, Luke. You've a good right to it. They're your
own. Ah! you've the good mother."
"And I venture to say," said Father Tim, digging
the carver with his left hand into the juicy recesses of j
the ham, " that this fellow came from the same quarter. '
Ah ! this is a parish where men buy nothing but a scrap
of butcher's meat."
" I suppose you've got your eye on it, Tim. You've
no chance, my dear fellow. Read up Valuy and Lord
Chesterfield's Letters and the Manual of Etiquette. You
THE SAGACITIES OF AGE 33
ft
unmannerly fellow, what a chance you have of upsetting
a polite young man like me. Take the potatoes over
there to Father Delmege, Mary. I suppose now you're
tired of the Queen's mutton ? And you tell me they
don't give the students beer now ? Well, that's bad.
What'U you take now ? Try that sherry. No ! A
little water ? " he echoed in a tone of ineffable disgust.
" I think Father Delmege is right such a day as this,"
said Martin Hughes, a kindly, soft-faced priest, who was
generally silent, except when he had a gentle or encour-
aging word to say. " And, indeed," he added, " that
beer was no great things. It was a good day for Ire-
land when they did away with it."
" Well, of course, every one knows you're a queer
fellow. But Luke, old man, are you really alive?'''
'■' Alive and doing fairly well," said Luke, laugliing.
" Ab actu ad esse valet consecutio. And if this is not
actuality Fd like to know what is."
'■'• There now for you," said the host ; " he has the dust
of the desks in his mouth yet. Begor, I suppose now I
could liardly remember to translate that."
'■' Don't try," said Father Tim ; '-'■ nothing disturbs
the digestion so much as serious thought."
"Faith, 'tis true for you. I'll let it alone. I'm bet-
ter engaged. Mary, have that bit of mutton ready
when 1 ring."
And so, amidst bantering, joking, story -telling, from
the lips of tiiese genial and kindly men, Luke soon for-
got his introspection ; and his nerves cooled down and
were sootlied by the totally informal and delightful con-
versation that shot, as if by web and woof, across the
flowers and the viands. Then, when these contempti-
ble dishes were removed, and they settled down to a
quiet evening, Father Tim crossing his legs comforta-
bly, and squeezing with the dexterity begotten of liabit
the lemon into his glass, began to philosophize. Me was
slow of speech, unlike his dear friend, the host of the
evening, and Sinirtan almost in liis uttoi'anccs, which he
ground out slowly from the mills of thought.
34 LUKE DELMEGE
«
" There's one advice I'd give you, Luke, my deal
boy ; and 'tisn't now, but in twenty years' time, yell
thank me for the same. Harden your head in time."
" I beg pardon, Father," said Luke, wonderingly.
" For what, my boy ? " said Father Tim.
" I didn't quite understand you," said Luke, timidly.
" You said something — "
" I said," replied Father Tim, dropping in a tiny bit
of sugar, "and I repeat it, harden your head in time."
" Let the boy alone," said Father Alartin ; " don't
mind his nonsense, Luke."
" I said, and I repeat it," said Father Tim, " and
'tisn't now, but in thirty years' time, you'll value the
advice ; harden your head in time. You see 'tis this
way," he continued methodically, "if you take one
glass of wine, even that claret there, which is no more
than so much water, and if it gets into your head, and
your eyes are watery, and your knees weak, and you
cannot say, three times running, the British Constitu-
tion, you are a drunkard and a profligate. But if you
can drink a puncheon of the hard stuff, like this, and
your liead is cool, and your knees steady, and your
tongue smooth and glib, you are a most temperate and
abstemious man. 'Tis the hard head that does it. A
civil tongue and a hard head will take any man through
the world."
" But do you mean to say," said Luke, who was
amazed at such a statement, " that that is the way the
workl judges of intemperance ? "
" Of course it is," said Fatlier Tim, " what else ? The
world judges what it sees — nothing else."
" But that's most shocking and unfair," said Luke.
"Why, any poor fellow may make a mistake — "
" If he made such a mistake in Maynooth, how would
he be judged ? " said Father Tim.
" He would be promptly expelled, of course. But
then, you know, men are on probation there, and it is
natural — "
"Maynooth is the world," said Father Tim, laconi-
THE SAGACITIES OF AGE 35
cally. " Men are always on probation till they pass
their final, beyond the grave."
This was so good, so grand an inspiration that Father
Tim gave up the next ten minutes to a delightful inward
and inaudible chuckle of self-congratulation, intensified
by Luke's frightened solemnity. Then he relented.
" Don't mind an old cynic, Luke," he said. " Diogenes
must growl from his tub sometimes."
" By the way, Luke," said Father Martin, " you are
mighty modest. You never told us of your triumphs
at the last exam. lie swept everything before him," he
said, in an explanatory tone to Father Pat, the host.
The latter was embarrassed for a moment, but only for
a moment.
" Did you expect anything else from his mother's
son?" he asked. " Why, that's tlie cleverest woman
in the three parishes. Mike Delmege wouldn't be
what he is but for her to-day. But Luke, — did you
see all his prizes ? " he suddenly asked. " Ah I my
dear fellow, if Luke had six years more, he'd have a
library like Trinity College."
" Did you top the class in everything, Luke ? " said
Father Martin.
"■ Everything but Hebrew," said Luke, blushing.
" You know tluit there — "
He was about to enter into elaborate explanations of
his comparative failure there, and a good deal of ]Maso-
retic and Syro-Clialdaic philology was on his lips ; but
someliow, lie tliought of the whole tiling now without
elation, nay even with a certain well-delined feeling of
disgust. That little reverie there above the sea, in
which he saw, as in a mirror, the vanity and futility of
these transitory and worthless triumi>hs, liad well-nigh
cured him of all his pride and elation ; but he was
wondering, between the vibrations of pleasure and dis-
gust, at the eccentricities of men, now regarding his
academical triumi)lis with contemptuous indifference,
and again attaching to them an imiiortance which his
common sense told him was not altogether the vapour-
36 LUKE DELMEGE t
ings of mere flattery. In fact, men and their ever
varying estimates of human excellence were becoming
emigmatic ; and, to his own mind, therefore, their
instability proved the very worthlessness of the things
they praised and applauded.
" You are all right now for life, my boy," said Father
Martin, timidly. " You have made your name, and it
is as indelible as a birthmark. All you have got to do
now is to look down calmly on us poor fellows, who
never got an Atque.'^ ^
"That's true," said the venerable host._ "Why,
when his time comes for a parish, we must build a town
for him. There will be nothing in this diocese fit for
him."
" They'll make him Vicar-Apostolic or Bishop, or
something over there," said Father Martin. "He'll
become a regular John Bull. If any fellow attempts
to examine you for faculties, tell him you are a gold-
medallist and he'll collapse."
" Or pitch Camhrensis Eversus at his head," said
Father Pat.
" Well, I'm commencing well, whatever," said Luke,
entering into the fun.
" So you are, my boy, so you are," said the host,
encouragingly. " If you'd only take to the wine of the
country, you'd infallibly rise in the profession."
" I'm dining with the Canon on Sunday," said Luke,
demurely.
" What ? " cried all in chorus.
" Had you the courage ? "
" There's no end to the impudence of these young
fellows ! "
" My God ! " said Father Tim, solemnly and slowly.
" The next thing will be your asking him down to
dine at Lisnalee," said the host.
"And why not?" said Luke, flushing angrily
" What discredit is there in dining under the roof of
an honest man ? "
1 The lowest college distinction.
THE SAGACITIES OF AGE 37
" And why not ? " said Father Pat, musingly,
" And why not ? " said Father Tim, as from afar off.
"Ai)d why not?" said Father Martin, looking down
mournfully on the young priest. Then the latter began
to put a lot of turbulent and revolutionary questions to
himself. Am I not a priest as well as he? Why
should he not meet my mother and sisters, as well as I
am expected to meet his relatives, if he has any ? Who
has placed this mighty chaos between us, as between
Lazarus and Dives? It is all this infernal, insular,
narrow-minded, fifteenth-century conservatism that is
keeping us so many hundred years beliind the rest of
the world. Could this occur in any other country ?
And who will liave the courage to come forward and
pulverize forever this stiff, rigid formalism, built on
vanity and ignorance, and buttressed by that most in-
tolerable of human follies — the pride of caste?
" By Jove, I'll ask him," said Luke, aloud.
'' No, my boy, you won't. Don't practise that most
foolish of gymnastics — knocking your head against a
stone wall."
''Then I won't dine with him," said Luke, deter-
minedly.
" Oh, but you will," said Father Pat, admiringly.
" Did ye ever see such an untrained young colt in all
your lives? Now, you'll go on Sunday and dine with
the Canon ; and I think, if we can put our experiences
together, you won't make any egregious mistakes.
Where will we begin. Father Martin ? Stand up and
show Luke how to take the ladies in to dimier."
"Tell your experiences, Pat," said Father Martin,
good-humouredly. "That will serve as a manual of
eti(][uette — I mean your mistakes."
"I never made but one mistake," said Fatlior Pat,
with a show of pretended anger, "but that excluded
me from the Kingdom of Heaven forever. It was all
about one or two little beggarly peas. I had dined
well — at least as well as could be expected when you
have to have your eye on your plate and on your host
38 LUKE DELMEGE
at the same time. I was flattering myself that I had
got through the miserable business with flying colours,
when some evil spirit put it into my head to pick up a
few little peas that lay upon my plate. Now, I didn't
want them, but the old boy put them there. I put my
fork gently upon one. It jumped away like a grass-
hopper. Then I tried Number Two. Off he went
like a ball of quicksilver. Then Number Three. The
same followed, until they were gyrating around for all
the world like cyclists on a cinder track. Then I got
mad. My Guardian Angel whispered : ' Let them
alone.' But my temper was up ; and there I was chas-
ing those little beggars around my plate, for all the
world like the thimble-riggers at a fair. Now, I firmly
believe there's something wrong and uncanny about
peas ; else, why does the conjurer always get a pea for
his legerdemain ; and that's the reason, you know, the
pilgrims had to put peas in their shoes long ago as a
penance, and to trample them under foot. Well, at
last, I said : ' Conquer or die ! ' I looked up and saw
the Canon engaged in an engrossing conversation with
a grand lady. Now or never, I said to myself. I
quietly slipped my knife under these green little demons
and gobbled them up. I daren't look up for a few
seconds. When I did, there was the Canon glowering
on me like a regular Rhadamanthus. I knew then I was
done for. He said nothing for a few days. Then
came the thunder-clap. ' I could foi'give,' he said, in
his grandiose way, ' your solecisms — ha — of speech :
your ungrammatical and — ha — unrecognized pronun-
ciations ; but to — eat — peas — with — a — knife ! I
didn't think that such a dread mortification could he
in store for me ! ' He never asked me to dine from
that day to this, — for which I say, with a full heart,
Deo Gratias. But Luke, old man, look sharp. Let
me see. Give him a few hints, Tim ! Martin, try and
brush up your etiquette."
" Tell me," said Father Tim, in his own philosophical
way, " tell me, Luke, could you manage to hold a wine-
glass by the stem ? "
THE SAGACITIES OF AGE 39
" Certainly," said Luke.
" And hold it up to the light ? "
" Of course," said Luke.
" Could you, could you, bring yourself to sniff the
wine, and taste ever so little a drop, and say : Un I
that's something like wine ! That Chateau ' Yquem,
sir, is the vintage of '75. I know it, and 1 congratulate
you, sir, upon your cellar ! "
" I'm afraid not," said Luke, despondently.
*' If you could, you were a made man for life," said
Father Tim.
" Do you know anything about flowers ? " he asked
after a long pause.
" I think I know a daisy from a buttercup," said Luke,
laughing.
" Could you bring yourself — you can if you like —
to give a little start of surprise, somewhere about the
laiddle of dinner, and gasp out in a tone of choking
wonderment : Why, that's the Amaranthus Duraudi!
I M'as always persuaded that there was but one speci-
men of tliat rare exotic in Ireland, and that was in the
Duke of Leinster's conservatory at Carton ! "
Luke laughed and sliook his head negatively.
''You lack tlie esprit, the courage of your race, me
boy," said Fatlier Tim. " 'Tis the dash that gains the
day ; or, siiall I call it," he said, looking around,
" impudence 7 "
After a long ])ause, lie resumed : —
" Did ye ever licar of a chap callctl liotticelli ? "
" Never ! " said Luke, laughing.
" Why, my dear fellow, your education has been shock-
ingly neglected. What were you doing for the last six
or eight years that you never heard of Botticelli / "'
" Somehow. I managed to get on without him," said
Luke. " What was he — a c'ook ? "
" No use," said Fatlier Tim, shaking his head ; "he'll
be turned out ignominiously, and "we'll all be dis-
graced."
" I'm afraid," said Father Martin, " 'tis too late now,
40 LUKE DELMEGE
Tim, to give him lectures on botany or the old masters,
we must be satisfied with telling him what not to do."
"I suppose so. Go on, Martin," said Father Tim,
resignedly.
" Don't eat out of the front of the spoon ! " said
Father Martin.
" Don't make any noise when eating ; no more than
would frighten a rabbit," said Father Pat.
" As you value your soul, don't put your hands on
the table, between the dishes," said Father Tim.
" You're a teetotaller, aren't you ? " said the host.
" You're all right, tho' he thinks it vulgar ; and so it
is, horribly vulgar. But you won't be tempted to ask
any one to drink wine with you. He'd never forgot
that."
" Don't say ' please ' or ' thank you ' to the servants
for your life. He thinks that a sign of low birth and
bad form," said Father Tim.
" Is there anything else ? " said Father Martin, rack-
ing his memory. " Oh, yes ! Look with some con-
tempt at certain dishes, and say No ! like a pistol-shot.
He likes that."
"■ If he forgets to say ' Grace,' be sure to remind him
of it," said Father Pat.
" Oh, yes ! of course, and won't he be thankful ? "
said Father Tim.
"■ Well, many thanks. Fathers," said Luke, rising.
" I must be off. Not much time now with the old folks
at home ! "
" Tell Margery we'll all be down for tea, and she
must play all Cardan's airs — everv one," said Father
Pat.
"■ All right," said Luke, gaily.
He had gone half-way down the field before the curate's
house wlien he was peremptorily called back. There
had been a consultation evidently.
" We were near forgetting," said Father Tim, anx-
iously, "and 'twould be awful, wouldn't it?"
The other two nodded assent.
I
THE SAGACITIES OF AGE 41
" If by any chance he should ask you to carve — "
" Especially a duck," chimed in Father Martin —
" Say at once that your mother is dead — that you
know she is — and cut home for the bare life, and liide
under the bed."
" All right, Father Tim, all right ! " said Luke,
laughing.
"But couldn't you manage about that wineglass —
just to shut one eye, and say what I told you ? " said
Father Tim, in a pleading tone.
"No ! No ! " said Luke, "never ! "
" By the way," said Father Martin, " do you know
anything about poultry? Do you know a Dorking
from a Wyandotte ? "
But Luke had vanished.
" What are these professors doing in these colleges,
at all, at all ? " said Father Martin, when the trio re-
turned mournfully to the table. " Why do they turn
out such raw young fellows, at all, at all ? "
"Why, indeed?" said Father Tim.
" Hard to say," said Father Pat.
CHAPTER IV
DIES MAGNA, ET — AMARA
" Father Luke, if you please, Miss," said Mrs.
Delmege to her youngest daughter, Margery. I regret
to say that that young hxdy was an incorrigible sinner in
this respect ; and this maternal correction was required
at least ten times a day during the brief, happy days
that Luke was now spending at home. It was " Luke,"
" Luke," " Luke," all day long with Margery ; and the
mother's beautiful pride in her newly ordained son was
grievously shocked.
" You think he's no more than the rest of ye," said
Mrs. Delmege, " but I tell you he is. He is the
anointed minister of God ; and the biggest man in the
land isn't aiqual to him."
But how could Margery help the familiarity in her
sisterly anxiety that Luke should make a glorious
debut, first at last Mass the following Sunday ; and
secondly, — and I regret to say that I fear it -was
deemed more important, — at the Canon's dinner-table
on Sunday evening ?
'^ Sure I'd rather he was home with us on the last
Sunday he'll spend in Ireland," said Mrs. Delmege.
"• And sure Father Pat could come ujJ, and we could
have a nice little dinner for 'em. But, after all, when
the Canon asked him, it would never do to refuse.
Sure it's just the same as the Bishop himself."
" I know that horrid Mrs. Wilson and her grand,
proud daughter will be there, and that they'll be look-
ing down on poor Luke — "
42
DIES MAGNA, ET — AMARA 43
" Father Luke, Miss ! How often must I be telling
you ? "
"Very well, mother. Be it so. But Luke and I
were always playmates, and it sounds more familiar."
" But you must remember that Luke — ahem ! Father
Luke — is no longer a gossoon. He's a priest of God,
and you must look on him as such."
" Of course, of course, mother, but I know they'll
make him uncomfortable with all their airs and non-
sense. To see that Barbara Wilson walk up the aisle
on Sunday is enough to make any one forget what
they're about. You'd think it was the Queen of Eng-
land. I wonder she doesn't go into the pulpit and
preach to us."
" Wisha, thin, her mother was poor and low enough
at one time. I remember well when the Canon was only
a poor curate, like Father Pat, (iod bless liim ! and
when his sister was — well, we mustn't be talking of
these things, nor placing our neighbours. Perhaps,
after all, there's a good heart under all their grandeur."
" I wouldn't mind," said ^Margery, stitching on a but-
ton on the grand new stock she Avas making for Luke,
"but Father Martin said the other night that Luke — "
"There agin," said tlie mother.
" Could teach half tlie diocese theology. But what
do these people care ? I know they look down on him,
and he's so sensitive. He won't stand it, 1 tell you,
mother."
So the sisterly anxieties ranged over every possible
accident to her idol until Sun(hiy morning came. Ah !
that was a great day at Lisnalee. They were going to
see their best-beloved at the altar of God. And Luke
was going to celebrate, there on the predella, wliere he
had knelt thirteen years ago, and raised, with fear and
awe, the very vestments he was going to wear to-day.
And there, at the same wooden rails, had he received
for the tirst time liis Holy Communion ; the first of
the numy times, as child, student, minorist, subdeacon,
deacon, he had knelt amongst the poor and lowly,
44 LUKE DELMEGE
Sunday after Sunday, during his happy vacations. It
was all over now. Never more would he kneel there
with the congregation. "Friend, go up higher." He
had heard the words, and henceforth he was to stand
on high as a mediator and teacher, where hitherto he
had been the suppliant and the pupil. The little
church was crowded to the door ; and when Luke
appeared, holding the chalice in his hands, a thousand
eyes rested on his youthful face. He had just had a
brief but animated debate in the sacristy.
" Was he to read the 'Acts ' ? "
" Certainly."
" And the ' Prayer before Mass ' ? "
" Of course."
"He never could do it."
" He must ; and read the publications, too ; and,
Luke, if you could muster up courage to say a few
words to the congregation, they'd all be delighted."
But Luke drew the line there. Trembling, half from
joy, half from fear, rigid as a statue, he went slowly
and reverently through the sacred ceremonies, with
what raptures and ecstasies, God only knows ! Once,
and once only, had Father Pat ("a proud man this
day," as he described himself) to interfere. It was
just at that sublime moment called the " Little Eleva-
tion," when Luke held the Sacred Host over the chalice,
and raised both to God the Father, and murmured,
" Omnis honor et gloria." Just then a tear rolled down
the cheek of the young priest, and Father Pat had to
say : —
"Hold up, man ; 'tis nearly all over now."
But it took some minutes before he could compose
his voice for the Pater Noster ; and ever after, no mat-
ter what other distractions he might have had in cele-
bration, he never repeated that "Per ipsura, et cum
ipso, et in ipso " without remembering his emotions at
his first Mass.
Father Pat had provided for the young priest a
modest breakfast in the sacristy. It was a wise pro-
DIES MAGNA, ET — AMARA 45
vision, for he had serious work before him — no less
than to impart his priestly blessing to each and all of
the vast congregation. It was a touching and impres-
sive sight. There they knelt on the hard shingle —
young and old, rich and poor, all reduced by their com-
mon faith to a dead level of meekness and humility ;
and the poor beggarwoman or hodach, who cringed and
whined during the week at some farmer's house, now
felt that here was neutral ground, where all had equal
rights, and where no distinction was acknowledged.
And so the brilliant sunshine gleamed through the
wliispering leaves, and fell on gray hairs, or the rich
auburn tresses of some young girl, or the fair gold of
some child ; and througli the green twilight the young
priest passed, uncovered and full of emotion, as he
laid his hands on some old playmate or schoolfellow, or
some venerable village-teacher to whom he had been
taught to look up with veneration from his childhood.
And the little children doubled around trees, and shot
down to the end of tlie queue to get a second blessing,
or even a third ; and many were tlie boasts heard in
school that week of the many times some curly-headed
youngsters had stolen the young priest's blessing. But
was it all sunshine and music ? Well, no I You see
it never is. There nuist be gray clouds to bring out
the gold of the summer sun ; and there must be a dis-
cordant note to empliasize the melodies that sing them-
selves to sleep in the liuman heart. And so, just a
wee, wee whisper blotted out for the momeut all this
glory, and hushed the music that was kindling into a
full-throated oratorio in the breast of the young priest.
He was pushing his way gently through the erowd that
was jammed at tlic narrow gate which led into the
chapel yard, when he heard just in front of him, and
so near that he touched the rough frieze coat of the
speaker, these words : —
" But it is quare that he has to go on the furrin'
mission. Sure, "tis only tliim that can't pay for their-
selves in college that has to go abroad."
46 LUKE DELMEGE
" How do we know ? Perhaps, after all, Mike Del-
meg'e is not the sthrongc man we tuk him to be."
" And I hard that Bryan Dwyer's son, over there at
Altamount, is goin' into the college to be a Dane, or
somethin' grate intirely."
"• And sure they wint to college thegither. And if
this vounsr man " — he threw his thumb over his
shoulder — - " is the great scoUard intirely they makes
him out to be, why isn't he sint into the college instid
of goin' abroad?"
'•' Well, Father Pat, God bless him ! says that Luke
had no aiqual at all, at all, in Manute."
" I suppose so. Mike Delmege has a warm corner ;
and sure I see a fine flock of turkeys in the bawn
field. Wan or two of 'em will be missin' soon, I'm
thinkin'."
" I suppose so. Did ye notice how narvous the
young priesht was at the ' Acts ' ? Why, my little
Terry could do it betther. And what did he want
bringing in the Queen for ? "
" He's practisin'. He's goin' to England, I under-
shtand ; and he must pray for the Queen there."
"Begor, I thought the Church was the same all over
the wurruld. Wan Lord — wan Faith — wan Bap-
tism — "
" Sh ! " said his neighbour, nudging him ; and Luke
went home with a very bitter sting in his chalice of
honey.
It was not exactly the unkind allusions made by these
ignorant cottiers, or the ill-concealed sarcasm about his
own dearest ones, that nettled him. These things, in-
deed, were ugly, irritating facts ; and to a proud spirit,
they were doubly galling on such a day of triumph.
But the Bishop had ignored him and his successes, and
had kept at home and placed in a position of honour in
his native diocese a student who never had distinguished
himself in college, or even appeared amongst the suc-
cessful alumni at the great day of distribution. What
was all this ? Had not the Bishop smiled on him, and
DIES MAGNA, ET — AMARA 47
congratulated him, and told him how he reflected honour
on his diocese ? And now he should go abroad for six
or seven years, whilst his junior, a distinctly inferior
man, was lifted over the lieads of tldrty or forty seniors,
and placed at once in a responsible position in the Dioce-
san Seminary ! Luke was choking with chagrin and
annoyance. He put his liand to his forehead mechani-
cally, and thought he found his laurel crown no longer
the glossy, imperial wreath of distinction, whose per-
fume filled half the world, but a poor little corona of
tinsel and tissue-paper, such as cliildren wreathe for
each other around the Maypole of youth.
He was very morose in consequence ; and, when he
entered the house, and found all gathered for the mid-
day meal, he looked around witliout a word, and with-
out a word passed the tlireshold again, and moved down
toward the sea.
" Poor boy ! " said the mother, affectionately ; " that
last Mass was too much for him, entirely. And sure I
thought the people would ate him."
But Margery, with the affectionate instinct of a sister,
saw deeper, but only said : —
" 'Tis this great dinner this evening that's troubling
him. I wish he were left at home with us."
Luke crossed the fields rapidly, and then lightly
jumping over a stile, found himself in one of those un-
fenced fields that slope down to the sea. A few sheep,
nibbling the burnt grass lazily, scampered away ; and
Luke, jumping the rugged stones of a rougli wall, found
himself in a tisherman's cottage. The family were at
dinner, and Luke, taking off his hat, said cheerily in the
Irish fashion : —
" God bless the work ! and the workmen too ! "
" Wisha, thill, God bless you. Master l^uke, and "tis
you're a thousand times welcome 1 Mona, get a chair
for the priesht."
" And this is my little Mona," said Luke, affection-
ately ; " dear me, how she is grown I "
" And she got your reverence's blessing this morning,
48 LUKE DELMEGE
glory be to God ! Wisha, thin, Master Luke, how my
heart swelled whin I saw you at the althar."
" And wasn't Moira there ? " said Luke. " Where is
Moira ? "
Moira was making her toilette, if you please, but now
came forward blushing. Mona and Moira were twins,
and it was Luke who insisted that they should be called
Irish names.
" I have not much to boast of myself," he said, " but
'tis a shame that our little children should not be called
by their beautiful Celtic names."
" This little fellow," said the father, pointing to a
child, who was trying to choke himself with milk and
potatoes, " was watching your reverence all the time.
And sure, whin he come home, nothin' would do liira
but to get up on a chair, and say the ' Dominis wobis-
cum ' like any priest. Wisha, who knows ? Quarer
things happen."
" I was thinking of taking a pull in the little boat,"
said Luke ; " I see the oars and rowlocks in their old
places. Is she stanch and sound as ever ? "
"Stanch as ever, your reverence," the fisherman
replied. " Will you want one of the byes ? "
" No ! I'll manage by myself. If you give me a hand
to float her, I'll do the rest."
" And a good hand ye are at the oar, Father Luke,"
said one of the boys. " Begor, ye could turn her agin
any of us."
" Now, now, now, no Blarney, Dermot ! No, no, one
will do ! I'll keep her out for an hour or two."
"■ Just as long as your reverence plases," said the old
man. "And, as the day is hot, we'll take down the
sail, and make a yawnin' of it."
Luke pulled slowly out to sea ; and the swift exer-
cise, and the ever-changing aspects of the ocean, and
the invigorating breeze, drew his thoughts away from
the perplexing and irritating subjects that had lately
been vexing him. There is something, after all, in
what poets have sung about the soothing influences
DIES MAGNA, ET — AMARA 49
of Nature. Her mother's hand smooths down all the
ruflled aspects and angry asperities of human feeling
and thought ; and her great silence swallows up in a
kind of infinite peace, as of heaven, the buzzing and
stinp-incr of that hive of hornets, where
" Each one moves with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies."
No wonder that the best of the world's workers have
sought peace in communion w^ith the solitude of Nature,
and strength from the great sublime lessons she teaches
to those who sit at her feet. And it was with the great-
est reluctance, and only by a tremendous effort, that Luke
Delmege, this momentous day in his life, turned away
from the sybaritic temptation of yielding himself up
wholly to the calm and placid influences of sun, and
sky, and sea ; and, like so many other fools, souglit
peace, the peace that lay at his feet unsought, in a dread
introspection of self, and a morbid and curious analysis
of men's principles and thoughts about himself and his
little place in the world. It was his first great plunge
into the feverish and exciting pastime of analyzing
human thought and action ; and then trying to synthe-
size principles that shrank from each other, and became
a torture and a pain from the impossibility of ever
reconciling their mutual antagonism and repellence.
It was the fatuous dream that Luke pursued through
life with all the passion of a gandjler around the green
cloth ; and it beckoned him away from AA'ork of solidity
and permanence, and left him in middle-age a perplexed
and disappointed man.
In another way, liowever, this was no novel experi-
ment. Very often, during his summer holidays, when
his ambition had been stimulated by his academic suc-
cesses to work more freely and largely for further dis-
tinctions, he had lain down in this same boat, and,
looking up at the blue eye of Heaven, he had spent
hours in revolving the terminology and meaning of
some philosophical or theological puzzle, and had re-
viewed all the authors, and all the authors' opinions
50 LUKE DELMEGE
that had been arrayed for and against it. It was a
practical and useful way of imprinting on memory all
that books could tell ; and very often, in the winter
montlis that followed, he fell back gratefully on these
al fresco studies, and the immense storehouse of matter
he had accumulated with the sun as his lamp, and his
desk the heaving sea. But this morning, as he rocked
in the thwarts of his sea-cradle, and heard nothing but
the chirp of a sea-lark, or the scream of a sea-gull, or
the gentle lapping of the pure green water within six
inches of where he lay, he had commenced the proemium
of the vaster studies, where no authors were to be trusted
and experience alone could teach. But he was com-
mencing his singular and irremediable mistake of sup-
posing that the elusive and ever-changing moods of the
human heart could be reduced by propositions to a level
rule, and that human action was controllable always by
those definite principles that he had been taught to
regard as fixed and unchangeable truths.
Once and again, indeed, he raised himself a little, and
allowed his eyes to wander over the beautiful, peaceful
prospect that lay before him. Lap, lap, sang the tiny,
sunny waves. He stretched out his burning hand, and
they clasped it in their cool palms. He saw far away
the green fields, as they sloped from the sea and were
half dimmed in a golden haze. White specks, which
he knew were the gentle sheep, dotted the verdure
here and there ; and great patches of purple heather
stretched down and blended their rich colours with the
deep red of the rocks, which again was darkened into
cobalt, that the gentle waves were now fringing with
white. Look long, and rest in the vision, O troubled
soul ! Why should the murmur of a few mites beyond
that horizon of peace trouble thee? Altogether, thou
art forgotten, there in thy Nautilus-boat on the bosom
of the mighty deep. Cast from thee care, and forget
the stings of the wasps who dare not come hither to
fret thee ! Alas ! and is it not true of us, that we
must have the bitter myrrh in our wine of life j and
DIES MAGNA, ET — AMARA 51
that we create cares for the luxury of fretfulness, where
the world has left us in peace ?
" There are two ways of looking at this question,"
said Luke in his soliloquy, as if he were addressing a
class of students, " the subjective and the objective.
Let us take the latter first as the more reasonable.
Why should I be troubled because I am going to Eng-
land and my class-fellow to the seminary ? Which is the
better prospect? Which would you select, if the matter
were left to yourself ? To see a new country, to get on
to the gangway of the world, where all types of races
are passing to and fro in endless variety, or to be shut
up in a vulgar little place, teaching 3Iusa, 3Iusae to a
lot of snivelling school-boys, and decimal fractions to a
crowd just freed from a country National school ? To
stand in the pulpits of cathedrals, and speak to an intel-
ligent and well-read audience, those wonderful things
you have been reading in Suarez or St. Thomas, or to
blind yourself poring, night after night, over the Geonjics
of Virgil, or the Anabasis ? To deal with inquiring, anx-
ious minds, who listen to you breathlessly for the key
to the mighty problems that are agitating them in their
uncertainty and perplexities ; to have the intense grati-
fication of satisfying lionest inquiry, and leading into
the fold truthful but darkened souls, who will look up
to you as their spiritual Father forevermore, or to lead
successfully through a concursus a few brats, who are
punning on your name, and drawing caricatures of your
face on their greasy slates ? "
" Ridiculous ! " said Luke, aloud.
" But let us see the subjective side. You, Luke Del-
mege, First of First, that is Senior Wrangler in the first
ecclesiastical college in the world, have been set aside
coolly, but contenqituously, and the preference of a dio-
cesan honour has been given to a student admittedly
and distinctly your inferior ! You have got a slap in
the face from your bishoj), not so gentle, thougli more
metaphorical, than when he touched your cheek in Con-
firmation and said — (was it sarcasm? God forbid I)
52 LUKE DELMEGE
— Pax tecum ! You are snubbed before the diocese ;
the stigma will cling to you during life, and be reflected
on your family ! Does not this arrangement imply that,
in some respect, morally, of course — in character, in
tlie power of ruling and governing, or teaching, you are
distinctly inferior to your humble classmate? You know
St. Thomas better ; but he says his prayers better, my
dear Luke ! There is your distinct inferiority; and you
see now how wise that old medieval monk was when he
said : —
* Tunc videbitur sapiens in hoc mundo fuisse, qui pro Christo didicit
stultus et despectus esse.'
' Tunc amplius exaltabitur simplex obedientia, quam omnis secu-
laris astutia.'
' Tunc plus laetificabit pura et bona conscientia, quam docta phi-
losophia.'
* Tunc plus valebunt sancta opera, quam multa pulchra verba.'
"Yes, yes," cried Luke, impatiently, as the boat rocked
beneath him ; "but that's all 'tunc!' 'tunc!' What
about ' nunc ! ' ' nunc ' ? Can it be that men's judgments
are like God's ? Then why was so much stress laid upon
our studies ? Why were we applauded as brilliant and
successful students ? Why were we stimulated to study
by every human incentive that could be held out to us ?
Why did the Bishop himself congratulate me if he had
other ideas ? Was there ever such a puzzle as the ways
of men .'" The Sphinx and the Isis-Veil were nothing to
them i Then I'll fall back on the realities — the ob-
jectiveness of things. There alone is truth. But is it
truth ? " said the puzzled young priest. He had never
read : —
" Only this I have known, that God made man right,
but he entangleth himself in an infinity of questions."
CHAPTER V
A NOVEL THESIS
" There is the Angelus, Luke," said Margery Delmege,
anxiously, as Luke came in from the fields holding his
IJreviary open with one finger. "Hurry up, you'll
hardly l^e in time ; and it won't do to keep grand people
waiting."
Luke did not reply. He had read somewhere of a
saint who was reading the 3Tirabilia of None when a
great monarch was announced, and he went on calmly
reading. "He was in audience with the 'King of
Kings.' " So Luke read on to the end, nut noticing liis
sister's anxiety. Then he said the Sacrosanctae, and
then : —
" Well, Margy, you were saying something ? "
"• 1 said you'll be late, and that won't do. There are
your cuffs, and I put in your best sleeve-links ; and
let me see your collar. You must change that. Why,
'tis all damp. What have you been doing?"
Luke looked calmly down on the black tresses of
his beloved sister, as she fussed and worried about his
toilette.
" A regular Martha ! " he whispered.
" Martha or no JNlartha, you nmst be turned out of
this house decently. ]\Iind, come home early — that is,
as early as politeness will allow. And if that horrid
Miss Wilson says anything offensive. — I'm sure she
Avill, — treat her with sih'ut contempt."
"All right, Margy. That's just in my way."
" And come home early, mind. Father Pat will be
here to tea ; and — what else '/ "
63
54 LUKE DELMEGE
"Never mind, Margy. We'll resume the thread of
our narrative in another chapter."
Margy watched his fine, tall figure as he swung down
along the road, and then went back to get the tea things
ready, but with many misgivings and forebodings.
The irritation of the morning had one good effect.
It had steeled Luke's nerves, so that it was quite in a
self-confident, jaunty way he pulled the bell vigorously
at the Canon's residence, and then gave a more timid
knock. He was ushered into the drawing-room by the
tidy little servant, and announced as "Father Delmege."
Then he was frozen into ice. The two elderly ladies,
dressed in black silk, with thin gold chains around
their necks, looked at him for a moment, and then
turned to each other.
" As I was saying, my dear, the report is that they
are separated, or going to be. It couldn't end other-
wise. All these naval fellows, you know, coming up
there at all hours — well, well, we mustn't be unchari-
table."
The only other occupant of the room was a young
lad, about six-and-twenty years of age, who, faultlessly
dressed in evening costume, leaned languidly against
the mantelpiece, and would have looked ineffably bored
but that he appeared to derive untold gratification from
the contemplation of his face in the looking-glass over
the mantelpiece. Indeed, to further this ecstatic
reverie, he had put aside carefully two bronze vases
that held summer flowers, and had even pushed away
the clock with the singing birds that had fascinated Luke
a few days before. And let it be said at once that
the reflected image was, without doubt, a beautiful one.
A face, olive pale, was surmounted with a dark mass
of hair that fringed and framed it to perfection ; and
through the tangled curls, a faultlessly white hand was
just now running, and tossing them hither and thither
with careful indifference. Two blue-black eyes looked
steadily out from that white face, or rather would look
steadily if they were allowed. But just now it seemed
A NOVEL THESIS 55
an effort to look at anything but that fair figure in the
(quicksilver. Languor, deep, somnolent languor, was
the characteristic of this youthful face and figure ;
and a pained expression, as if the anticipation of the
evening's pleasures was an unmitigated annoyance. He
looked calmly at the young priest, and then resumed
his studies. Luke, chilled and frozen, sank into a
chair, and began to turn over the leaves of an album.
Alas! he had not unloosed the clasp, when a very musical
box chirped out : " Within a mile of Edinhoro' Town.""
He closed the album hastily, but too late. On went
tliat dreadful tinkling. He took up a book called
Cdehrities of the Century. He was beginning to be
interested, when the door shot open, and another guest,
a solicitor, was announced. He was warmly welcomed
by the ladies, got a languid nod and " Howda " from
tiie Phidian Apollo, and took no notice whatever of
Luke. He sank quietly into the sofa, and commenced
the " clitter-clatter " of good society. Then the door
opened again, this time to reveal unannounced a fair
girlish form, and a face very like that of Apollo, but
toned (hnvn by feminine taste into features that were
singular in their beauty, but excluded all appearance
of singularity. Luke was prepared for anotiier cold
douehe of good society manuers ; but P)arl)ara Wilson
walked straight towards him, held out her hand, and
said : —
" Father Delmege, 3'ou are ever so kind to come.
Mother, this is Luke Delmege, of whom we have heard
s ) often. This is my aunt, Father Delmege. Louis,
have you met Father Delmege? "
The Phidian ApoHo turned languidly around ; and
without removing his hand from his pocket, he nodih'd,
and said : —
'' Howda?"
" Mamma, you missed such a treat this nioniing. It
was Father Delmege's first Mass ; and oh I it was beau-
tiful ! And dear^Father Pat was there, and the sun
was resting on liis beautiful white hair, like a nimbus.
56 LUKE DELMEGE
And we all got Father Delmege's blessing, and why
didn't you preach ? We were dying to hear you — "
'' Well," said Luke, " you knoAV, Miss Wilson, it is
not customary to preach at one's first Mass — "
" Ah, of course, on ordinary occasions. But we
wanted to liear you, you know. Where is the blue rib-
bon ? Why don't you wear it ? "
" The ' blue ribbon ' ? " said Luke, in amazement.
" Yes. Didn't you carry off the ' blue ribbon ' in May-
nooth ? Father Martin said that tliere hadn't been so dis-
tinguished a course in Maynooth for over fifty years."
" Father Martin is too kind," murmured Luke, who
had now thawed out from his icy loneliness, and felt
grateful beyond measure to this gentle girl, who had,
with the infinite and unerring tact of charity, broken
down all the icy barriers of good society. Mrs. Wilson
and her sister woke up, and manifested a little interest
in the young athlete. The solicitor rubbed his hands,
and murmured something about his old friend, Mike
Delmege, *•' as good a man, sir, your respected father, as
is to be found in the Petty Sessions District ; " and
even Apollo paused from his hair-teasing, and looked
with a little concern and some jealousy at Luke.
Then the Canon entered with one or two other visit-
ors, who had been transacting business with him, and
dinner was announced.
" No, no," said Barbara to her uncle, in reply to an
invitation ; " I intend to sit near Father Delmege dur-
ing dinner. I have lots to say to him."
Ah, Margy ! Margy ! thought Luke, what rash
judgments you have been guilty of ! Won't I surprise
you with all the goodness and kindness of this contemp-
tuous young lady?
The dinner was simple, but faultless. The conversa-
tion simmered along on the usual topics — sports, which
occupied then a considerable share of public interest in
Ireland. One young champion was especially applauded
for having thrown a heavy weight some incomputable
distance ; and his muscles, and nerves, and weight, and
A KOVEL THESIS 57
training were all carefully debated. If ever we become
a wealthy people, our national cry will be that of the
ancient Romans — Fcaiem et Circetises ! Then came
the Horse Show that was to be held in August. Here
the ladies shone by their delightful anticipations of the
great Dublin carnival. Then the Flower Show, just
coming on in a neighbouring town. Here the Canon
was in his element, and said, with an air of modest de-
preciation, that he had been assured that : —
" My Marshal Niel — ha — shall certainly carry First
Prize ; but I know that my Gladiolus Cinquecentus
will be beaten. A happy defeat! for Lady — ha —
Descluse has assured me that this time at least I really
must give her the — ha — victory."
'•' But, my dear Canon," said the solicitor, as if giving
not a legal, but a paternal advice, and in a tone full of
the gravest solicitude, " you ouglit not, you know. I
assure you that a victory of this kind is not to be
lightly sacrificed. Consider now the money value df
the prizes — "
" Ha ! Ha ! " laughed the Canon, " the legal mind
always runs into — lia — practical issues. The days of
chivalry are gone."
"Well, now," said the solicitor, humbly, "of course,
sir, you must have your little joke ; but seriously now,
consider the importance of gaining a prize in such a
contest. After all, you know, horticulture is a branch
of lesthetics ; and you know, sir, with your vast expeii-
ence, how important it is for the Churcli nowadays to
be represented, and represented successfully, before our
separated brethren, in such a delightful and elevating
and refining pursuit as the culture of flowers."
"Ah, well, jNlr. Grilfiths ; but chivalry — where is
chivalry ? "
"Chivalry is all very well," said Griffiths, driving
home the argument, " but our first interest is — our
one interest is — the Church. And consider your posi-
tion — the leading re])resentative of the Church in this
district — I might say in this country. See what a dreadful
58 LUKE DELMEGE
injury to religion it would be if you were defeated,
sir. Of course, 'tis only a flower ; but it's defeat !
and the Church, sir, mustn't be defeated in anything
or it succumbs in all."
" There is something in what you say — ha — indeed,"
replied the Canon, "■ and I shall — ha — give the matter
furtlier consideration. But take a glass of wine."
" Ah, this is wine," said Grifhths, sniffing the glass
and holding it up to the light. " Now, if I may be so
impolite as to venture to guess, I should say that wine
cost a centum at least."
" Add — a — twenty," said the host.
"I thought so. Very unlike the stuff we have to
drink at our hotels, even on Circuit. Vinegar and
water, and a little logwood to colour it. This is
wine."
''Mr. Sumner, you are taking nothing. Try that
Madeira ! "
Mr. Sumner was saying nothing, but he was steadily
absorbing vast quantities of wine. He was one of those
calm, beautiful drinkers, whose senses never relaxed for
a moment whilst the new must was j)oured into the old
bottle, and seemed to evaporate as speedily as it was
taken. Luke watched him wonderingly, and with a
certain amount of admiration, and was stricken into
silence partly by the surroundings, which to him were
unique and awful, partly by the nature of the conver-
sation, which tripped lightly from the muscles and
calves of athletes to the fine points of a horse ; and
from the age of a certain brand of wine to the baromet-
rical rise and fall of stocks and shares. He had been
hoping in the beginning that the course of conversation
would turn on some of those subjects that were of in-
terest to himself — some great controverted point in
the literature or philosophy of the past, or some point
of heresy, or some historical fact that he could lay hold
on, and perhaps enchain the interest of his hearers.
Wouldn't some one say " Canossa,' or " Occam," " Libe-
rius," or even " Wegscheider " ? Would they never
A NOVEL THESIS 59
turn tlie conversation into something intellectual or
elevating-, and give him a chance? Once, indeed, Bar-
bara, in reply to an observation from her aunt that
she was killed from ennui in that country place, said
laughingly : —
" Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
If time hangs heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate ?
Are there no poor about your lands ? "
But, alas ! that was but a little puff of intellectual
smoke that speedily vanished in the clear atmosphere of
utter inanity. And Luke was bending over to say a
complimentary word to Barbara, when the silent signal
was given and the ladies arose. Luke was so absorbed
in what he was saying that he did not heed a gesture
from the Canon. Then he awoke to the thunder : —
" Father Delmege ! "
and saw the Canon pointing angrily to the door. Poor
Luke ! He liad studied all his rubrics carefully, and
knew them down to every bend and genuflection ; but
he had never been told of this rubric before. He
blushed, stammered, kept his seat, and said : —
"' I beg your pardon. I do not understand — "
To add to his discomfiture, he found that Miss "Wil-
son's dress had got entangled around liis chair. Blush-
ing, liumbled, confused, he tried to disentangk' the gray
silk ; but he only made it worse. Then the Apollo
arose with a calm smile, raised the chair, gave the
flounce a kick, and, opening the door wdtli a bow tliat
would have made Count d'Orsay die with envy, ushered
the lauLrliinfT ladies from the dininer-room. The Canon
was so pleased with the achievement that he almost
forgave Luke; and Luke was questioning himself an-
grily: Where now is all your learning and useless
lumber? And why the do not the i)rofessors in
our colleges teach us something about the practical
issues of daily life ?
" Anything new in your profession, Louis ? " said the
60 LUKE DELMEGE
Canon, airily, as the gentlemen drew their chairs to-
gether and lighted their cigars.
" Oh, dear, yes ! " said Louis, leisurely. " We are
always forging ahead, you know ; moving on with ex-
press speed, whilst you gentlemen of the Law and the
Gospel are lumbering heavily along in the old ruts."
" Ha ! Ha ! " laughed the Canon. " Very good in-
deed ! Lumbering along in the old ruts ! And what
might be the newest discoveries now in medical science ?
Some clever way of shortening human life ? "
" Well, no ! We are beginning to touch on your
province, I think. Our sappers and miners are begin-
ning to dig under your foundations."
" But you won't stir the grand old fabric, Louis ? "
said Griffiths. " You can't, you know. You'll find
bones and skulls, of course ; that's your province ; but
you'll never shake the foundations. Will he. Canon ? "
" Oh, dear no ! Oh, dear no ! " said the Canon,
feebly. " But those men of science are really — ha —
very enterprising, and, indeed — ha — aggressive. But
I cannot see, Louis, how your noble science can conflict
with theology. The schools of medicine and the schools
of theology are — ha — so very distinct."
"They merge in the psychological school, I should
say," said Louis. " And j)sychology becomes physi-
ology."
At last, at last, Luke, cometh your chance ! Here
is what you have been dreaming of the whole evening.
Psychology ! The very word he had rolled under his
tongue a thousand times as a sweet morsel. The soul !
the soul ! Psyche, his goddess ! whom he had watched
and studied, analyzed, synthesized, worshipped with all
the gods of science from the " master of those who know "
downwards. No hound that had seen or scented his
quarry was ever strung to such tension of muscle or
nerve as Luke, when at last all the twilight vistas
opened, and he saw the broad fields of knowledge and
science before him, and Psyche, Psyche, like Atalanta
in the fields at Calydon.
A NOVEL THESIS 61
" How can psychology merge in physiology ? " said
Lnke, with dry lips, and in a nervous manner. " I
alwa3's considered that physiology treated only of animal
mechanism."
"And psychology treats of?" said Louis Wilson,
blandly.
'' Of — of — the soul, of course," said Luke.
" And is not the soul a part of the animal mecha-
nism ? " said his antagonist.
" Certainly not," said Luke. "It is conjoined with
it and distinct from it."
" Conioined with it I where ? " said Louis. " I have
made post-mortems again and again, and I assure you,
gentlemen, I have discovered every other part of human
anatomy ; but that which you are pleased to call the
soul, I have never found. Wliere is it? What is its
location ? "
" Now, now, Louis," said the Canon, with feeble
deprecation, "this is going far, you know. But, of
course, this is only for the sake of — ha — ha — argu-
ment. This is only a — ha — post-prandial academic
discussion. Proceed, Mv. Delmege."
Poor Luke was now getting a little excited, lie had
never been taught that tirst of accomplishments, self-
control and reserve. Indeed, he had been so accus-
tomed to success in the thcxcs that had been arranged
for students in his college, that he quite resented the
very idea of being opposed or catechised by tliis young
fop[)ish doctor. Wlien he folded his soutane in May-
nuoth and said, half-sarcastically, in the scholastic
form :
"Sic nri/inii(>il(irls, rloctissime Dornine .'"
his antagonist had gone down pell-mell before liim.
And the idea of this young freshman attacking the
fortresses of Catholic philosoi)hy was intolerable. In a
Avortl, Luke was losing tem|)er.
" The veriest tyro in i)hih)so])liy," he said (it was a
favourite expression of his, when he wanted to overwhelm
62 LUKE DELMEGE
utterly an antagonist), " knows that the soul is a simple
substance, residing, whole and indivisible, in every part
of the human frame."
"• This is part of the human frame," said Louis,
pulling a long black hair from his forehead, " is my
soul there ? Then go, thou soul, into everlasting noth-
ingness." He plucked the hair in pieces and let it
fizzle away at the glowing end of his cigar.
" This is flippant, if not worse," said Luke. " No one
holds that a separated member carries with it the soul."
" Do you not hold that there is a separate creation
for each human soul ? "
" Yes. That is of faith."
" Where's the necessity ? If life springs from ante-
cedent life (that is your strong point against biologists),
and if the soul is existent in every part, when there is
life, does not the soul pass on to the new life, and be-
come the animating principle in its embryonic state ? "
'' That is heresy," said Luke. " That is the heresy
of TertuUian. St. Thomas — "
" I thought," said his antagonist, blandly, " we were
arguing as to facts, and not as to opinions."
"• But I deny that opinions are opposed to facts," said
Luke, timidly.
" You may not be aware," said Wilson, " that the
greater part of your treatises on Moral Theology are
arranged with the most childish ignorance of physio-
logical facts that are known to every school-boy who has
passed his first medical."
" And are you aware," said Luke, hotly, "that many
of your profession who have passed their last medical
are wise and humble enough to acknowledge that what
you call facts are still the arcana and mysteries of
Nature ? "
" Perhaps so," said Wilson, airily. " But writers
that lay down moral laws for the world, and base these
laws on the operations of Natural Law, should try to
understand these latter first. By the way, have you
read anything of electro-biology ? "
L NOVEL THESIS G3
"No ! " said Luke, humbly.
" Have you read anything about psychic forces through
Animal Macfuetism ? "
'•'' No,'' said Luke.
" Have you heard of Reichenbach and his theory of
Odic Forces? "
J^uke shook his head humbly. He was stunned by
the noisy emptiness of words.
Wilson threw him aside as a worthless antagonist and
addressed Sumner.
"• Did you see the last by Maupassant, Sumner ? "
"The last you lent me," said Sumner. "It is pretty
tattered now. But really, you know, Wilson, I think
these French fellows go a little too far, you know. Fm
not squeamish, you know ; but really, you know, that
fellow makes your hair stand on end."
Wilson laughed rudely and shrugged his shoulders.
" Men of the world mustn't be squeamish about
trifles — "
"(Gentlemen," said the Canon, "I think we shall join
the ladies at tea."
" I shall give you a volume by Gabriele d'Annunzio,
our latest Italian writer," Luke heard Wilson saying to
Sumner, as he stood in the porch to finish his cigar.
" Pity those young clerical gentlemen don't read up
with the requirements of the day."
" I think you read too much, Wilson," said Sumner.
"You can't keep straight, you know, if you are too
well acquainted with these things, you know."
" Sumner, you have a hard head for liquor."
" It is not in the power of whiskey to make me drunk,"
said Sumner, modestly.
" Well, I have a hard head in other matters," said
Wilson. " \>y the way, did you ever try laudanum ? "
"No! ''said Sumner. "I wouldn't venture beyond
the bounds of honest liquor."
" You ought. Nothing braces a man like it. You
see there's a total want of agility in tlicse clergymen
because they are so afraid of stimulants. I'm sure,
64 LUKE DELMEGE
now, my uncle would be almost clever ; but, you notice,
he touches nothing. And that young greenhorn — "
" Who ? "
"That young clergyman — a mere farmer's son — do
you know that there is not on earth such a greenhorn
as a clerical student ? Now, if he took a little opium,
according to De Quincey's prescription, well boiled, and
with plenty of lemonade or orangeade, he would be
passable — "
" Well, Louis, you bowled him over certainly."
" Yaas ! I should say so. And good Lord ! what
an accent ! I wonder will he sing ? "
CHAPTER VI
ADIEUX
Mortified and irritated, vexed at himself for his
shortcomings, savage with others for their unkindness,
Luke passed into the drawing-room. Somehow, his
anger gave a tinge of pallor to his In-own, healthy face,
that made him look quite interesting ; and it was with
something like kindness that Mrs. Wilson beckoned
him to a seat near herself on the sofa, and chatted affa-
bly with him for a few moments. She also engaged
his services in helping around the tea from a dainty
wicker-work table ; and he was beginning to feel a
little more comfortable, thouo^h still determined to
escape at tlie lirst opportunity, when the Canon asked
liim abruptly to turn over the leaves of the music on
the i)iano, at which IJarbara w'as now seated. Lvd^e
was about to excuse himself by saying w^th perfect
truth that he knew nothing about music ; but in a
weak moment he rose, and whilst Miss Wilson's lingers
wandered over the keys, he stood, statue-like and mo-
tionless, near her. In a few seconds she nodded, and
lie turned the leaf witli the air of an expert ; and then
the full absurdity of tlie situation broke suddenly ujxm
him. and dyed neck and face and u]i to the roots of hair
in deep crimson of shame and confusion. For he re-
membered that at tlie last retreat a jiicture of a worldly
priest was held up to their reprobation — a picture, not
too higldy coloured, ])nt grimly painted by a strong
and merciless liand. There it was, lurid and ghastly,
or pitifully ludicrous, as you choose or your mood may
F 66
66 LUKE DELMEGE
be — the limp, unmuscular, artificial cleric, who, with
all the insignia of Christ and the Cross, is perpetually
aping the manners and customs of the world, and in
dress and manner and conversation is forever changing
and shifting, like a mime on the stage. Ah ! Luke !
Luke ! and hither hast thou come, even on the day of
thy first Mass. Burning with shame and self-scorn, he
had sense enough left to whisper, " You will excuse
me ! " and retreated ignominiously to a corner, where,
over the pages of an album, he thought unutteral)le
things. He woke up, after what appeared to be an
hour, by hearing the Canon say: —
"That duet from — ah — Trovatore^ Barbara; or,
perhaps, Louis would sing, 'Hear Me — ha — Gentel
Maritana ' ! "
The two voices blended beautifully, and at another
time Luke would have listened with pleasure, but not
to-night. Oh, no ! it has been a day of humiliation
and suffering, and even the gentle spirit of Music for
once fails to bring peace and healing on her wings.
There was a hushed and whispered colloquy between
Barbara and her mother, and then the former, with
some hesitation, approached to where Luke was sitting,
and said timidly, holding her hands pleadingly before
her : —
" Mother would like to hear you sing, Father. I'm
sure you sing well — "
"I assure you, Miss Wilson, I'm quite unaccustomed
to — "
"Now, I know you have a lovely baritone from the
way you said the ' Prayers ' to-day. Do, Father ! "
What could he sing ? " Believe Me, If All ? " Hush !
"Oh ! Doth Not a Meeting Like This Make Amends?"
Absurd I " There's a Bower of Roses by Bendameer's
Stream?" Sickly and sentimental! Yes, he will, by
Jove ! He'll take a subtle revenge by ruffling the pla-
cidity of this smooth and aristocratic circle. Won't they
laugh when they hear it at home ? Won't Father Pat
smite his leg like a Vulcan, and declare that it was the
ADIEUX 67
best thing he ever heard in his life? But it will be
impolite and shocking ! No matter I Here goes !
And drawing himself up to his full height, and lean-
ing one arm on the mantelpiece, Luke sang out in the
noble baritone, that had often echoed at Christmas
plays around tlie gloomy halls of Maynooth —
" From Howth away to famed Dunboy,
By Kerry's beetlinj^ coasts,
With liglitniiii;- speed the summons flew
To marshal Freedom's hosts.
From Limerick's old historic walls
To Boyne's ill-omened tide
The long-watclied signal swelled their hearts } , .
With Vengeance, Hope, and Pride." j" * '
The Canon was gasping and his face lengthening as
in a spoon ; the ladies smiled in horror ; Apollo looked
up, angry and contemptuous ; Griffiths was about to
say : —
" Now, you know, Father Delmege, that's rank trea-
.jon, you know" — but on went Luke, his rich voice
thunderinfj out the sono- of rebellion in the ears of
these excellent loyalists : —
" They're mustering fast — see, Slievenamon
Its serried lines displays ;
Mark !iow their l)urnished weapons gleam
In morning's ruddy blaze;
While proudly floats the flashing green
AVlicre purl the blague and Lee.
Hurrah ! mv boys, we've lived, thank God, } , ■
To set the Old Land free ! " y" '*•
The Canon was shocked beyond expression ; yet a
tender old-time feeling seemed to film his eyes, for the
Mague was rolling past his door, and the summit of
Slievenamon could be seen from the window. Luke
rapidly shook hands with the ladies, whilst Barbara, in
her enthusiasm, asked : —
" Who wrote it ? You miist give me the words and
the music, Father ! 'Tis worth all the operas ever
written."
68 LUKE DELMEGE
He nodded to Griffiths, took no notice of the Apollo,
shook hands with the Canon and thanked him for his
hospitality, and dashed out into the cool air with a
throbbing heart and a burning forehead.
He was pushing along in his swift striding way, and
had reached the road, when he heard a flutter of silk
behind him ; and there was Barbara Wilson, a little out
of breath and very white. He waited.
" Father," she said pleadingly, " I understand you are
going on the English mission ? "
" Yes," he said wonderingly.
" Might I ask where will 3'ou be ? "
" I cannot say," he said, " but in one of the south-
eastern counties."
" Thank God," she said fervently. Then after some
hesitation, and gulping down some emotion, '•' I want
you to make a promise."
-If I may."
" You may meet my brother in England. He has
been in Brighton, an assistant to a physician there.
He is now in London attending St. Thomas' Hospital.
If you meet him, will you be kind ? "
" I'm not much attracted by your brother, Miss Wil-
son," Luke said bluntly.
" I know ; but you are a priest, and his soul is at
stake. You do not know, but I am afraid that he is —
that he is — oh ! my God ! weak in his faith. You may
be able to help him I "
" Of course, if I come across him in the course of my
ministrations — "
" The Good Shepherd sou[/ht out the lost sheep," said
Barbara.
" But, you know, one does not like a repulse," said
Luke.
" It is a question of a soul," said Barbara, her eyes
filling with tears.
" Say no more. Miss Wilson," said Luke, " you shame
me. I heard your brother give expression to some
shocking things this evening; and I confess I con-
ADIEUX 69
ceived a strong and violent aversion to him ; but now
that you have appealed — ""
" Thank you, oh, so much ! And there's something
else about poor Louis — "
She put her fingers to her lip, musing. Then, after
a pause, she said : "• Never mind. You'll find it out for
yourself ; but you promise ? "
" I promise," he said.
" And you won't allow his arrogance and pride to
repel you ? "
" I liope not," said Luke.
" God bless you ! " she said fervently, clasping his hand.
" Hallo, old man ! Alive and kicking ? " was the
cheery welcome of Father Pat, who, snugly ensconced
in a capacious arm-chair in the parlour at Lisnalee, was
stroking down the fair curls of a little lad, an orphan
child of a younger brother, whom Mike Delmege had
adopted. How calm, and simple, and homely the little
parlour looked to Luke's eyes, dazzled and dimmed by
the splendours of the Canon's house, and half-blinded
from tlie emotions aroused during the evening. The
image remained imprinted on the retentive retina of
Luke's memory for many a day, and came up, amongst
strange scenes and sights, to comfort him with its holy
beauty. Often, in after years, when sitting at the
tables of noblemen, who traced their blood back to the
invaders, who bit the sands at Hastings, that cloud-
dream of his seaside home rose soft and Ix'autiful as a
piece of enchantment raised to the witchery of soft
music ; and often, on the streets of Soutliwark at mid-
night, when the thunder of the mighty stream of human-
ity rolled turljid and stormy along the narrow streets,
did lie see, as in a far-off picture, nari'owed in the i)er-
spective of memory, the white farmliouse above the
breakers, and the calm, beautiful, twiliglit holiness that
slept above it — a canopy of peace and rest. He saw
the two windows that ventilated tlie parlour — the one
looking northward over soft gray meadows and golden
70 LUKE DELMEGE
cornfields, that stretched away till they were lost in the
jjurple and blue of the shadowy, mysterious mountains ;
the other looking southward over masses of purple
heather, to where the everlasting sea shimmered in sil-
ver all day long, and put on its steel-blue armour against
the stars of night. There was the tea-table, with its
cups and saucers and its pile of dainty griddle-cakes,
cut in squares, and fresh from the hands of Margery ;
and golden butter, the best that was made in the Grolden
Vale; and thick, rich cream; and fragrant strawberries,
nestling in their grape-like leaves. And there was his
good father, a stern old Irish Catholic of the Puritan
type, silent and God-fearing and just, who never allowed
a day to pass without an hour of silent communion with
God, in his bedroom after the midday meal, and on whose
lands the slightest whisper of indelicacy was punished
by immediate expulsion. There sat the kindly mother,
her beautiful white hair arranged under her snowy cap,
and the eternal beads in her hands. There, gliding to
and fro, was Margery — a perfect Martha of housewifely
neatness and alertness ; and Lizzie, the grave, thoughtful
Mary of the household ; and there was Father Pat, best
and kindest and truest of friends, to whose arms chil-
dren sprang for affection, and in whose hands the wild-
est collie or sheepdog was glad to lay his wet nozzle,
after he had valorously defended his premises. Luke
flung himself into the arm-chair by the southern window
and asked Margery for a " decent cup of tea."
"• Well, I suppose now you are fit to dine with the
Duke of N ," said Father Pat. " You have passed
your entrance examination into decent society to-night."
" It wasn't so severe an ordeal as I supposed," said
Luke. '^ The Canon was kind ; and Miss Wilson — "
Margery paused with the teapot high in air.
"Miss Wilson made everything easy."
Margery drew a long, deep breath of doubt, and shook
her head.
'•' Do you know what I think, Father Pat ? " said
Luke.
ADIEUX 71
" No. Go on," said Father Pat.
" That there's a lot of real kindness under all the
Canon's formalism ; and that he is at heart a good-
natured man."
" Humph ! " said Father Pat. " How did you come
to that conclusion? For I have longer experience of
him thyn you, and I have not reached it yet."
"Well, I don't know," replied Luke. "It is a little
thing ; but it is little things that tell. A straw, you
know. I was singing — "
" You were siufjinsf?" said Father Pat.
" Did you really sing ? " said Margery.
"What did you sing, Father Luke?" said Lizzie,
who was a more obedient pupil than her sister.
" I was just saying that when I was singing ' The
Muster ' — "
Father Pat jumped from his chair.
" Yon don't mean to say that you sang that red-hot
rebel song in the Canoii's presence ? " he said.
"Every line of it," replied Luke, "and I have prom-
ised the words and the music to Barbara Wilson." He
looked in a quizzical way at his sister.
"Well, Pm blessed," said Father Pat, resuming his
seat, " but that beats Banagher. Wait till I tell Tim
and Martin."
He looked at Luke with a certain feeling of awe dur-
ing the rest of the evening.
"Well, I was saying," said Luke, coolly, "that I
thought — perhaps 'twas only imagination — that the
Canon's eyes softened, and that something like kindli-
ness came into them, as from the memory of the past."
" Ay, indeed ! and so well there might," said Mrs.
Delmege. " I Avell remember when there wasn't a
more tinder or more loving priest in the diocese than
you. Father Maurice Murray. Sure 'twas well known
that his sister had to lave him because he liad not two
shoes alike ; and he used to stale the mate out of the
pot to give it to the poor.''
"I mind well the day," said old Mike Delmege, in a
72 LUKE DELMEGE
musing way, as if he was trying to call up a fast-van-
ishing picture, " when he wint in, and took up that
poor girl. Bride Downey (she is now the mother of the
finest childhre in the parish), out of her sick-bed, sheets,
blankets, and all, and she reeking with the typhus, the
Lord betune us and harm, and spotted all over like the
measles, and took her over and put her in the van for
the hospital, while all the people stood away in fright,
and even the man from the workhouse wouldn't go
near her. And it was you, Canon Murray, that arranged
her bed in that workhouse van ; and sure you took the
faver, and went near dying yourself at the time."
"He's not the same man, Mike, since thin. They
say the faver turned his head, and he got tetched," said
Mrs. Delmege.
" No ! but his grand sister, who ran away from the
sickness, and wint up to Dublin, where she got into a
castle or something, and married a big man, 'tis she
that turned the poor man's head."
" I wish she had turned it the right way," said Father
Pat, " for certainly 'tis screwed on the wrong way now."
" Father Martin says, too, that he is a rale good man
under all his airs and nonsense — "
" Father Martin ? No one minds him," said Father
Pat ; " he'd speak well of an informer or a landgrabber."
" Why, thin, now. Father Pat, no one knows as well
as your reverence that there 'ud be many a poor family
on the roadside to-day but for the same Canon. Sure
they say that when they see his grand writing up in
Dublin, with the turkey-cock on the top of the letther,
and two swords crossed, that they'd give him all he
ever asked for. And sure whin the Widow Gleeson
was served last autumn, and there was nothing before
her but the workhouse, and the Canon wrote to the
agent, but he had only plain paper without the turkey-
cock, they took no more notice of him than if he was
an ordinary poor counthry parish priest. What did he
do ? He took the train up to Dublin, and walked into
the office. Phew ! whin they saw kis grand figure,
ADIEUX 73
they ran into rat-holes before him. Believe you me,
Father Pat, there are very few priests in the country
can make the Canon's boast, that no little child will
ever sleep in his parish without a cover betune it and
the stars."
" That's all right, Mike,"' said Father Pat ; " but why
doesn't he keep his grand airs for grand people ? — "
" Why," said Mike Delmege, " sure he must practise ;
and where would he practise but on you and me ? "
" Well, he might keep them for Sundays and holi-
days," said Margery, wlio hated the whole lot, " or when
his errand sister and niece come down from Dublin, and
speak plain to plain people."
<■' True, iSIargery," said Father Pat ; " we're a plain,
simple people, and we want phxin, simple priests."
P)Ut somehow Margery didn't like that either.
''Luke," said Father Pat, buttoning up his coat, "do
you mean to say you're not joking, and that you sang
'The Muster ' to-night ? "
"I was never so serious in my life," said Luke.
"You sang it all?"
"Every line ! "
" Down to —
*' ' No more as craven slaves we bend
To despot, king, or queen;
God sliields the riolit, — strike sure and fast,
'Tis for our native Green.' "
" Quite so ! "
" And he didn't get a fit ? "
"Not uj) to the time I was leaving."
" Well, he has got one now. Fll have a sick-call to
him to-night. By Jove ! what will Tim and Martin
say ? Well, let me see ! You're off on Friday. Tim
will have you to-morrow ; ^NLirtin on Tuesday : you'll
be with me on Wednesday. We'll leave him to you,
ma'am, on Tliursday. Is that all right ? "
"All right," said' Luke.
" The best crachure that ever lived," said Mrs. Deb
f4 LUKE DELMEGE
mege, as Father Pat strolled down the moonlit field.
Just at the stile he thought of something and came
back. They were all kneeling, and Luke was reciting
the Rosary. Father Pat heard the murmur of the
voices, and paused. And there outside the window he
took out his own Rosary beads and joined in that
blessed prayer that echoes night after night from end
to end of Ireland. Then he stole away quietly and
mounted the stile.
" By Jove ! " he said to himself, as he crossed shadow
after shadow from the trees on the high hedges, "I
believe he's in earnest. But who'd ever believe it ?
What will Tim and Martin say? We'll be talking
about it till Christmas."
On Tuesday Luke called to see the Canon and make
his adieux. He was not quite so nervous as on previ-
ous occasions, but he expected to receive a severe repri-
mand and a long lecture on his future conduct. Nor
was he disappointed.
" I think it my duty," said the Canon, after they had
exchanged preliminaries, " to say — ha — that there
were a few things at our little — domestic meeting on
Sunday, which I — ha — could hardly approve of. Is
it possible that you were never — ha — instructed by
your professors to rise with the ladies after dinner, and
hold the door open as they — ha — departed ? "
" It is not only possible, but a fact," said Luke, with
the old contentious spirit of logic-chopping coming
back to him. " Besides, sir, I was engrossed at the
time, and didn't hear you say ' Grace.' "
This was really good for Luke ; but he didn't see
how his rapier struck home.
" I can really hardly credit it," said the Canon. " It
is painful to reflect that we alone should be supposed
to learn, by — ha — some kind of intuition, the ameni
ties of social intercourse."
The Canon was so pained that for a few moments
there was dead silence, broken only by the ticking of
the clocks.
ADIEUX 75
" Then," he resumed, at length, " your rencontre with
my — ha — clever nephew was hardly a happy one. I
thought the interrelations between body and spirit were
part of your — ha — philosophical curriculum."
" Your nephew was Christian enough to deny that
there was such a thing as soul at all," said Luke, flush-
ing. The idea of being catechised on philosophy by
this old man, who probably had never heard of a more
recent writer than Tongiorgi or Liberatore ! And all
this to a " First of First " !
" Ha ! that was only for a post-prandial argument,"
laughed the Canon. "But you lost temper and got
confused. And you never heard of these — ha — Odic
forces ? Dear me ! What are our professors doing ?
And with what singular equipments they furnish our
young men for the battle of life ! "
There was another spell of silence, during wdiich
Luke drew up to the bar of justice, and solemnly con-
demned his professors as a set of "effete old fossils."
" I should hardly," said the Canon, resuming, " care
to allude to that — ah — ill-timed and rather vulgar —
melody to wliich you treated us ; but you are — ha
— going to England, and 3'our mission will be — ha
— inoperative and ineffectual if you import into the
ministrations of your daily ministry sueli treasonable
principles as those contained in that — ha — street-
baUad. You were never taught operatic music in
Maynooth ? "
" No, sir," said T^uke ; "it was sternly interdicted."
"Dear me I how reactionary ! And it is so^ha —
refining. Did you notice that pretty duet, ' Ai nostri
monti'?" 'I'he Canon placed tlie tips of his fingers
together.
" Yes, it was pretty," murmured Luke.
" And my nephew's rendering of ' Hear j\[e, Gen — tel
Maritana'?"
" I did not follow that," said Luke.
"And then to compare that fiery Marseillaise, which
you so unwisely, but, indeed, rather melodiously ren-
76 LUKE DELMEGE
dered ! Do you think now really — ha — that ' Hurrah,
me boys,' is an expression suited to a drawing-room
audience, or do you not see that it would be more fit-
ting in a street-corner ballad or the heavy atmosphere
of a — ha — tap-room ? "
Luke was silent and angry.
" It is quite possible," continued the Canon, " that
you will be thrown a good deal into — ha — English
society. You may be invited to dine with the — ha —
aristocracy, or even the — ha — nobility. I hope, my
dear young friend, that you will never forget yourself
so far as to introduce into such lofty and refined circles
such dithyrambic and — ha — revolutionary ballads as
that under discussion."
Luke said nothing, but continued tracing the pattern
of the carpet.
" You must sink your extreme national sensibilities,"
said the Canon, "in the superior ambitions of the
Church, and take care not to offend the prejudices of
our dear English brethren by too-pronounced references
to those — ha — political issues on which we — ha —
differ."
There was truth in all that the Canon was saying,
though put rather brutally, and Luke had only to listen.
Then there was a surprising change of front.
" I have written to the Bishop and obtained the
requisite permission for you to celebrate three Masses in
your father's house, not only now, but on all subsequent
occasions when you may — ha — be resident in your
paternal home — "
" Oh, thank you so much, Canon," said Luke, most
gratefully ; "that's a great favour."
The Canon went on, not noticing the ebullition.
"As I was saying — ha — I think this arrogation of
rights that are parochial seems hardly consistent with
Canon I^aw ; but I have not insisted too warmly on my
privileges as parish priest, lest I should seem wanting
in the respect due to the lofty dignity of the episcopal
bench. But I took — ha — the opportunity of remon-
ADIEUX 77
strating with His Lordship for having set aside one of
my parishioners, and selected one of ratlier mediocre
abilities, if I am rightly informed, for a position in the
diocesan seminary which demands both talent and char-
acter.'"
Luke was at first bewildered. Then he saw through
the Canon's kindness beneath his coat of buckram.
''I'm sure Lm greatly obliged to you, sir, for such
trouble. I confess I did feel some annoyance at first,
but now I should prefer to go to England."
"And I quite approve of your decision," said the
Canon, suavely ; " indeed, it is one of the chief regrets
of my life that I was unable to graduate on the English
mission. Nevertheless, the slight to my parishioner
remains, and I shall not forget it."
Here the Canon sank into a reverie, as if meditating
a subtle revenge against the Bishop.
" Do you know," he said, waking up suddenly, " any-
thing of the science of heraldry ? "
"• No," said Luke, promptly.
" That's a very serious loss to you," replied the
Canon ; " what did you learn, or how did you employ
your time ? "
" To tell the truth, Em beginning to think," said
Luke, "that whatever I learned is so much useless lum-
ber, and that I must get rid of it somehow and commence
all over again."
" A very proper resolution,'' said the Canon. " Now,
let me see ! — Uelmege ! That must be a French or
Norman name. Could, your family have been Hugue-
nots ? "
"Tliey were Palatines," said Luke. "They lived
over there at Ballyorgan in the valleys, and became
Catholics several generations back."
" How very interesting ! " said the Canon. " Our
family, as you are aware, are Scotch — ^Murray, Moray.
It was one of my ancestors who held the painter of the
boat for Mary Queen of Scots when she was escaping
from that castle, you know ; and it was the great queen
78 LUKE DELMEGE
who, extending her gloved hand to my — ha — ancestor,
gave our family its motto. ' Murray,' she said, ' Mur-
ray, sans tache.' I hope," continued the Canon, after
a pause, ••' that I and my family will never bring a blot
upon the fair escutcheon of our noble house."
Luke did not know exactly what to reply, but he
was saved the trouble ; for the Canon rose, and saying,
in his most grandiose manner, "■ that he understood
it was customary to demand — ha — a young priest's
blessing," to Luke's consternation, the old man knelt
humbly on the carpet. Luke repeated the words, but
dared not, from old veneration, touch the white hair.
And the Canon, rising, placed an envelope in his hands,
and said : —
^ When you have said your three Masses, kindly say
ten Musses for me ! Good-bye ! I shall hope — ha —
sometimes to hear of you from your excellent father.
Good-bye ! "
The astonished and bewildered young priest opened
the envelope when he had passed out of sight of the
presbytery, and took out, with mingled feelings of sur-
prise and gratitude, a note for five pounds.
" 'Tis a queer world," said Luke. " I wonder when
shall I understand it." If you value your peace of mind,
Luke, let the mighty problem alone ! It has vexed
humanity from the beginning, and shall remain insolu-
ble to the end. Find your work and do it. But who
was ever content with this? Or what greatest sage
was ever satisfied to look at the Sphinx of life without
asking the meaning in her eternal eyes?
CHAPTER VII
EN ROUTE
The next few days passed pleasantly and cheerfully
for Luke. The inestimable privilege of being able to
say Mass in his father's house blessed and hallowed the
entire day ; and if occasionally he allowed himself to be
tormented by the accidents and circumstances of life, or
by grave questionings about men and their ways, all
these vexatious troubles evaporated the moment lie sat
with his three clerical friends ; and all jarring and dis-
sonant sounds were merged and disappeared in the glo-
rious dithyramb of friendship.
The three friends were known in tlie diocese as the
"Inseparables." They formed a narrow and exclusive
circle of themselves, and all candidates for admission
were sternly blackballed. They dined together and
supped together on all festive occasions. They took
their summer holidays together at Lisdoonvarna ; and
there they insisted that their rooms should be on the
same corridor and adjacent, and that tlieir chairs shouhl
be placed together at the same table. At Kilkee, which
is popularly supposed to be the liygienic supplement of
Lisdoonvarna, just as the cold douche is supposed to
wind up a Turkish bath, they bathed in the same pool
or pollock hole, went together to Looji Head, or the
Natural Bridges of Ross, f(x)led around during the hot
day together ; and if they ventured on a game of billiards
after dinner, two played and the other marked. If any
one else came in or interfered, tlu' three talked away
together. At home, they were equally e::clusive. Every
Sunday evening, winter and summer, they met, to " cele-
79
80 LUKE DELMEGE
brate the Eleusinian mysteries," said jealous outsiders,
but in reality to dine ; and the dinner on each occasion,
and at each table, never varied — chickens and ham,
followed by a tiny piece of roast mutton ; one dish,
generally of apples, as second course, and that was all.
Tlie only occasion wlien there was a shadow of a cloud
between them was when Father Martin got a new house-
keeper, and she treated her guests to what she was
pleased to call a chancellor-pudding. The guests looked
at it suspiciously, but declined to partake. Father
Martin, always gentle and polite, made profuse apolo-
gies. " Give me the old horse for the long road," said
Father Tim. So, too, the "Inseparables" held the
same opinions on politics, the only difference being that
Father Martin looked upon such things from a theoreti-
cal and academic standpoint, whereas Father Tim held
himself passive, and Father Pat was disposed to be
fiercely and relentlessly aggressive. Some said it was
genuine, downright patriotism; some thought it was
opposition to his pastor. No matter. There it was ; and
the great newspapers spoke of him as a " true soggarth,
who was upholding, under difficult and trying circum-
stances, the noblest traditions of the Irish Church."
These laudatory lines Father Pat had cut out, and pasted
into the cover of the Pars Aestiva of his breviary, where
they formed occasionally the subject of an impromptu
meditation. And as these three excellent men were
obliged to make their wills in conformity with the stat-
utes of the diocese, it was understood (though this of
course was a secret) that the two executors of him who
should predecease the others were to be the survivors.
What the last survivor was to do history does not tell.
And yet, with all the unbroken intimacy extending
over many years, no three men could be more unlike in
character, disposition, and education than the " Insepa-
rables." Father Pat Casey was an open-air priest, who
lived in the saddle, and was the familiar and intimate
of every man, woman, and child in the parish. We
might say, indeed, in the three parishes ; for his brother
EN ROUTE 81
clerics often good-humouredly complained that he for-
got the rectification of the frontiers, and poached rather
extensively on their preserves. He had a genuine, un-
disguised horror of books. His modest library consisted
of St. Liguori in two volumes, Perrone in four, Alzog
in two, and Receveur in ten. There were, also, about
fifty volumes of the Delphin classics, which liad come
down to him from a scholarly uncle ; and in the midst
of these was a single volume of De Quincey, with an
account, amongst other essays, of the last days of Kant.
This volume was the occasion of perpetual inquiry and
interrogation.
"Where in the world did I pick it up? Who the
mischief was this Kant ? W^hat a name for a Christian!
Martin, I am sure I must have stolen it from jou in a
fit of abstraction."
But he would not part with it — not for its weight
in gold. It had served him well a few times. It was
always lying on the parlour table, except during meals,
Avhen it went back to the bookshelf ; and once a high-
born English lady, who had called to inquire about some
poor people in the neig]d)ourhoo(l, took it up, and said: —
"• I'm glad to see you interested in my favourite author,
Father.''
And once, when the Bishop paid an impromptu visit,
he found Father Pat deeply immersed in abstruse
studies.
'•• Reading, Father Casey ? " said the Bishop, as if lie
were surprised.
" Yes. my Lord," said Father Pat, demurely.
The liisliop took up the volume, turned over the leaves
with a slight uplifting of the eyebrows, looked at Father
Pat questioningly, looked at the book, and sighed.
There were a few })rints of sacred subjects around tlie
walls, one or two engravings signed Kaut'niann, which
Father Pat was told were of priceless value. But the
masterpiece was over the mantel ; it represented three
or four horses, bay and black, their skins shining like
mirrors. One was hurt, and a groom was chafing the
Q
82 LUKE DELMEGE
fore foot. It was by one of the old masters, and it was
called " Elliman's Embrocation."
" Take down that vulgar thing," said his parish priest,
on one of the few occasions when he visited his curate.
Father Pat obeyed, but put it back again. It was the
source of innocent and ineffable pleasure to him.
Father Pat didn't preach. He only spoke to the
people. Hence, after thirty years of zealous ministra-
tion, he remained a curate ; and there seemed no like-
lihood that he would ever be asked, in his own words,
" to change his condition."
Father Tim Hurley was pastor of aneighbouring parish
— a one-horse parish. He had no curate — a fact in
which he took great pride when speaking to his fellow-
pastors, but which he deplored, almost witli tears in his
eyes, when in the company of curates. Once, in his
early days, he liad had the supreme misfortune of mak-
inof an excellent hon mot, and an unwise admirer had
called him " Thou son of Sirach." From that day for-
ward he assumed the aphoristic mode of speaking ; and
sometimes it was a torture to his friends to see him, in
much agony, labouring to twist and extort from his inner
consciousness some pithy phrase that would help him
to conserve or extend his reputation. Under the un-
wise advice of his friend Father Martin, he had laid in
a stock oj writers who had been remarkable for their
wit and powers of repartee ; but it was mighty hard to
bring around Rochefoucauld in a conversation about the
diocese, or Epictetus when they were talking about the
harvest. And so Father Tim was driven, by the stress
of circumstances, to fall back upon his own originality ;
and if, sometimes, he failed, he found, on the whole,
that in his flights of fancy his own gray feathers were
better than borrowed plumage.
Father Martin, again, was almost a direct antithesis
to his friends ; and as it was from him Luke's future
life took some of its colour, I must give him a little
more space just here.
Father Martin Hughes was not originally intended for
EN ROUTE 83
the Church, but for the Bar. For this purpose he had
spent two years in Germany, passing from university to
university, lodging in humble cottages by the banks of
legendaij rivers, or in the solitudes of black mountain
forests ; and here he had learned to prize the simple,
cleanly lives, gray and drab in their monotony, but
gilded by the music and the mystery that seems to hang
like a golden cloud above the Fatherland. In after
life he often recurred, with all the gratefulness of mem-
ory, to the kindliness and unaffected politeness of these
simple peasants and wood-cutters ; and the little marks
of sympathetic friendship, such as the placing of a
bunch of violets with silent courtesy on his dressing-
table, or the little presents on his birthday, when his
portrait was decorated by some Gretchen or Ottilie,
were graved indelibly on a memory almost too retentive.
Then the pathos of the German hymns, sung by a whole
family around the supper table, and to the accompani-
ment of a single table-piano, such as you see in every
German household, haunted him like a dream ; and
when, by degrees, he began to realize that this country,
which but a few years back had been cursed by a foreign
tongue, had now, by a supreme magnificent effort, cre-
ated its own language, and a literature unsurpassed for
richness and sweetness, he saturated himself witli the
poetry and philosophy of the country, which gave a
new colour and embellishment to life. Not that he
troubled himself much about the cloudy metaphysics
of this school or that, or the line liair-s[)littiiig of philo-
so})liical mountebanks who ridiculed the scholastics lor
logic-chopping, yet imitated in untruth the worst fea-
tures of systems they condemned ; but he allowed the
fine mists and mountain dews of Schiller, Richter, and
Novalis to wrap him round and saturate his spirit, and
thanked God that He had given poets to the world.
The last months of his pilgrimage he had spent above
the Necker, in the grand old town of Heidelberg, and
he never saw it after l)ut in such a sunset dream of
colouring, and such an overhanging heaven of azure, as
84 LUKE DELMEGE
arches the golden landscapes on the canvases of Turner.
But it was there and in the lonely recesses of the Hartz
mountains, where village after village clustered around
the church spire and the white tombs of the dead, that
the gentle afflatus was breathed on him that turned his
thoughts from the forum to the pulpit and from the
world to God. But he never abandoned his German
studies during all his after life. He had conceived the
original and apparently extravagant idea of engrafting
German ideas, German habits and manners on the peas-
antry at home, and he had written one thoughtful article
on the affinity between German and Irish thought and
tradition. He thought to show tliat German idealism
and Celtic mysticism were the same, and that the issue
of an alliance between the thoughts and sympathies of
these nations should necessarily be a healthy one. But
he was hooted from the literary stage. France, and
France alone, was to be our wet-nurse and duenna —
and Father Martin went back to his books and his
dreams. He was, therefore, a cipher, a nonentity, for
a silenced voice is supposed to denote and symbolize
emptiness in a loud-tongued, blatant land. Then,
again, his accomplishments and learning were merged
and forgotten in the fact that he was the gentlest, the
most imperturbable of men. And partly by native dis-
position, partly by habit and cultivation, he had come
to that pass when he did not think it worth while to
differ with any one about anything. He answered,
" Quite so ! " to the most absurd and extravagant state-
ment. Hence, after conferences and such like he was
generally reputed dull, because he did not choose to take
part in discussions, which had no interest for him. But
there was a tradition amongst the "Inseparables" that
after these occasions strange sounds of laughter used to
be heard from the recesses of his library. But this was
a mistake. It was only a musical box that used to play
twelve airs, and which always required winding on these
particular occasions. So said the '•'■ Inseparables" to the
gentiles ; but they had a Freemason secret amongst
EN ROUTE 85
themselves that Father Martin did verily and indeed
enjoy a joke. And in one of the secret recesses of his
library, which no one was allowed to penetrate but the
" Inseparables," he had a lar^e ring or rosary of photo-
graphic portraits — Kant, Fichte, Schelling, Hegel,
Goethe, Wieland, Richter, Novalis, and Herder. The
centre panel was for a long time vacant. Then one
day it was tilled — filled with a cabinet portrait of a
man who, at his own dinner table, used to say by ges-
tures, if not articulately to his worshippers and syco-
phants : " Behold, am I not your lord and master ? "
and they answered him and said : " Yea, verily, thou
art our lord and king." And the horrible story went
abroad that Father Martin, the demure monk and
eremite, used to sit in his arm-chair for hours together,
contemplating tliis circle of genius with the centre of
conceited emptiness, and laugh loud and long at the
dismal contrast.
Luke was privileged to spend his last three days in
Ireland in the company of these kindly men. Why he
was admitted within the magic circle Avas a great puzzle
to him, tlie only answer to which he found in Jiis })ro-
spective exile. The profit he derived from this inter-
course was probably not an appreciable quantity ; but
liis nerves got smootlied out and calmed. It is true,
indeed, that Father Tim gave laboured utterance to one
or two of his oracular sayings, which, not being quite
consistent in tlicir moral bearing with what Luke had
been taught, occasioned him not a little anxiety and
scruple. For example, Father Tim strongly inculcated
on Luke the paramount necessity of ''not selling himst'lf
cheap."
" The world takes you, my boy, at your own valua-
tion. Hold your head high, and put a big price on
yourself."
"But surely. Father," remonstrated Luke, "that
would be quite inconsistent with Christian Immility."
"Humility? (tod bless me, my boy, you'll be ])ulU'd
and draeffjed throu'di the mud : you'll be tiainiiltMl into
86 LUKE DELMEGE
compost by the hoofs of men if you attempt to make
little of yourself."
Luke was silent.
" An eel has a better chance than a salmon," said
Father Tim, on another occasion, " of making his way
in the narrow and twisted and shallow channels of Irish
life." After a long pause of pleasure, he added : " But
an eel is not a salmon for all that."
The brethren nodded assent.
" You have a good name to go to England with, my
boy," he said, at his own dinner-table on Monday even-
ing. " Who was the fool that said : ' What's in a
name ? A rose by any other name would smell as
sweet.' "
"A great fellow called Will Shakspere," said Father
Martin.
" 1 thought so. One of those birds who hatch the
eggs of others. Now, will any one tell me that Del-
mege — and if you can pronounce it in the French
fashion so much the better — is not a wholesomer name
for an exile than O'Shaughnessy or O'Deluchery ?
You'll find that this fellow will come back to us with
an accent like a duchess, and that he'll find out that his
ancestors fought at Poictiers, and that he is a first
cousin, in the collateral line, to Joan of Arc."
" It is a curious form of insanity," said Father Mar-
tin, ''and every one is more or less affected."
" Except myself and Father Pat. I could never trace
the Hurleys or the Caseys be3'ond the three-years-old
and four-years-old factions. But I believe they were
very conspicuous in these crusades." He added, in his
tone of quiet sarcasm : " When I get a little money
together, which is a rather problematical issue at pres-
ent, I'm going to get my notepaper crested, like the
Canon — two shillelaghs rampant — very rampant — on
a background of red — very red, with the motto, Nemo
me. impune lacessit, or its Irish translation, Don't tread on
the tail of my coat ; and I'll also pay for Father Pat's,
for he'll never have a penny to bless himself with."
EN ROUTE 87
" And wouldn't you kindly suggest an heraldic crest
and motto for Father Pat?" said Father Martin.
" Certainly. A death's-head and crossbones couch-
ant, on a black ground, with the motto of Napoleon :
Frappez-vite — frappez-fort, or in the vernacular : Wher-
ever you see a head^ hit it! "
" No ! no ! " said Father Martin ; " that would not
be appropriate. Give him the surgeon's knife and the
motto, Mescissa vegetius resurget.""
To explain which parable we should add here that
Father Pat was an amateur surgeon, principally in the
veterinary department. He had a little surgery, a room
about eight feet square, off the hall ; and here he per-
formed operations on animals that would have made
Lister die of envy. Here he had put into splints the
broken leg of a blackbird, who, in exchange for the
gratuitous service, then and there abdicated his free-
dom, and became the melodious companion of the priest.
Here, too, dogs of all shapes and breeds were brought
to him, and whilst he treated them with infinite gentle-
ness, and they licked his hand in gratitude, and the
wistful, swimming look gathered into their eyes, as
indeed into all eyes, human and other, in crises of their
lives, some thought that he dropped a tear into the em-
brocation, and moistened the ointment in this old human
wa3^ In spiritual matters, too, he was an able and
tender physician. I am not sure that he was a distin-
guished theologian, or that he could weigh opinions in
the balance, like that sensitive plate in the Bank of
England, that flings good coins to the right, and light,
spurious ones to the left, and quivers, as if in doubt,
when a dubious coin is submitted, and reasons in its
own mechanical way, and finall}' drops it. Hut Father
Pat had a sovereign remedy, a pure ana'sthetic, an anti-
septic salve for all the wounds of hunianit}', and that
was Epikeia. It was never known to fail him, and the
consequence was that patients flocked to him from town
and country and went away rejoicing.
" I can't make it out," he said. "• Fm not much of a
88 LUKE DELMEGE
theologian, and the Lord knows I'm not a saint. I
suppose 'tis the grace of God and an honest face."
" No matter," said Father Tim, in reply ; " he'll never
come to decent notepaper. Ah, me ! if Pat had only
held his head high, how different he would be to-day !
Luke, my boy, hold your head high, and let every year
increase your valuation."
" Tell him about Tracey," said Father Fat; "it might
frighten him."
"About Tracey, that poor angashore in the city?
Well, he's an awful example. He had a good parish —
as good a parish as there is in the diocese. It is my
own native parish — "
" It is the Siberia of the diocese," hinted Father Martin.
" It's my own native parish," said Father Tim, " and
though I shouldn't say it, there's as good a living there
— well, no matter. What did our friend Tracey do?
Instead of thanking God and his Bishop, he flew into
the face of God, he insulted the Bishop, he insulted the
people, and he insulted me." The memory of the in-
sult was so vivid and painful that Father Tim could
not speak for several seconds.
" He began to make meditations, if you please, with
the result, of course, that he Avent clean off his head.
His delusion was that he was too elevated as a parish
priest, God bless the mark ! and that his salvation
would be more secure on a lower runof of the ladder.
He resigned his parish and became chaplain to a city
hospital. He is low enough now. He may be seen
wandering around the streets of the city with a coat on
him as green as a leek, and he looks like an anatomy.
Of course he is off his head ; and the fun is, he likes
to be told it. And if you'd politely liint that he has
been, and must have been, suspended for an occult
crime, he'd shake your hand like a hungry friend whom
you had unexpectedly asked to dinner."
" By Jove ! " said Luke, forgetting himself, and strik-
ing the table, "the first vacation I get, FU make a pil-
grimage to the city and kiss that man's feet."
EN ROUTE 89
"That's easy enough," said Father Tim, "because
his shoes are usually well ventilated, and he's not shy
about showing his toes. Meanwhile, Luke, spare these
few glasses of mine. They are all I have, and this is
a hungry parish."
" Tell me, Father Martin," said Luke, as the two
went home together, "is that true what Father Tim
told about that priest in Limerick? Because one never
knows when he is serious and when jesting."
" Literally true," said Father ]\Lartin, with that tone
of seriousness which was natural to him, and which he
only suppressed in moments of relaxation.
"And'are cases like this very rare?" asked Luke.
"Not so rare as you may imagine," replied Father
Martin, " but not so remarkable."
" I suppose the man is worshipped," said Luke, gaug-
ing the popular estimate by his own.
"Quite the contrary. He is regarded by all as an
imbecile. The people only think of him as one 'tetched
in his mind.' "
"But the brethren — his own — who understand his
heroism?"
"Oh!" said Father Martin, with a long breath.
" Well," he said deliberately, " here, too, there is com-
passion, but no great admiration. He is not called a
fool, but he is treated as such. I remember a few
months ago a magnilieent sermon, preached by a great
pulpit orator, on "Humility.' It was really beautiful,
and the picture he drew of St. Francis, hooted by the
people of his native town, and called 'a fool,' was pho-
togra[)hic in its perfect details. But when he met
Father Tracey, with his old green coat at the dinner
table afterwards, it was deliglitful to see his condescen-
sion. He shook hands with him, apparently with some
reluctance, but said immediately after to one of a group
of his admirers : ' Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! ' lint the
cream of the joke was that an excellent man, immedi-
ately after, spoke of the distinguished orator as the
90 LUKE DELMEGE
exact and happy antithesis of wretched failures like
Father Tracey."
" It's a dreadful enigma," said Luke, wearily mop-
ping his forehead. "I don't know where I am."
" You see Father Tim's advice was not so far absurd
as you seem to think. We are all like frogs in a swamp,
each trying to croak louder than his fellows, and to lift
his stupid head somewhat above them out of this dreary
Slough of Despond. And for what, think you ? That
he might have a better opportunity than his fellows to
see the fens and quagmires of this dreary existence,
and inhale the more deeply the marsh-miasms of this
fever-stricken and pestilential planet."
" But, surely, you do not agree with what Father
Tim said ? " said Luke, in an accent of despair.
"■ I fully agree with his conclusion that, if you are
humble and lowly and self-effaced, 3'ou will certainly
hd crushed into compost under the hoofs of wild asses.
But — " He stopped, and Luke watched him.
" I believe, also, that the highest Christian teaching
is true ; and that no real work is done in the world
except by humble and lowly men. Did you notice the
two photos on my mantelpiece ? "
" Yes ; your idols ? "
"According to mood. When I am disposed to be
contemptuous or scornful or too zealous, I turn to Sa-
vonarola ; he was my deity for half my life. When I
am in a gentle and charitable mood, I light a taper
before the Cure of Ars."
"'Tis all a mighty puzzle," said Luke.
" Ay, 'tis a mad world, my merry masters," answered
the priest. Then, after a long pause, he said : —
"I dare say you're pretty tired of the advice and
wisdom of your seniors. But you have had a great
misfortune. You have come into the world worse
equipped than if you had been born blind or lame.
You have a hundred naked, quivering nerves, wide
open on every square inch of your body. Happy you
if you had been born with the hide of a rhinoceros.
EN ROUTE 91
As this is not so, I say to you, first, with the Grecian
philosopher —
" Hahita tecum. Dwell as much as you can with
your own thoughts. Secondly, —
"Make God your companion, not men. Thirdly, —
" Feed not on ephemeral literature, but on the mar-
row of giants. Good-bye ! till to-morrow."
On Friday afternoon, Luke was launclied on the
high seas in the London steamer, and into the mighty
world at the same time. The enigma of life was going
to be shown him for solution on larger canvas and in
deeper colours in the strange and unfamiliar environ-
ments of English life.
BOOK II
CHAPTER VIII
ALBION
Not tlie white cliffs of Dover, ])ut the red loam of
Devonshire downs, where the sandstone was capped by
the rich teeming soil, saluted our young exile the fol-
lowing morning. He had risen early , and, shaking off
the mephitis of a stuffy cabin, had rushed above, just as
the sailors were swabbing the decks. Here he drew in
long, deep breaths of the crisp, cool sea air, as he watched
the furrows cut by the coulter of the sea-plough, or
studied the white towns that lay so picturesquely
under the ruddy cliffs. "• And this is England," Luke
thought. "England, the far-reaching, the imperial,
whose power is reverenced by white, and black, and
bronzed races ; and whose sovereignty stretches from
the peaks of the Himalayas to the Alps of the southern
Archipelagoes." Luke couldn't understand it. She
lay so quiet there in the morning sun, her landscapes
stretched so peaceful and calm, that symbol of power,
or of might far-reaching, there was none.
'' I tliought," said Luke, aloud, " that ever}' notch in
her cliffs was an embrasure, and that the mouths of her
cannon were like nests in her rocks."
" "Lis the lion coucluint et dormant,'''' said a voice.
Luke turned and saw standing close by an officer of
the ship, a clean-cut, trim, well-defined figure, clad in
the blue cloth and gold lace of the service. His face,
instead of the red and bronze of the sailor, had an olive
tinge, through which ])urncd two glowing, gleaming
brown eyes, whiili just then were sweeping the coast, as
if in search of a signal.
95
96 LUKE DELMEGE
" I have often had the same thoughts as you, sir," he
said, as if anxious to continue the conversation, " as we
swept along here under more troublous skies and over
more turbulent seas than now. It is the silent and
sheathed strength of England that is terrible. I have
seen other powers put forth all their might by land and
sea : I have not been moved. But I never approach
the English coast without a feeling of awe."
" I dare say it is something to be proud of," said
Luke, who was appreciative of this enthusiasm, but did
not share it.
"Perhaps not," the officer replied ; "it is destiny."
"You see the Cornish coast," he continued, pointing
to a dim haze far behind them, in which the outlines of
the land were faintly pencilled. " Would you believe
that up to the dawn of our century, fifty years ago, that
entire peninsula was Catholic ? They had retained the
Catholic faith from the times of the Reformation. Then
there were no priests to be had ; Wesley went down,
and to-day they are the most bigoted Dissenters in Eng-
land ; and Cornwall will be the last county that will
come back to the Church."
" Horrible ! " said Luke, sadly.
" And yet so thin is the veneering of Protestantism
that their children are still called by the names of Cath-
olic saints, Angela, and Ursula, and Teresa ; and they
have as many holy wells as you have in Ireland."
" It must be a heart-break to the priests," said Luke,
"who have to minister amid such surroundings."
"I only speak of it as a matter of Fate," said the of-
ficer, dreamily. " It is the terrific power of assimila-
tion which Protestant England possesses."
" You must be proud of ybur great country," said
Luke.
" No, sir," said the officer, " I am not."
Luke looked at him with surprise.
" Ireland is my country," the officer said in reply,
" and these are our countrymen." He pointed down
into the lower deck, where, lying prostrate in various
ALBION 97
degrees of intoxication, were four or five cattle-dealers.
They had sought out the warmth of the boiler during
the night ; and there they lay, unwashed and unkempt,
in rather uninviting conditions. Their magnificent
cattle, fed on Irish pastures, were going to feed the
mouths of Ireland's masters, and tramped and lowed
and moaned in hideous discord for food, and clashed
their horns together as the vessel rolled on the waves.
It was altogether an unpleasant exhibition, and Luke
turned away with a sigh.
In the early afternoon, the boat, after sheering close
under the Eddystone lighthouse, swept around the beau-
tiful woodlands and shrublands of Mount Edgcumbe,
and the splendid panorama of Plymouth harbour burst
on the view. Here again Luke was disappointed. Ev-
erything looked so calm, and peaceful, ;tnd prosperous,
that he found it difficult to understand that there to
the left was one of the greatest dockyards and marine
emporiums and store-houses in the world ; and his eye
ranched aloncf until, liidden under the bosky covers and
the abundant foliage of Mount Edgcumbe, he saw a
long, low wall of concrete, and there were the bulldog
mouths of England's cannon.
" Going ashore, sir ? " said the chief mate, the officer
who had previously accosted him.
" No," said Luke, dubiously.
" Let me introduce my wife and little girl, sir," he
said politely. " We are running in, as I am leaving
iNLarguerite with the Notre Danic nuns here."
" You are going further. Father ? " said the lady, with
frankly })olite Lisli manner.
"Yes," said Luke, '' I'm going to London. I have a
sister Margaret also," lie said, tenderly watching the
child's eyes, '' but we call lier Margei-y."
" We shall be lonely after our little woman," said the
officer; " but she will l)e in safe hands."
" Do you know what Marguerite means, little one ? "
said Luke.
"No, Father," said the child.
H
98 LUKE DELMEGE
" It means a pearl. Be tlion," he said, assuming a
tone of unwonted solemnity, "a pearl of great price."
'■' Bless her, Father," said the Catholic mother.
And Luke blessed the child.
All that day, whenever he had a spare moment from
his Office and a few necessary studies, he was absorbed
in two reflections. The awful spectacle of those drunken
men in the morning haunted him like a nightmare.
They had risen half drunk from their hot, hard bed,
and stupidly had passed him near the gangway with a
maudlin : " Fi' morn'n, Fazzer ! " And he was study-
ing all day the mighty problem, that has occupied more
attention than half the more serious problems of the
world. What is it ? What is it ? — the fatal bias
towards intoxication that seems to distinguish the race ?
Indolence, vacuity of thought, the fatal altruism of the
race ? What is it ? Or is it only a political calumny ?
And side by side, alternating rapidly with the bitter
reflection, came the question : Why will not Irish
mothers educate their children at home? Have we not
convents, etc. ? Why, it is Irish nuns who are teach-
ing here in Plymouth and throughout England. What
is in the English air that the same teachers can teach
better here than at home? Or is it the everlasting
serfdom of the race, always crouching at the feet of the
conqueror, always lessening and depreciating its own
large possibilities ? Let it alone, Luke, let it alone !
Except, indeed, as an exercise, to while away a long
afternoon under sleepy awnings, and to soothe your
nerves with the dull mechanic interplay of questions
that are forever seeking and never finding an answer,
let it alone, let it alone I But Luke was not made
thus. He had a great taste for the insoluble.
Late in the evening he heard the same officer chatting
freely in French, and with the absolute ease of a native,
with a young governess who was returning to her home
from Ireland. He listened, not with curiosity, but just
to see if he could distinguish one word. Not a word !
ALBION 99
And he had got a prize in Frencli in his logic year.
" Hang Wegscheider and the Monophysites," thought
Luke.
Now, I shoukl like to know where is the connection
between Wegscheider, a fairly modern German, and
people that lived fifteen centuries ago? But that is the
way the lobes of the brain work and interchange ideas,
not always sympathetic, or even relevant, especially
when the schoolmaster is in a passion, and demands too
much work at once from his willing pupils.
Next day the vessel had swung into the gangway of
the world — that mighty sea-avenue that stretches from
the Downs and the Forelands right up to London
Bridfje. The vessel's engines were slowed down, for
this was a pathway where the passengers had to pick
their steps ; for all along the banks at intervals, where
the plastic hand of man had built wharves and (^uaj's,
there was a plantation of bare masts and yards that cut
the sk}' ; and now and again a stately steamer loomed
up out of the eternal haze, and grew and swelled into
colossal blackness ; then passed and subsided into the
dimensions of a waterfowl that troubles the tranquil
waters with swift alarm. Bound for the Orient, and
laden witli freights of merchandise — from the mecha-
nism of a locomotive to the Brummagem-made idol for
far Cathay; bound for the Occident, and laden to the
water's edge, and stuffed chock-full with rolls and bales
from the looms of Manchester ; bound for the roaring
Cape and the sleepy isles of the Pacific ; bound for the
West Lidies and the Bermudas, whence Nature lias
tried in vain to frighten them with her explosive earth-
quakes or the dread artillery of her typhoons ; or
homeward from far climates, and with the rusty marks
of the storm on their hulls, and their sailors staring at
the old familiar sights on land and water — like fairy
shuttles, moving to and fro across the woof of many
waters, — the fleets of the empire came and went, and
Luke fancied he saw the far round world as in a magic
mirror, and that he smelt the spices of Sultans and the
100 LUKE DELMEGE
musk of the gardens of Persia, as the stately argosies
swept by. It was a magnificent panorama, and recalled
the times when the Mtwe Magnum was swept by the
oars of the Roman triremes, and dusky Ethiopians
sweated at the galleys of their Roman masters. Then
the vision faded, and in the raw cold of an exception-
ally sharp morning, Luke stepped across the gangway
and looked down at the mighty sewer of a river, and
came face to face with all the squalor and fsetor of Lon-
don life.
He was calmly but courteously received at the pres-
bytery attached to the cathedral ; and it surprised him
not a little to perceive that his arrival was regarded as
an event of as ordinary importance as the closing of a
door or the ticking of a clock. He took his seat at the
dinner-table ; and he might have been dining there for
the last twenty years, so little notice was taken of him.
He was a little surprised when he was told : —
" Delmege, if you want bread, you can get it at the
side-board ; but cut the loaf even, please."
He was a little amused when some one asked : —
" I say, Delmege, is it a fact that the curates in Ire-
land give dinners at a guinea a head ? "
He replied : " I have dined with curates, and even
with parish priests lately, and the dinner did not cost a
cent per head."
" Tell that to the marines," was the reply.
And he was almost edified, yet partly nonplussed,
when his former interrogator took him out promptly
after dinner to show him the slums, and coolly told him
on returning that he was to preach to a confraternity
that evening.
But what struck him most forcibly was, the calm in-
dependence with which each individual expressed his
opinion, and the easy toleration with which they dif-
fered from each other, and even contradicted, without
the slightest shade of asperity or resentment. This
was a perpetual wonder to Luke during his whole
career in England.
ALBION 101
The following Friday he was submitted to a brief
examination for faculties. His examiners were the
Vicar-General and the Diocesan Inspector, a convert
from Anolicanism.
" In the case of a convert," said the Vicar, without
Dreliminaries, "whom you ascertained to have never
been baptized, but who was married, and had a grown-
up family, what would you do ? "
" I should proceed with great caution," said Luke, to
whom the question seemed rather impertinent and far-
fetched. He had been expecting to be asked how many
grave professors were on this side, and how many excel-
lent writers were on that side, of some abstruse theo-
logical problem.
" Very good," said the Vicar, "and then? "
" I think I should let it alone," said Luke.
" Very good. But these good people are not mar-
ried. Could you allow them to remain so ? "
" It depends on whether they are bona fide, or mala
fide,'''' said Luke, reddening.
" Of course they are bona fide,"" said the Vicar. "Look
it up, Delmege, at your convenience."
" How would you refute the arguments for continuity
amongst the Anglican divines ? " said the Inspector.
•" How would you prove to a lunatic that black is jiot
white, and that yesterday is not to-day?" said Luke.
All, Luke ! Luke ! where are all your resolutions about
interior recollection and self-restraint ? You are far
from the illuininaiive state, as yet !
"That will hardly do," said the Inspector, smiling
courteously ; " remember you have to face Laud and
the Elizabethans, and Pusey and the host of Victorian
divines, now."
" We never thought of such things," said Luke ;
"\ve thought that the old doctrines of Transubstanti-
ation. Purgatory, Confession, etc., were the subjects of
controversy to-day. No one in L-eland even dreams of
denying that the Reformation was a distinct secession."
" Very good, very good," said the Inspector. " One
102 LUKE DELMEGE
word more. In case you had a sick-call to St. Thomas's
Hospital here ; and when you arrived, you found the
surgeons engaged in an operation on a Catholic patient,
which operation would probably prove fatal, what would
you do ? "
" I would politely ask them to suspend the operation
for a few minutes — "
" And do you think they would remove the knives at
your request, and probably let the patient collapse ? "
" I'd give the patient conditional absolution," said
Luke, faintly.
" Ver}^ good. You wouldn't — a — knock down two
or three of the surgeons and clear the room ? " said the
Vicar, with a smile.
" N-no," said Luke. He was very angry. Dear
me ! no one appears to have heard of Wegscheider at
all.
" That's all right," said the examiners. " You'll get
the printed form of faculties this afternoon. Confes-
sions to-morrow from two to six, and from seven to ten.
Good-day."
Luke went to his room. He was never so angr}^ in
his life before. He expected a lengthened ordeal, in
which deep and recondite questions would be intro-
duced, and in which he would have some chance at last
of showins^ what he had learned in the famous halls of
his college. And lo 1 not a particle of dust was touched
or flicked away from dusty, dead folios ; but here, spick
and span, were trotted out airy nothings about ephem-
eral and transient everyday existences ; and he had
not got one chance of saying — " /S'l'c argumentaris
Dominer^ Evidently, these men had never heard of a
syllogism in their lives. And then, everything was so
curt and short as to be almost contemptuous. Clearly,
these men had something to do in the workaday world
besides splitting hairs with a young Hibernian. Luke
was angry with himself, with his college, with that
smiling ex-parson, who had probably read about two
years' philosophy and theology before his ordination ;
ALBION 103
and with that grim, sardonic old Vicar, who had never
opened a treatise since he graduated at Douai or Rheims.
Hence it happened that at dinner, when a strange
priest asked simply what percentage of illiterates were
in the diocese, and the old Vicar grimly answered : —
" About fifty per cent. — mostly Irish and Italian "
— Luke flared up and said : —
" We weren't illiterate when we brought the Faith
of old to your ancestors, who were eating acorns with
the boars in your forests, and painting their dirty bodies
with woad ; and when your kings were glad to fly to
our monasteries for an education, nowhere else obtain-
able on this planet."
The stranger patted Luke on the back, and said
" Bravo ! " The Vicar pushed over the jug of beer.
But they were friends from that moment. A gnarled,
knotty, not in any sense of the word euphonious old
Beresark was this same old Vicar — his steel-blue eyes
staring ever steadily and with anxious inquiry in them
from the jagged penthouse of gray eyebrows ; and his
clear, metallic voice, never toned down to politeness
and amenity, but dashed in a spray of sarcasm on bishop,
and canon, and curate indiscriminately. He would
blow you sky high at a moment's notice ; the next
minute he would kneel down and tie the latchets of
your shoes. A wonderful taste and talent, too, he had
for economics ; not ungenerous by any means, or parsi-
monious ; but he objected very strongly to any abstrac-
tion of jam on tlie sleeve of your soutane, or any too
generous disti'ibution of brown gravy on the thirsty
tablecloth.
Saturday came, and Luke braced liimself for the
second great act of his ministry — his first confession.
He had scampered over the treatise on Penance the
niglit before ; and just at two o'clock he {)assed, witli
fear and trembling, to his confessional. He had said a
short, tremulous prayer before the Blessed Sacrament ;
had cast a look of piteous appeal towards the Lady
Altar, and with a thrill of fear and joy commingled, he
104 LUKE DELMEGE
slipped quietly past the row of penitents, and put on
his surplice and stole. Then he reflected for a moment,
and drew the slide. A voice from the dark recess,
quavering with emotion, commenced the Confiteor in
Irish. Luke started at the well-known words, and
whispered Deo gratias. It was an ancient mariner, and
the work was brief. But Luke recollected all the
terrible things he had heard about dumb and statuesque
confessors ; and that poor Irishman got a longer lecture
than he had heard for many a day.
" I must be a more outrageous sinner even than I
thought," he said. " I never got such a ballyragging
in my life before ! "
Luke drew the slide at his left ; and a voice, this time
of a young girl, whispered lioarsely : —
" I ain't goin' to confession, Feyther ; but I 'eard as
you wos from Hireland, and I kem to arsk assistance
to tek me out of 'ell I "
" By all means, my child," said Luke, shivering, "if I
can assist you in any way ; but why do you say that
you are not going to confession ? "
" I ain't prepared, Feyther. I ain't been to confes-
sion since I left the convent school, five years are
gone."
" And you've been in London all this time ? "
'•' Yaas, Feyther ; I've been doin' bad altogether.
It's 'ell, Feytiier, and I want to git out o' 'ell ! "
" Well, but how can I assist you ? "
" Ev you gi' me my passage, Feyther, to Waterford,
ril beg the rest of the way to my huncle in the County
Kilkenny. And so 'elp me God, Feyther — "
" Sh — h — h ! " said Luke. A cold pers[)iration had
broken out all over his body. It was the first time Jie
Avas brouo'ht face to face with the dread euibodiment of
vice.
His next penitent was a tiny dot, with a calm, English
face, and yellow ringlets running down almost to her
feet. Her mother, dressed in black, took the child to the
confessional door, bade her enter, and left her. Here
ALBION 105
even the mother, in all other ■ things inseparable from
her child, must not accompany. The threshold of the
confessional and the threshold of death are sacred to
the soul and God. Unlike the Irish children, who jump
up like jacks-in-the-box, and toss back the black hair
from their eyes, and smile patronizingly on their friend,
the confessor, as much as to say, "■ Of course you know
me ? " this child slowly and distinctly said the prayers,
made her confession, and waited. Here Luke was in
his element, and lie lifted that soul up, up into the em-
pyrean, by coaxing, gentle, burning words about our
Lord, and His love, and all that was due to Him. The
child passed out with the smile of an angel on her face.
" Wisha, yer reverence, how my heart warmed to
you the moment I see you. Sure lie's from the ould
counthry, I sez to meself. There's the red of L-eland in
his cheeks, and tlie scint of the ould sod hanging around
liim. Wisha, thin, yer reverence, may I be bould to
ask you what part of tlie ould land did ye come from?"
Luke mentioned his natal place.
"I thouu'ht so. 1 knew ve weren't from the North
or West. Wisha, now thin, yer reverence, I wondlier
did ye ever hear tell of a Mick jNIulcahy, of Slievereene,
in the County of Kerry, who wint North about thirty
years ago ? "
Luke regretted to say he had never heard of that dis-
tinguished rover,
" Because lie was my third cousin b}- the mother's
side, and I thouglit yer reverence might have hard of
him — "
" 1 am hardly twenty-three yet," said Luke, gently,
although he thought he was losing valuable time.
''Wisha, God bless you; sure I ought to have seen it.
I suppose 1 ought not to mintion it here, _yer reverence,
hut this is an awful place. Betune furriners, and
Frinchmen, and I-talians, and Jews, and haythens, who
never hard the name of God or His Blessed Mother, 'tis
as much as we can do to save our })Oor sowls — "'
" You ought to go back to Ireland," said Luke.
106 LUKE DELMEGE
" Ah ! wisha, thin, 'tis I'd fly in the mornin' across
the say to that blessed and holy land ; but sure, yer
reverence, me little girl is married here, and I have to
mind the childhre for her, whin she goes out to work,
shoreing and washing to keep the bit in their mouths
— ' In the name av the Father, and av the Son, and av
the Holy Ghost. Amin — ' "
" Father," said a gentle voice, as Luke drew the other
slide, " I am ever so grateful to you for your kindness
to my little one. She's gone up to the Lady Altar ;
and I never saw her look half so happy before. You
must have been very gentle with my dear child."
Luke's heart was swelling with all kinds of sweet
emotions. Ah, yes ! here, above all places, does the
priest receive his reward. True, the glorious Mass has
its own consolations, sweet and unutterable. So, too,
has the Office, with its majestic poetry, lifting the soul
above the vulgar trivialities of life, and introducing it
to the company of the blessed. So, too, has the daily,
hourly battle with vice the exhilaration of a noble con-
flict ; but nowhere are human emotions stirred into such
sweet and happy delight as when soul speaks to soul,
and the bliss of forgiveness is almost merged in the
ecstasy of emancipation, and the thrill of determina-
tion to be true to promise and grateful to God. Here
is the one thing that Protestantism — the system of in-
dividualism and pride — never can, and never will,
fathom.
With something akin to rapture, Luke Delmege put
off his surplice and stole, after a hard afternoon's
work, and knelt and blessed God for having made him
a priest.
CHAPTER IX
THE REALMS OF DIS
And now commenced a strange life for our young
Levite — a life whose circumstances clearly obliterated
every lingering trace of desire for far, heroic deeds,
which, like martyrdom, would mean one short spasm of
pain, and then — the eternal laurels. He began to feel
that there was something even higher and nobler than all
this — the daily, hourly martyrdom of conflict with Satan
and sin — the struggle with evil in its Protean shapes —
evil preached from house tops in strong, Satanic accents
— or more mildly through tlie press and literature, from
the boards of theatres, and the millions of pamphlets and
leaflets, that fell, like the flakes of fire in the h{ferno^
on the raw and festering souls of men. Sometimes he
walked, for study's sake, through crowded streets, or
watched the hideous mass of humanity from the roof of
an omnibus. Sometimes he would stand for a dizzy
moment at a chemist's window in London Road, and
stare at the swirling, heaving, tossing tide of humanity
that poured through tlie narrow aqueduct. Never a
look or word of recognition amongst these atoms, who
stared steadily before them into space, each intent on
coming uppermost by some natural princii)le of selec-
tion. Luke began to have bad dreams. Sometimes he
dreamt of the city as a huge dead carcass, swarming
with clotted masses of maggots, that squirmed and
rolled in its dread putrescence. Sometimes he saw
Britannia, as pictured on coins, with her helmet and
trident ; but there hung a huge goitre on lier neck,
107
108 LUKE DELMEGE
and that was London. But most often he saw the city
as a tenth circle in the cittd dolente. Pale ghosts wan-
dered through dark and narrow streets, or herded in
fetid alle3^s. They appeared to be absorbed in a
silent, but dread and exorbitant quest. What it was,
Luke could not see. Some found the desirable thing,
and tried to walk along unconcernedly for fear of being
robbed ; but there were dark sentinels posted along the
avenues, who glided from their lairs and stole the prize
even from the most wary passengers. And over all was
the smoke of Hell and the brown twilight of the realms
of Dis.
After this dread dream, Avliich he was unable to shake
off for many days, he never saw London but as a shadowy
picture of sombre and lurid lights. Whether the early
sunsettings of September lighted the blind streets ; or
tlie tender grays of October threw a haze around the
dying splendours of parks and terraces — he saw only
the London of his dream — terram desertam, et tenehro-
sam, et opertam mortis ealigine. He began to be alarmed
for his health, and he visited a certain physician. A
long statement of symptoms, etc., under the keen eyes
of ^Esculapius. Prompt reply : " Late suppers. L'isli
stomach not yet habituated to English roast beef and
potted salmon. All will come right soon. Work ! "
Luke took the prescription, and faithfully followed
it. He worked in schools and slums, in confessional
and pulpit, in hospital and asylum, till his fine face and
figure began to be known ; and threw a sunbeam into
the tenebrous and sordid places where he had to go.
And some one said — it was a holy L-ish nun — "God
sent you ! " Ah ! These wonderful nuns ! The glo-
rious vivandieres in the march of the army of Christ !
No stars bedeck them, or crosses : no poet sings them ;
no trumpets blare around their rougli and toilsome
march and struggle ; but some day the bede-roll will
be called, and the King's right hand will pin on their
breasts the cross of His Legion of Honour. And often
and often, as Luke's heart failed him, and he felt he was
THE REALMS OF DIS 109
powerless against the awful iniquity that surged around
him, the sight of these Sisters, moving quietly through
hideous slums, and accepting insults as calmly as their
worldl}^^ sisters receive compliments ; or their white lips
blanched by the foul air of their schools, and the reek-
ing sorties that exhaled from the clothes of these poor
waifs, whom they were rescuing from Stygian horrors,
smote him with shame, and nerved him by the tonic of
noble example for far higher and greater work. And
over all the faetor, and smoke, and horror played lam-
bent flaslies of Celtic wit and liumour, as brave men jest
when shells are crashing and bullets are singing around
them. "Come, see our recreation garden," said one,
who seemed to want recreation badly, so pale and hol-
low-cheeked she looked. She led him up five flights of
stairs, then bade hini go out on the leads and look. He
did and stood. There was a square patch of blue over-
head. All around were brick walls. It was the recrea-
tion ground of a prison. He passed around the parapet,
and touclied with his hand the grimy ledges wliere
the London smoke was festei'ing. And such little
patlietic stories as of the child who shouted : " D — n
you, don't drown me ! " when tlie baptismal waters were
j)Oured upon her head ; or the pretty ancient legend of
tlie mariner convert, wlio could never get beyond
'•Father, Son, and Holy — Water;" or the apology of
tiie old Irish apple-woman for not being able to recog-
nize the Figure of the Crucified, " because, ma'am, I
haven't my spectacles wid me, and my sight is wake.""
Ah mc ! These are the little tragic amusements of
mighty martyrs in the crowded amphitheatre of Loji-
don life. Sometimes, too, when Luke felt as an airy,
gauze-winged butterfly, beating vain wings against the
granite walls of ignorance or vice, and his heart sank
down in despair, the feeble courtesy and "God bless
you ! " of a poor woman, or the smile of a London
flower-girl, with lier pretty little bow, and, " Do, please,
Father," — would inspirit liim. Or when striding along
some populous street, with all the gaudy "Arrys and
no LUKE DELMEGE
ilippant 'Arriets around, he would dream of Ireland,
and what she might have been, suddenly a band, with a
green flag and golden harp, and a rush of green-and-
gold uniforms, would burst upon him with music and
colour, and every man would give the. military salute,
there as they tramped the London pavement in military
order, to their 3^oung beloved officer. And he would
say to himself : " A race to work for and die for, with
all their faults." And above all would float the far-off
dream of the white, thatched cottage above the cliffs,
and tlie murmur of the sea, and the purity and sim-
plicity that o'er-canopied with clouds of gold the azure
vault that bent above his Irish home at Lisnalee.
Luke preached his first sermon very much to his own
satisfaction. He had heard ever so many times tliat
what was required in England was a series of contro-
versial and argumentative sermons that might be con-
vincing rather than stimulating. Then one day he read
in a Church newspaper that a certain Anglican divine
had declared that Calvinism was the bane and curse of
the Church of England. Here then was the enemy —
to be exorcised by a course of vigorous lectures on
Grace. Here Luke was master. The subject had
formed part of the fourth year's curriculum in college,
and Luke had explored it to its deepest depth. He
read up his " Notes," drafted fifteen pages of a discourse,
committed it to memory, and delivered it faultlessly,
with just a delicious flavour of a Southern brogue, which
was captivating to the greater part of his audience, and
delightful from its very quaintness and originality to
the lesser and more select. Now, Luke was a Molinist,
and he told his congregation so. He demolished Calvin
and Knox first, and when he had stowed away all that
was left of them, he told his wondering and admiring
audience that the Thomist and Scotist positions had
been carried by assault, and that the Molinist flag was
now waving above the conquered garrisons. Many
more things he told them, as their wonder grew ; and
THE REALMS OF DIS 111
when Luke stepped down from the pulpit, he felt that
the conversion of England had now in reality begun.
Not that he was very vain ; but it was hard to get rid
of the ideas that six years of success and flattery had
imprinted on a very plastic and susceptible character.
And Luke felt much in the same position he had so
often occupied in Maynooth, when he spun syllogisms
as a spider spins his webs, and drew unwary flies into
their viscous and deadly clutches.
The opinion of the congregation varied. That very
large section in every congregation to whom the deliv-
ery of a sermon is a gymnastic exercise, which has no
reference to the audience other than as spectators, con-
sidered that it was unique, original, but pedantic. One
or two young ladies declared that he had lovely eyes,
and that when he got over the hrusquerie of his Irish
education, he would be positively charming. One old
apple-woman challenged another : —
"• What was it all about, Mary ? "
" Yerra, how could I know ? Sure it vras all Latin.
But I caught the 'grace of God ' sometimes."
"Well, the grace o' God and a big loaf — sure that's
all we want in this world."
A rough workman, in his factory dress, asked : —
" Who is this young man ? "
" A new hand they've taken on at the works here,"
said his mate.
The opinions of the clergy were not audibly expressed.
Luke, indeed, heard one young man hint broadly at the
" windmill," by which he understood his own gestures
were meant. And another said something about a
"pum[)-handle." A young Irish confrere stole to
Luke's room late that night, and on being bidden to
"come in," lie threw his arms around Luke, thumped
him on the back, ran w\) and down the rooui several
times, and went through sundry Celtic gyrations ;
then : —
"■ Luke, old man, I'll tell you, you've knocked them
all into a cocked hat."
112 LUKE DELMEGE
The Vicar- General said nothing for a few days ;
then : —
" Dehnege, have you got any more of these sermons ? "
" Yes, sir ; I have the series in ' Notes.' "
" Burn them ! "
" Take the Dublin Review to your room, volume by
volume," he added, "and study it. You've got quite
on the wrong tack."
Luke had his first sick-call. It was urgent. A ma-
rine was dying down at the Naval Hospital near Stoke-
port. With all the alacrity of a young missioner, Luke
passed rapidly through the streets, entered the huge
archway of the hospital, inquired the way hastily from
a passer-by, was directed to a hall-door, knocked, and
was ushered by a trim servant-maid into a handsomely
furnished drawing-room.
" Very unlike a hospital ward," thought Luke.
" Perhaps the parlour of one of the nurses or the matron."
He was left here for a long time, wondering at the
pictures and books, the dainty accumulations of years
by some soul that evidently had taste and wherewith to
satisfy it. Then the door softly opened, and a clergy-
man, clad in library costume, short coat, etc., entered,
gravely saluted him, bade him be seated, and commenced
a calm, serious conversation. Luke's bewilderment was
increasing, and with it an ever-deepening anxiety about
his poor patient, who then and now might be struggling
in his death agony. He never saw his mistake, until at
last he rose, and the clergyman escorted him to the
door, and thanked him for his friendly visit. He had
sense enough left to ask the way to the hospital, which
was kindly pointed out, and where he found his patient
in the death-agony and unconscious.
The dying man lay in a little cot at the right-hand
side of the long, empty ward. There was no other
patient there. An attendant, clad in brown cloth, dec-
orated with brass buttons, sat on the bed, coolly reading
a newspaper. The hand of death was on the face of
THE REALMS OF DIS 113
the poor consumptive. His eyes were glazed, and the
gray shadow flitted up and down at each convulsive
breath.
" Is this the Catholic patient ? " asked Luke, anxiously.
" Yaas, he be a Cawtholic, I understan'," said the
man.
" He is dying," said Luke, who had never seen death
before.
" Dead in hexactly twanty minutes," said the man,
taking out his watch and measuring the time. He re-
stored the watch to his pocket and continued reading
tlie paper.
This awful indifference smote Luke to the heart. He
knelt down, put his stole around his neck, tried to elicit
an act indicative of conscious sorrow from the dying,
failed, gave conditional absolution, administered Extreme
Unction, and read the prayers for the dying. The
attendant continued absorbed in his paper. Then Luke
sat down by the bedside, watched the flitting changes
on the face of the dying whilst murmuring a prayer.
Exactly at the twenty minutes specified the man rose
up. folded liis pai)er, stretched himself, and looked. A
last spasm flashed across the gray, ashen face of the dy-
ing ; the breathing stopped, fluttered, stopped again, came
slowly and with painful efl^ort, sloi)ped again, then a
long, deep breatli, the eyes turned in their sockets.
That soul had fled. A mucous foam instantly gathered
on the ])lue lips and filled the entire mouth.
" Did I tell 'ee ? Twanty minutes to the second,"
said the man, as he wiped the foam from the dead man's
lips, and lifted the coverlet, flinging it lightly over the
face of the dead man.
It was this cool indifference that smote the senses of
Luke most keenly. For a long time he could not lV;ime
a word to express it, as it appeared to him. Tlieii he
stumbled on what he afterwards regarded as the strong-
est characteristic of this English people — their sur-
prising '' individualism." For while the unit was
nothing in this seething turmoil of millions, the indi-
I
114 LUKE DELMEGE
vidual was everything to himself. Society might ignore
him, despise him, calculate him ; but he, understanding
all this, went his own way, unheeding and indifferent
— a solitary in the awful desert of teeming human life.
Everywhere it was the same. Whilst all around the
splendid materialism of England asserted and showed
itself ; whilst shops were packed full of every kind of
luxury and necessary, and the victuallers and pork-
butchers vied with the fruit-sellers in exhibiting every
form of human food ; whilst public baths were spring-
ing up in all directions, and everything ministering
to human wants was exhibited in superabundance ;
whilst a perfect system of police and detective super-
vision guarded human life and safety, each solitary
individual walked his way alone. You might live in
a street for twenty years and not know the name of
your next-door neighbour ; and you seemed to be
labelled and ticketed for State purposes, without the
slightest reference to your own well-being, except so
far as you were a component unit of the State. It was
a huge piece of perfect and polished mechanism — cold,
clean, shining, smooth, and regular ; but with no more
of a soul than a steam-engine. Often when the dread
rattle and roar of the huge meclianism tortured the
overworked nerves of Luke Delmege, and he felt as if
he had been condemned for life to be imprisoned in
some huge, infernal Tartarus of cranks and wheels, and
the everlasting roar of steam and machinery, he would
steal into some quiet street, where, hidden and unseen,
as God in the mighty mechanism of the universe,
crouched some humble church ; and sitting on the rude
benches he would watch for an hour or two the red
lamp swinging before the tabernacle, and break out
into a soliloquy to ease his overburdened heart : —
" Lord, Lord ! how lonely and silent, how hidden and
neglected Thou art ! Of all the millions who swarm
in this hideous city, how many, how few, are aware of
Thy awful Presence ! There they pass and repass. Thy
creatures, made by Thy hands, and yet to return to
THE REALMS OF DIS 115
Thee ! They are bent on business, on pleasure, on sin ;
but Thou art silent and they do not know that Thou
art near ! Thy name is cried in the street ; but Thou,
the dread reality, art but an abstraction and chimera !
They think of Thee, as afar off on Sinai or Calvary ;
they do not know that Thou art here within touch of
their hand and sound of their voice. Weary statesmen,
burdened and overladen with thought, are yonder in
that pile. They want wisdom, but know not where to
seek it — world-wisdom, for they rule the world, and
have assumed Thy prerogatives and responsibilities
without the knowledge that could enlighten, or the
judgment that can discern ! And there close by is the
mighty temple where once Thy praises were sung and
Thy Sacred Presence rested ; but ' Ichabod ' is now
written over its porches. Not Thy Presence, but the
dust of many who have done Thee dishonour, is there.
And here around are souls perishing from hunger and
feeding on husks ; and they have forgotten to cry to
their Father for bread. Verily, Tliou art a hidden
God, and the world does not know Tliee ! "
This loneliness of our Lord in His London tabernacles
invariably led Luke to the cognate reflection of the
loneliness of God and His hiddenness in His universe.
He was rather drawn to this reflection by the habit he
had acquired of meditating on the ineffable attributes
of God, since the day when his venerable professor told
an admiring class that he liad remained up half the
night before, absorbed in a reverie, after liaving read
Lessius on the ministry and prerogatives of the angels.
But whereas, in the lonely fields and on the silent seas
and lakes of Ireland, he had been penetrated only by
the majesty and immensity of the Creator, liere in
seething, riotous, tumultuous London, the loneliness
of God affected him even to tears.
" To-night," he said, " in all England, but two or
three small communities will watcli with God. To-
night, whilst all England with its tliirty millions are
asleep, one or two tiny communities, there in Devon-
116 LUKE DELMEGE
shire, here in Parkminster, there in Leicester, will
startle the solemnity of the night with psalms of praise
and canticles of adoration. ' Praise the Lord, all ye
nations ; praise Him, all ye people.' Alas ! no. All
the nations and all the peoples are busy with other
things, and the Lord of the universe, bending down to
hear the voices of the darkness, of the earth, must turn
back with disappointment to the tumultuous worship
of His Heaven."
And then the thought startled him — could it be
that God is as forgotten in the vast Heavens as on
earth ? Are all the mighty spirits that people the
universe, hover over infant planets, guide colossal
suns, revel in the crimson and golden belts of far fairer
worlds than ours, and are endowed with higher and
more perfect faculties and senses — are all these im-
mortals as forgetful of God as we ? And is God as
lonely in His universe as here amongst the five millions
of London ? It was a dreadful thought, but impossible !
It is only on earth that the mighty Maker is ignored.
More shame for those who know Him — to whom He
hath revealed Himself !
And then Luke's thoughts would turn to Ireland of
the saints.
" It ought to be a vast monaster}^" he said ; " one
grand, everlasting choir of psalm and hymn, where the
praises of God would never cease — never know pause
or suspension day or night."
Alas ! he did not know until after many years how
far the splendid materialism of England had infected
and attenuated the spiritualism of Ireland ; and how
hearts were throbbing, and eyes looking far forward
and eagerly, and ears were straining for the rumble of
machinery and the mechanism of Mammon, rather than
for the thunder of mighty organs and the raptures of
exultant choirs.
Nor did he know how the spirit of the supernatural
in his own breast was already pluming its wings for
flight, and how new ideas — the spirit of the age — '
THE REALMS OF DIS 117
were supplanting it. He only felt dimly that he was
carried on, on, on in the whirl and tumult of some
mighty mechanism ; that the whir of revolving wheels,
the vibration of belts, the thunder of engines, tlie hiss
of steam, were everywhere. And tliat from all this
tremendous energy were woven fair Englisli tapestries
— stately palaces and ancestral forests, trim viUas and
gardens like Eastern carpets — and that the huge ma-
chinery also tossed aside its refuse and slime — the
hundreds of thousands that festered and perished in
the squalor of the midnight cities. For over all Eng-
land, even in midsummer, hangs a Ijlue haze, and over
its cities the aer bruno, in Avhich the eye of the poet
saw floating the spirits of the lost.
He stepped from the silences of God and the roar of
London was in his ears.
CHAPTER X
"THE STRAYED REVELLER"
Doctor Wilson was in his study. He was engaged
with a patient. So the faithful servitor told tlie few
jaundiced patients who were waiting below and striv-
ing under a rather sickly gas-jet to read The Ciraphic
and The Jester ; or mutually comparing each other's liver
symptoms, and talking of the latest pharmaceutical won-
der. Dr. Wilson's patient, or patients, were of a pecul-
iar type ; and he was searching diligently for one whom
he failed to find. There they were — all yet discovered,
— invisible to you or me ; but plainly visible there in
tliat dark chamber, under the tiny moon of light cast
from a reflector. Unseen themselves, but agents of un-
seen powers for the destruction of human tissue, and
therefore of human life, they swarmed under the micro-
scope ; and Wilson felt about as comfortable as in a
powder magazine, or with a charge of dynamite beneath
his feet. But he would find it — that — microbe of hy-
drophobia, which no man had yet discovered; he would
find it and write a treatise on it, and then — Sir Athel-
stan Wilson !
" Come in ! "
" Mrs. Wilson would like to know, sir, whether you
intend going to the theatre to-night."
" No ! " sharp and laconic. Then —
" Send up those patients ; let me see — Mr. Carnegie."
Louis Wilson heard his father's decision, heard and
rejoiced.
" I shall accompany you, mother."
" No, dear. I shall not go. "
118
"THE STRAYED REVELLER" 119
Louis Wilson regretted the decision deeply, but smiled.
Mrs. Wilson idolized her son. Louis Wilson despised
his mother. Her worship disgusted and amazed him.
His contempt intensified her idolatry. He played on
her wretched feelings as on a shattered and shrieking
instrument, — petted her, laughed at her, coaxed her,
contemned her, made her furious with passion or maud-
lin with love, repelled her, as at a dinner party a few
evenings before, when he hissed at her behind his cards :
" Hold your tongue, and don't make a fool of yourself ; "
won her back by a lurid description of London revels,
in which he played no inconsiderable a part. Of his
father he was somewhat afraid, probably because he had
to look to him for wa3^s and means. There had been
one or two scenes by reason of certain debts that Louis
had contracted ; and the father, to relieve his feelings,
used language somewhat stronger than is sanctioned by
conventional usage. Louis regarded him coolly, told him
such expressions were ungentlemanly, that he had never
heard the like amongst the high elemental society in
which he moved — in a word, made his father tlioroughly
ashamed of himself. But there are certain limits even
to a doctor's finances ; and Louis, once or twice, had to
look elsewhere. This did not increase his filial affection,
whicli now was blended with dread and hate, disgust
and aversion.
" I think I shall have a cigar, then," said Louis to his
mother. " I shall hardly return to supper."
"• Tiie Doctor won't like to see you absent, Louis,"
said his mother.
" 'Tis his night at the Lodge," said Louis. " He won't
miss me.'
The last patient (all but the hydrophobic microbe,
who positively refused to be diagnosed or to pay a fee)
was dismissed ; the last guinea pocketed ; the last entry
made ; and the Doctor, a wearied man, with a weight of
care showing in gray hairs and puckered eyes, entered
the drawing-room.
"Where's Louis?" he demanded peremptorily.
120 LUKE DELMEGE
" Gone out for a cigar," said his wife.
" Confound that cub," said the father. " I believe
he hates his home and despises us all."
" Now, really, Athelstan, you are unjust to the boy.
You repel him, and, domesticated as he is, you drive
him where he is better appreciated."
" Better appreciated ? " echoed the Doctor, lifting his
eyebrows.
" Yes, better appreciated," said the good mother.
" You ignore the poor boy, and he is frightened of you.
Yet I heard Lady Alfroth say the other day at the
levee that that boy was a perfect Adonis. What's
Adonis, Athelstan ? "
" Adonis," said the Doctor, " was an infamous puppy,
who did not reflect much credit on his admirer, nor she
on him. Does she make herself the Venus of Euploea
or the Venus of Apelles, Bessie ? "
"I don't know anytliing about them," said poor
mamma. " But I do know that my boy is admired by
the highest ladies of the land, and that you'll drive him
to destruction."
" Humph I He is pretty far on the road already.
Where's Barbara ? "
" I don't know. Probabl}^ in some of the slums, with
a basket on her arm and a poke bonnet, like those bold
Salvation Army people."
" Barbara should be at home. Can it be possible that,
with her domesticated tastes, you may be driving her
to destruction ? "
" I'm sure I do all in my power to bring her into
decent society. I have had every kind of invitation
for her — to balls and tennis parties ; but the girl has
low tastes, I regret to say — "
" Inherited from whom ? "
" Not from me, certainly. You are constantly taunt-
ing me with being too fond of society."
" H'm ! Look here, Bessie, let us compromise. Bring
up your brother, the Canon, and I'll give a dinner. Who
knows ? — we may meet an ' eligible ' for Barbara."
"THE STRAYED REVELLER" 121
" She'd rather be kneeling at the feet of a friar," said
Mrs. Wilson; but her heart jumped at the suggestion.
" Well, that is low enough," said the Doctor; and he
laughed at his little pun.
" Whom shall we ask?" said Mrs. Wilson.
" Oh ! it makes no matter. The Canon will obliterate
everybody. By the^way, isn't there a big English
preacher coming over here soon ? "
"Yes," said Mrs. Wilson. Her plans were ripening
to perfection. " He's a near relative to the Duke
of B ."
" Bessie, the gods are smiling on thee. If ever you
care for Heaven after you have the Duke's relative at
your shoulder, I'm an apothecary. But, by Jove, won't
there be fun ? We'll pit the Canon against the celeb-
rity : 'twill be worth a prize-fight in Arizona."
"What day shall we say?" asked Mrs. Wilson, who
bore her husband's bantering by reason of her triumph.
"Any day you please, but immediately after the Horse
Show. Calthrop is coming over, and I want to show
him something worth remembering."
'^ 'lliat horrid fellow from Cambridge, who wrote
about germs and things ? '*
"Exactly. He is the leading germinologist of the
day, except Weismann."
" Will lie wear his apron — and — things ? 'Twould
be liardly riglit, you know, in the presence of the
clergy."
" He will, then, and you'll see streaks of hell-fire, red
and yellow, across his breast. Here goes for a cigar !
If the cub enjoys a cigarette, why shouhln't the old
bear enjoy a cigar ? "
Mrs. Wilson was alone with her own thoughts and
plans for a few minutes. Tlicu a gentle step was heard
on the stairs, and llarbara, looking pale and wearied,
came in. She flung her hat on the sofa, tidied up lier
hair, and asked her mother might she have a cup of tea
there in the drawing-room.
"I suppose you may," said her mother, peevishly.
■i22 LUKE DELMEGE
" Although I must say, Barbara, you would consult bet-
ter for our respectability if you would conform more
closely to the requirements of elegant society."
There spoke the Canon's sister. Barbara said nothing.
After tea she drew over a chair, and, taking up a maga-
zine, asked anxiously : —
" Where is Louis, mother ? "
" You care little about Louis or any of your family,"
answered Mrs. Wilson ; " if you did, you would not
avoid meeting those who might be of service to us, and
affect the society of the low and disreputable city
slums."
Barbara was rather accustomed to these monologues,
and answered not at all. Mother should speak or go
mad.
" Your father at last is meeting my wishes, and is
about to entertain. Can you help me to form a list ? "
" Certainly, mother," said Barbara. " Is it — I hope
not — a ball ? "
" No. That's some relief for you. He is about to invite
some distinguished people to dinner to meet the Canon."
" Uncle ? "
" Yes. You seem surprised."
" And what persons — what class are going to meet
uncle ? "
" Do you think father would ask any one that was
not respectable ? "
" Oh, no ! But if I am to help you, I must know is
it a medical, a clerical, or a legal dinner ? "
" You are becoming sarcastic, Barbara, — a dangerous
accomplishment for a young lady."
" Now, mother, let us not bandy words. Whom are
you going to ask ? "
" That is what I want to know. Mr. Calthrop is
coming over."
Barbara laid down her pen, and looked in pained sur-
prise at her mother.
" Then you can't ask any priest to meet Am," said
she.
"THE STRAYED REVELLER" 123
"I would have you kuow," said Mrs. Wilson, angrily,
'' that my brother shall be the guest of the occasion. If
he sliould be present, no other clergyman can object."
Barbara was silent.
" We shall ask Monsignor Dalton and Monsignor
Williams. Can you think of any one else ? "
" There is Father Elton, of Street. He is a very-
distinguished man — "
" I am afraid it would hardly do to ask any one
beneath his own dignity to meet my brother. There's
a certain etiquette in these cases."
"But Father Elton is a Fellow of the Royal Society,
and has frequently lunched at the Castle."
" Oh ! " said ^Irs. Wilson, with a gasp of surprise,
" indeed ! By all means put down Father Elton. I
didn t know he was so distinguished. Then put down
Sir Archibald Thompson, of the College of Science,
and Algy Redvers, who admired you so much at the
Denison's party, and — "
'' Mother ? "
"Well?"
"W'ill tliey come? It will be awkward if you get
refusals."
" Barbara ! " said Mrs. Wilson, in a faltering tone,
" how dare you say such things ! Will they come ? I
should say so."
" Mother, must this be ? "
"It nuist, child," said mother, weeping silently, "but
I wish it were over."
Dr. Wilson attended the meeting of Lodge No. 8,
Moulton Street, and was made ha])py thereby. He liad
long since learned that it was only by diligent and ser-
vile attention to the plenipotentiaries who ruled the
Lodges, and, indeed, every other department in his
country, that he could hope for advancement in his pro-
fession. True, he had an excellent and giowing re[)U-
tation, an excellent and growing and paying clientele ;
for, after all, when you have a "liver," it makes very
124 LUKE DELMEGE
little difference even if it is Catholic boluses, ordered
by Catholic doctors, that relieve you. This is some-
times controverted at the Lodges ; and it is maintained
that even bottles and pills should have the compass and
square written or indented. But a certain residuum of
desirable patients did trickle into the study of Dr. Wil-
son, and that residuum created an appetite for more.
Then there were certain honours and emoluments that
were absolutely in the gift of the Lodges ; and these
are desirable things, except to a certain class of fa-
natics, who, like Oriental fakirs, prefer poverty and
retirement. Sometimes, indeed, a " sop to Cerberus "
is flung to Catholics, when the tables are too redun-
dant and there are no Protestant mouths to feed; and
it is Christian and consoling to witness the intense and
maudlin gratitude with which the morsels are received
and wept over. But how did Dr. Wilson know that he
would be there when the crumbs fell, or that some more
audacious and hungry Papist might not snatch the cov-
eted morsel ? This is a matter admitting of no un-
certainty. Brother Wilson, Lodge No. 8, cannot be
overlooked.
- The meeting was over, tlie night was moonlit, and
Dr. Wilson strolled home leisurely. He was accosted
at the corner of Denton Street : —
" Friend, I owe thee something, and I should wish to
repay thee ! "
"Oh! some other time, Mr. Pyne," said the Doctor,
recognizing a city magnate, one of the last remnants of
the Quaker community, who are fast losing their char-
acteristics and merging into mere Protestants.
•" It is not money I owe tliee, friend," said the
Quaker; "I have paid thee all that was due; but I
owe thee gratitude."
"A rare and unintelligible debt," thought the
Doctor.
" I had a iiver," continued the Quaker, " and I felt
like the saintly man of old, who, when threatened
by the Pagan magistrate — ' I shall drag the liver out
"THE STRAYED REVELLER" 125
of thee,' answered with Christian gentleness, ' I wish to
God you would.' Now, thou hast liolpen me to bring
tliat rebellious and ungodly member into better disposi-
tions, and I am grateful to thee, and I should wish to
repay thee."
There was a pause, the Doctor smiling at the Quaker's
drollery.
" Thou hast a son ?" said the latter, at length. The
smile died from the Doctor's face.
" He is young and inexperienced, and he hath a fatal
gift," continued the Quaker. " And there be a foolish
woman, and clamorous, who sitteth on a seat in the
liigh places of the city, and she saith, 'Whoso is simple,
let him turn in hither.' But he knoweth not that the
dead are there, and that her guests are in the depths of
hell."
" This is all pedantic and ambiguous, Pyne," said the
Doctor, testily. "You mean something grave. Would
it not be better to explain it fully ? "
" Seeing is better than hearing," continued the
Quaker, in his solemn way, "better even than faith.
Come."
He called a cab, and the two drove in silence along
winding streets and open thoroughfares, until they
came to a fashionable suburb. Here the cab stopped,
and the two gentlemen alighted. They moved I'apidly
along the smooth pavement and stood before a large
mansion, whose hall and windows were unlighted, and
over which hung the stillness of death.
" Whatever thou seest here," said the Quaker, " wilt
thou promise to make neither sign nor sound of recogni-
tion ? It is important."
" Yes, I promise," said the Doctor, strangely per-
turl)ed.
They mounted the steps slowly. The bell tinkled,
and a footman appeared.
" Are the guests assembled ? " said the Quaker.
" Yes, sir," said the man, deferentially.
" And the banquet ready ? "
126 LUKE DELMEGE
"Yes, sir," replied the man.
" That will do. I shall tind my own way."
He passed rapidly up the broad staircase, dimly
lighted here and there by a coloured lamp. The Doctor
followed. Their footsteps fell softly on the thick stair-
carpet, and did not disturb the solemn silence. A few
steps led off the main stairs. Here a door was opened ;
but a thick heavy portiere hung down. The Quaker
drew it gently aside, and they found themselves in a
large dining-room, now fitted as a theatre ; but all the
lights burned low until but a faint twilight filled the
room, save at the end, where a narrow stage was brill-
iantly lighted with electric lamps. Hence they stood
and then sat unseen by the audience — a crowd of
ladies and gentlemen, all in evening costume, and who
besides were so interested by the stage-tableau that
they could not hear the almost noiseless entrance of tlie
visitors. Nor did the visitors heed them ; for their
eyes were riveted on that same stage, where, clad in
favvnskins, with a thyrsus in one hand and a winecup in
the other, and apparently in an advanced state of
intoxication, was Louis Wilson, in the capacity of the
"Strayed Reveller." He sat, or rather reclined, on a
couch, softened by mosses and ferns ; the fawnskin had
slipped from his shoulder, which gleamed like marble ;
the dark curls hung low on his neck as he raised his
face upward towards the enchantress of Cyprus —
Circe. She was clothed in Greek costume, her hair
filleted and knotted by circlets of gold and precious
stones, and her feet quite bare. Near her stood Ulysses,
grim and weather-beaten, his mariner's clothes rather
tattered and seaworn, and on his face was a look of
gladness as of one who had escaped shipwreck, and yet
as of one who had determined not to be taken in the
toils of the enchantress. Circe was just repeating the
words : —
Foolish boy! why tremblest thou?
Thou lovest it, then, my wine ?
Wouldst more of it ? See, how it glows
«'THE STRAYED REVELLER" 121
Through the delicate flushed marble,
The red creaming liquor,
Strown witli dark seeds !
Drink, then ! I chide thee not,
Deny tiiee not tlie bowl.
Come, stretch forth thy hand — then — so.
Drink, drink again 1
and Louis repeated : —
Thanks, gracious One!
-Ah, the sweet fumes again!
More soft, ah me !
]More subtle-winding
Than Pan's flute-music.
Faint — faint I Ah, me !
Again the sweet sleep.
" I wish to God he'd never wake out of it," hissed
tlie Doctor. " I'd rather see him dead a million times
tlian thus."
" Hush ! hush ! " said the Quaker. " Come out I "
"No, I'll see the damnal)le tiling- to the end," hissed
the Doctor. And they did. Then, with a sigh, the
Doctor went out, followed by his friend.
" What's all this infernal business about ? " said the
Doctor. " What do they call this Devil's Drama ? "
" Now, now, friend, thou art unreasonably excited,"
said tlie Quaker. " This is a harmless poem enougli ;
written by a very excellent, good man ; and now -.lore
or less degraded into what they call Tableaux Classiqiies.
If thou wert to see thy excellent son as Perseus, rescu-
ing tliat fair lady, Andromeda — "
"• And who is that harridan ? " said the Doctor.
"A most excellent wife and mother. Didst thou
never hear of the beautiful Mrs. Wenham, wife of oiie
of the aidea-de-camp to Lord ?"
" Certainly," said liis comiianion. Tlie Doctor soft-
ened a little under the magic of the name, though he
felt his son's degradation keenly.
" And that old Silenus — who is he ? "
"The reputabh^ and pious Crawford, whose name
stands behind six ligures at the Exchange."
:28 LUKE DELMEGE
" The old ranting hypocrite ! I thought he did noth.
ing but cheat on the Exchange, and sing psalms with
old toothless cats, and slander over their tea-tables ! "
" Now, friend, thou art irritated, and therefore un-
just. Even the godly and the pious must have legit-
imate recreation ; and thou knowest the object is
charitable."
" Indeed ! I should be much surprised if my young
cub ever did a charitable thing in his life.''
" Oh, yes ! " said the Quaker. " Thou shouldst not
object. Is it not one of the tenets of thy own Church
— the end justifies the means ? And what can be more
laudable than to wean away young baby Papists from
their darkness and superstition and bring them into the
sunlight of the Gospel freedom ? Good-night, dear
friend ! "
And the kindly sarcastic Quaker went his way. Next
morning the microbe patients had a little rest. There
was a scene, a violent scene, in the Doctor's study, in
which, for once, the Doctor's honest anger overwhelmed
and subdued the keen sarcasm of his son, whilst Barbara
and her mother, with white faces, were trembling in the
drawing-room. That evening the mail boat from Kings-
town had on its deck a very distinguished passenger,
with a good deal of the manner and airs of a foreign
prince. And then Louis Wilson had to face the humili-
ation and misery of his London lodgings during the long
vacation, when all the world was abroad, except the vul-
gar. He would have fretted a good deal but for 'two
resources — the care of his face and figure, and a cer-
tain tiny flask which he carried with him everywhere,
and a few drops of whose magic elixir wafted him to a
Mahometan paradise.
I
CHAPTER XI
CIRCE
"I'll insist on cook taking an action for libel against
that fellow," said Dr. Wilson, the morning after the
great dinner. " Why, he touched nothing but a bis-
cuit and an apple. Did he think we were going to
poison him ? "
No ! Not exactly. But the " great man," besides
being extremely and habitually abstemious, as all great
thinkers ouo-ht to be, had really some uncharitable sus-
picions about the cookery of tlie outer barbarians. He
stirred the soup as carefully as if he had expected every
moment to turn up a Ijaby's finger, for he had lieard
that a great archbishop had once had that delicacy
offered him by a Maori chief ; and really, you don't
know, you know! And he passed by dish after dish
as if he were playing ''Nap" and held a decidedly bad
hand. Ikit withal, he was very nice and brilliant ; and,
though i)ang after pang of mwrtltication and shame shot
through the anxious breast of the hostess, and she feared
that it was all a fiasco, after her days of work and nights
of worry, nevertheless the afterthou<2-ht : "But he is an
Englishman, and near cousin to the Duke of B ""
acted as a soothing and mollifying unguent on hurt
and bruised feelings. Then, too, the (piick sword-play
of words between the "great preacher" and ]Mrs. Wen-
liam — !I! What, you ask, with a line full of notes of
exclamations, do you mean to say Mrs. Weidiam —
Circe! — was there? Yes, indeed, and veiy much in
evidence. There had been an angry intermarital de-
bate as to the propriety of asking her, on that same
K ^ 129
130 LUKE DELMEGE
night when Louis was peremptorily ordered from his
father's house ; but the name had already been inserted
on Mrs. Wilson's list, and how could they think of
offending one of the greatest potentates at the Castle?
The Doctor bit his lip. It wasn't a case for explana-
tions. And he was obliged to admit that Mrs. Wenham
was charming. With the splendid individualism of her
race, she came to the banquet in a simple dress. Whilst
some of the other guests had as many rings on each fin-
ger as the poles of a curtain, she had but one. But in
a moment she coolly monopolized the conversation, or
rather dualized it with her distinguished fellow-coun-
tryman. The imperial and dominant race assumed pro-
prietorship here, as in all other departments. The
Scythians were silent.
It is quite true, in the beginning, Circe gave a little
start of surprise on beholding so many representatives
of the Church Militant around her. But this quickly
subsided. After all — that is, after she had, by a vig-
orous process of reasoning, conquered that instinctive
and reverential dread of the priesthood which is com-
mon to Mrs. Wenliam and the world, and argued, rather
vainly, that they were no more than those Ritualistic
clergymen whom she had met so often, and so often
despised, she concluded that they were, after all, only
humans, and, as such, legitimate and easy prey. And,
to save time, she thought she would conquer the gen-
eralissimo, and all the subalterns would then capitulate.
" You find the country interesting ? "
" Yes," he replied, feeling his way. " So far, I am,
indeed, highly interested."
" Your first visit ? "
" My first visit," he replied, " and one to which I have
eagerly looked forward."
"• I hope, then, you will turn the pleasure into a study.
You will find a good many things to interest you."
" I have found a great many interesting things ; and
even a larger number of interesting persons so far," he
said, with a bow and smile.
CIRCE 131
"If you had had the good fortune and the better
taste of being at the Horse Show these last days, you'd
have seen still more interesting studies. There was an
immense number of clergymen there — more, indeed,
than I have ever seen at hippodromes elsewhere. I
should say it was a curious ethnological study — that
almost universal taste of Irishmen for horseflesh."
'* You speak as if you had not the honour of being an
Irishwoman," said the great one.
" I am English — or rather Scoto-English," said
Circe.
" It is quite a disappointment," said the great one ;
but they shook hands metaphorically across the table,
as Stanley and Livingstone, when they stepped out
of the shade of the palms and bamboos, and recognized
the pith helmets and revolvers. It was the only trace
and visible sisrn of civilization that had been left
them.
" That passion for horses and dogs has been always a
characteristic of our people," said a Monsignor. " We
must have been a nomadic race at one time."
" I have been reading somewhat like it in one of
Matthew Arnold's poems," said a lady. " I think it
was ' Sohrab and Rustum.' "
" Is he not the author of the ' Strayed Reveller ' ? "
said Dr. Wilson directly to Mrs. Wenham.
She looked at her interrogator blankly for a moment,
then coloured a little, then frowned, then answered : —
"I never read modern poetry." It was a bad hit,
but she had passed through many campaigns.
" I>y the way, Mrs. Wilson," she said blandly, "I
understood that your boy was in Dublin. I did hear
some ladies enthuse rather too markedly about him a
few days hence. But how can the boy help being
so handsome ? "
" Jezebel ! " said the Doctor, between his teeth.
" And it is quite a series of conquests," said the
woman of the world, turning to Rar])ara : "you, little
witch, mesmerized that young fool, Kendal, at the Den-
132 LUKE DELMEGE
ison's the other day. By the way, Doctor, look out for
the list of Jubilee honours. Great complaints that the
medical profession has never yet been sufficiently rep-
resented or acknowledged there."
" Wer kami die Weibercheti dressiren,^'' said Father
Elton, breaking in upon the conversation from a quiet
chat he had been carrying on with the younger of the
two Monsignori. He did not understand the sword-
play between the Doctor and Mrs. Wenham; but he
saw that there was some veiled antagonism there, and
it interested him.
" You are well read in ancient legend and poetry ? "
he said, turning towards Mrs. Wenham.
" Not quite as well read as you savmifs^"" she said,
bridling under the interrogation ; " but quite well
enough acquainted with them to know that they used
up all human thought, and that all the pallid and sickly
growths of modern times are ideas transplanted into
uncongenial climates and soils."
" There, now. Dr. Calthrop," said Father Elton,
" there's what your clever countrywomen think of all
your miraculous discoveries in science — pallid and
sickly transplantings."
" I didn't include science," said Mrs. Wenham ; " but
as ^ou have said it, I adhere to it," which was generous
of Mrs. Wenham, and seemed to imply a new interest
in this Roman priest.
" I would give a good deal to be assured of that,"
said Calthrop with slow emphasis, for he was a heavy
man ; " I assure you I am quite tired of the deification
of my masters, and I have long suspected that they
have but feet of clay."
" It is only a simple and familiar fact in all human
history. I cannot speak much for your department.
Doctor, for I am extremely sorry to say I do not know
what it is, but there is one general and unmistakable
fact or principle in nature — flux and reflux ; and there
must be, as George Eliot puts it, an equivalent systole
and diastole in all human inquiry."
CIRCE 133
"Carlyle is the author of that expression, I think,*'
said Father Elton.
"No ! George Eliot," said Mrs. Wenham, looking
steadily at him. " I won't permit my favourite to he
rohbed by a Scotch parrot, that screams in broken
German."
" Oh ! oh ! " said Father Elton, " and you said you
were half Scotch. Is there a general propensity among
the Celts to turn the spit ? "
" Your remark, Mrs. Wenham," said Dr. Calthrop,
after a good deal of thought, "has impressed me. I
shall look up the ancients. And you say there's noth-
ing new under the sun ? "
" Nothing," said Mrs. Wenham ; " even human na-
ture is unchanged. Even your Christianity," she said,
looking calmly around on all the clerics, from her great
fellow-countryman down to the Canon, and up again to
Father Elton, " is but a repetition of the ancient philoso-
phies, Greek, Egyptian, and Hindoo."
" Except that ? " said Father Elton, insinuatingly.
"I except nothing," she said, fixing her glowing eyes
upon him,
"Except that?" Father Elton repeated, smiling.
" Except that the ancient philosophies made their
professors humble ; and — " she stopped, fearing to
proceed.
" And that Christianity is the culmination and per-
fection of all. Dear me, think of a nineteenth-century
lady actually quoting St. Augustine ! "
" Oh ! the days of miracles are not yet departed," she
laughed.
"No, indeed," said Father Elton, drawing himself to-
gether. " I remember," he continued, " a rather curi-
ous incident that occurred to myself only a few months
ago. You've all heard of Knock, of course. Well, I
was really anxious to see for myself all that could be
authenticated about these marvellous apparitions. So
I went down, put up for a few days in an imin-ovised
hotel, and .looked around. I saw nothing but the mir-
134 LUKE DELMEGE
acle of the people's faith and piety, and the miracle oi
suffering ever patiently borne. We are the most in-
credulous of mortals, except when facts swim into the
sunlit domain of Faith. Well, one evening at dinner, I
sat near a young gentleman from Dublin, who also had
been prosecuting inquiries. He asked me bluntly what
I thought — that is, what the Church thought about
miracles. 1 explained the doctrine as simply as I could.
When I had finished, he said in a simple way : —
" ^ I am an unbeliever. I was brought up a Protestant,
but I have lost all faith. But I am of a rather curious
turn of mind ; and I have so much natural religion left
that I am interested in other people's beliefs. This
brought me here. I shall test every case, I said, and
ascertain where delusion ends and miracles begin. I
know the ^remendous power exercised by the mind over
the body and how nervous maladies can be cured by
mere mental concentration. But let me see one clear
case of consumption or hip disease or cancer healed, and
I shall think it necessary to retrace my steps and re-
consider my position. Now just watch this ! A few
evenings ago, just at the dusk, I went up to the church
accompanied by my mother and sister. We stood oppo-
site the gable where the figures were supposed to have
appeared. There was an immense crowd, staring with
dilated eyes to see what Avas about to come out from
the invisible silences. Probably I was the only cool and
exacting and incredulous spirit there. My mother and
sister were Protestants, but sympathetic. I stood be-
tween them, leaning one hand on the shoulder of each.
The Litanies — is that what you call them? — -com-
menced. I had no sympathy with all those metaphori-
cal expressions: "Ark of the Covenant," " Morning Star,"
" Tower of David "; but I admitted they were beautiful.
The innumerable candles were lighting ; and I was
looking around, coolly scrutinizing the faces of the be-
lievers, when to my utter amazement I saw the statue
of the Virgin slowly expand to life-size ; I saw the flesh-
colour come into the cheeks and neck ; I saw the eyes
CIRCE 135
open widely and look down with infinite pity at me. I
was entranced, fascinated, mesmerized. I pressed my
hands heavily on the shoulders of my mother and sister,
and cried in a passionate whisper : Look ! look ! It
was not a momentary phasis ; it lasted all through to
the end of the Litany ; and there I stared and stared
at the phenomenon ; and all the time the eyes of the
Virgin were fixed on me with that peculiar expression
of sadness. "Don't you see it?" I cried passionately to
my friends. " See what ? " they exclaimed. " Why, the
apparition! Look! look! before it disappears ! " "You
are bewitched ! " my sister cried ; "there is absolutely
nothing but the statue and the lights! " I said no more,
but continued to gaze. Once and again I shut my eyes
and then rubbed them vigorously. But there was the
apparition unchanged, until at the last strophe of the
Litanies a mist seemed to swim before it, and then
slowly the figure dwindled down to the size of the
statue, the flesh-tints disappeared, and in a few mo-
ments I saw nothing but the clay image and the lifeless
eyes. But were I put on oath then, I should have said
that there was an apparition. The hallucination lasted
only a little while. When I had got back to my hotel
I was convinced it was an optical delusion. And so it
is with all your miracles — the action of a disordered
stomach upon the optic nerve.'
" ' And your mother and sister ? ' I said.
" ' They were more impressionable,' he replied. ' But
it is all evaporated in the swing and swirl of life.'
" I had quite forgotten the incident," continued
Father Elton, "and even the name, until it all came
back as you were speaking, Mrs. Wenhani. 1 think, —
but I am not quite positive, — that the gentleman's
name was Menteith."
All throuQ-h the little narrative iNIrs. Wenham's larcre
eyes were fixed on the speaker, wondering, speculating,
angry, fi-ightened. When Father Elton had finishctl,
she looked down modestly at her folded hands, and said
meekly : —
136 LUKE DELMEGE
" That is also my name. And your acquaintance was
my brother. I remember the circumstance well."
" Oh ! indeed," said f'ather Elton, " how curiously I
have stumbled on such an interesting circumstance.
And now, Mrs. Wenham, did the experience of your
excellent brother really impress you ? "
Mrs. Wenham looked as innocent as a Child of Mary
on the day of her profession.
" I have never failed to say the Rosary of the Virgin
every day since then," she said.
Father Elton looked long and steadily at her. She
calmly returned the gaze. Then Father Elton turned
aside to the nearest Monsignor ; and he must have heard
some excellent stories during the next twenty minutes,
for he laughed and laughed until the tears ran from his
eyes.
There was a silence of embarrassment for the next
few minutes, broken onl}^ by a gallant attempt on the
part of the Canon to collect the scattered forces.
" Might I ask — ha — " he said, addressing the
preacher, '■'• do you — ha — use the same heraldic crest
and motto as the Duke of ? "
" No ! " came uncompromisingly from the great
preacher.
" How very interesting ! " said the Canon.
" We have no time to think of such things in Eng-
land," said the preacher.
" Dear me ! " said the Canon. " I thought you had
no responsibilities — ha — except an occasional sermon."
" The sermon is only a recreation, particularly wlien
I have had to preach to such an intelligent audience
and to meet such interesting company as I have been
favoured with this evening," said the preacher.
" Then we — ha — hope to have the honour of a repe-
tition of your visit ? " said the Canon.
The preacher shrugged his shoulders.
As the ladies filed out, Father Elton held the door
open. Circe was last.
" It was not a matter to be spoken of at a public dinner
CIRCE 137
table," she whispered ; " but you must really take me
up, and bring a poor lost sheep into the true fold."
" With great pleasure," he replied.
Ah, Cii'ce ! Circe ! A great enchantress you may be
with budding ApoUos and young Adonises, who have
not yet put on the calm of the eternal gods ; but " your
sweet eyes, your low replies " will never turn these
steeled and passionless priests into porkers, Circe !
She tried her wiles on more yielding material, and as-
certained in twenty minutes from Barbara, (1) that her
father was really anxious for a title ; (2) that her
brother had left Dublin rather unexpectedly, why and
wherefore Barbara did not know ; (3) that Barbara was
thoroughly ashamed of this evening dress she was wear-
ing, and had striven successfully to cover it with all
kinds of webs and woofs of lace ; (4) that she had a
great dread of Father Elton, who was so clever, and a
great reverence for the purple, and a great love for cer-
tain uncouth, barefooted meditcvalists down there in a
street that was generally festooned with all manner of
human integuments, and that was onl}- held together by
the Caryatides, who, with arms akimbo, sustained from
morning to night its creaking and rotten postels and
architraves ; (5) that Barbara's little soul had no other
ambition or craving for pleasure except a quiet hour
after a hard day's work, down there in the dimly lighted
church, where the great lamp swung to and fro, and
there was silence, but for the rattle of old Norry's
beads.
And the Avoman of the world, calling up her own
history, and the many secret histories that were locked
up and sealed in the cabinets of memory, looked this
young girl all over, and looked through her eyes and
the lines of her mouth, and satisfied herself that there
were no secret corridors and avenues there. Then the
woman of the world, wondering at this curiosity, put a
few other leading questions, which glanced harmlessly
off the armour of a pure ingenuous soul. Then the
woman of the world fell into a deep reverie, and woke
138 LUKE DELMEGE
up to hear herself whispering : " The days of miracles
are not passed. It is a child, and a miracle."
Later on, when the gentlemen had entered the draw-
ing-room, it was noticed that Mrs. Wenham was rather
silent and thoughtful.
" A clever woman, playing a clever part ! " thought
Father Elton.
" A little bored by the Scythians," thought the
preacher, " as, indeed, I confess myself to be."
" Jezebel is repenting," said Dr. Wilson. " Has she
a foreshadowing of the dogs ? "
Not at all, for the prophets were all dead in Israel.
She took an early leave. Barbara would accompany
her to her carriage. Dr. Wilson said a frigid good-
night. Barbara whispered : —
" You may be able to do something for papa, Mrs.
Wenham."
" You may be assured I will, for your sweet sake,"
said Mrs. Wenham.
" And — and — if ever — that is, you may meet Louis
in London, will you — won't you — oh ! dear Mrs.
Wenham!—"
" There, go in from the night-air, you little saint,
decolletee," said the woman of the world, as she said
" good-bye ! "
" There are a few innocents still left in the world,"
she said to the mute who accompanied her. " 'Tis a
pity ; for Rachel will yet have to shed tears. And
there should be no tears ! none ! " she cried almost
viciously. " But steeled nerves and stony hearts and
minds that won't turn back on the inevitable. What
dreadful fate is before that child ? For she cannot be
spared. The soldiers of Herod are abroad, and the air
is full of the sound of weeping. I should like to see
her God, though. Let me see — ten — 'tis early, is it
not ? "
She pulled the cord and gave a direction to her
coachman. He said nothing, but turned the horses'
heads, though he went near falling off his perch.
CIRCE 139
Then the woman of the world found herself in the
dark porch of a church, whither she had picked her
way, but with dreadful misgivings as to the condition
of iier silks and shoes. Dark figures flitted by her in
the dim light, dipped their hands somewhere, muttered
their charms, and disappeared. She entered, but saw
nothing but a few yellow jets that darkened the gloom.
She moved up the centre aisle, and saw the red lamp
swinging. She watched it eagerly. It had some curi-
ous fascination al)oat it. She had seen similar lamps
burning before eikons in Russia once, when her husband
was military attache to the Court ; and she had often
seen the same lamps at the corners of the Italian streets
before images of the JNIadonna. But they weren't like
this altogether. What was it ? Then she discerned
slowly that she was not alone, but that the church was
crowded. For faces paled from out the darkness, and
whispers and a cough broke on her startled senses.
She saw long rows of men and women, mute as statues
in the halls of the dead. What were they doing ? And
that red lamp ? She was seized with a sudden panic
and fled.
"• May the sweet Mother of God protect you, and may
God give you a happy death and a favourable judgment,"
said a voice from the darkness of the porch.
*' It was a plunge in the Inferno,'" slie said. " What
madness came over me ? "
Death — Judgment! Death — Judgment! Death —
Judgment I Death Judgment! So sang the merry
wheels, as 'Mow on the sands, loud on the stones " her
carriage whirled away.
CHAPTER XII
CRITICAL AND EXPOSITORY
"YoD" really surprise me, Father Elton," said Dr.
Calthrop, when the gentlemen had sat down with an
air of unspeakable freedom and lighted their cigars,
" and you interest me, because I really must admit that
we are disposed sometimes to suffer from swelled heads
in our generation. But now," he said coaxingly, "• do
you not really dread us ? We have pushed you back
behind the ramparts, and are just forming en echelon
for the last attack."
" To vary the simile," said Father Elton, smiling,
" tell me, did you, a city man, ever chance to see the
rooks following the sower in a ploughed field ? "
" Yes, yes, to be sure," said the Doctor.
" Well, you know, we are the rooks. Every French
gamin is taught to say : Quoi ! quoi ! after us in the
streets. But, as you are well aware, the careful and
thrifty rooks follow the track of the sower to pick up
the seeds he has dropped, and assimilate them. They
are not afraid of the sower. And they laugh, actually
laugh, at the hat on the pole and the streaming rags,
which are supposed to frighten them."
"■ I cannot well follow you," said the slow Doctor.
" Well, my dear sir," said Father Elton, " we are the
rooks. You are the sowers. Every fact you drop
from the bag of science, we assimilate it for our own
use. You may label it ' Poison ' if you like. We
laugh and pick it up. Your scarecrow — the end and
final judgment on all religion and revelation, — we look
at it boldly, cackle at it contemptuously, and fly away."
" I see," said the Doctor, laughing. " But some
140
I
CRITICAL AND EXPOSITORY 141
day the sower will get mad and string up one or two
of you."
'' That would be unscientific," said the priest. " And,
above all other things, the rooks have faith in the
philosophy and imperturbability of the seed-sower. To
string up one or two of us would be a retrograde pro-
ceeding ; and science is essentially progressive."
" But the whole tone of you gentlemen in matters
of controversy appears to me to be distinctly apologetic.
There is a rubbing of the hands and an action of dep-
recation observable in all your literature that seems
to say : ' For God's sake, don't anniliilate us alto-
gether ! '"
" I cannot speak of Irish controversies," said the
preacher, breaking in suddenly, " but for us in England
let me say tliat we hold our heads as high as any phi-
losophers or unbelievers. Perhaps, Doctor, you mis-
take courtesy for want of courage."
" Well, no," said the Doctor, in his slow, heavy way ;
" but I confess you solicit aggressiveness on our part
by your delightful humility, and yonr rather pronounced
and deferential obsequiousness to men of science. Things
weren't so, you know ; and your new attitude makes us
suspicious."
" We are 'umble, very 'umble. Doctor," said Father
Elton, who now put on his war-paint over his drawing-
room manner. "■ You are quite right. We are most
literal in our Christianity. We turn the one cheek
when the other is smitten ; and when 3'ou take our
coats, we flincr our cloaks after vou. We are dreadfuHv
deferential and apologetic. In fact, the science ot
apologetics is our only science at present. Amongst
our learned brethren, a new discovery in science, or a
pretended one, is hailed as if a new star had swum into
our luu'izon ; and when you discover a new germ, or
find out somethinc: new about cells, thev take off their
hats and genuflect, and say : Venite, adoremus ! "
" Now, now. Father Elton, really now, this is an
exaggeration," said the })reacher.
142 LUKE DELMEGE
"If I — ha — understand the reverend gentleman
aright," said the Canon, grandly, " he — ha — means an
act of worship to the Creator, for the — ha — unex-
pected development in the — ha — what-you-call-'ems."
" Canon," said Father Elton, bitterly, " I mean noth-
ing of tlie kind. I mean that a certain class of our
co-religionists are so infatuated by their enthusiasm,
or paralyzed by their fear, that they worship every new
development of physical science ; and that, in the wor-
ship of the animalcula, they forget what is due to the
Creator and His authority on earth, instead of saying:
' Go on, go on, ye delvers in darkness. Every jet of
flame you cast on the secrets of Nature lights a lamp
for us before the shrine of the Eternal.' And the whole
thing is ludicrous. As that excellent lady said, a few
minutes ago, it is but the systole and diastole in all
human inquiry. The ghost of Democritus has appeared
in the nineteenth century ; and he rattles his chains,
like every decent ghost — 'atoms,' 'germs,' 'cells,' we
hear it all da capo, only Weismann differs from Eimer,
and Siciliani differs from Binet. And now, at last,
whilst they have been delving away in the subterranean
vaults of Nature, the very soul of Nature has flown up-
wards, and escaped the vision of the dwellers in dark-
ness. But at the mouth of the pit, lo, the watchers
behold it, and shout down to the blackened pitmen,
with their tallow candles and smoking lamps : ' Come
up ! come up ! there are colossal potentialities in the
psychic capacities of matter. It is easier to explain
the soul than the phenomena of inheritance, and the
psychic capacities are developing themselves. Come
up, come up quickly, or you may stumble upon God ! ' "
" I admit there's a defect somewhere," said Dr.
Calthrop.
" There is," said Father Elton, who intended to
silence the enemy's guns forever, " there is. And that
is, you men of science have been a little premature in
discounting the science of metaphysics. We Catholics
pursue the two together. You have abandoned the
CRITICAL AND EXPOSITORY 143
mind-science forever. Hence, you see Nature through
a telescope ; we through a binocular. And we get the
better view. And we are satisfied not to see too far
or too much. ' I am all that has been, that shall be ;
and none, amongst mortals, has hitherto lifted my veil.'
Or, as one of your few thoughtful poets has put it : —
" ' Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes?
Or any searcher know by mortal mind?
Veil after veil must lift — but there must be
Veil after veil behind.'
The star — the cell — the soul — these be impenetrable
enigmas."
" Well, of course, we make all allowance for you
Irishmen," said the preacher ; " but you are not placed
in our difficult position, and, therefore, you cannot un-
derstand our mode of action. We are dealing with a
powerful and prejudiced antagonism, which, with sin-
gular disingenuousness and want of candour, is forever
repeating the cat-calls of past prejudices against us.
You know, of course, that tliere is a congenital belief
in the Protestant mind that we are opposed to the
natural sciences, and that we dread them."
" Yes, and you encourage that belief by your artificial
enthusiasm. 'You do protest too much, gentlemen.'
What you want is a Christian Pascal, just as we want
another Swift, to heap scorn upon all anti-Christian
philosophy in every shape and form."
" But we sliall be called ' aggressive.' "
"And why not? After nineteen centuries of a
career, marked in every cycle and century b}' miracle,
surely our time has come to hold up to the eyes of the
thous^htful the raufijed vesture and the pasteboard idols
of the world. •• Tiiese be thy gods, (.) Israel ! ' IJelieve
me, my dear Father, that our want of aggression and
determination is the main cause of our want of larger
success. Give back blow for blow, and scorn for scorn.
Vinegar cut through the Alps for Hannibal ; milk and
honey would not have done it."
144 LUKE DELMEGE
" Tertiillian was not canonized," said the preacher,
" No ; and he was jnstly refused canonization. But
will any man contend that Tertullian did not do more,
by his fierce invective, to undermine the strength of
Pagan and Imperial Rome, than any of his meeker
brother-apologists ? "
'' Well, but you must admit. Father Elton, that our
Church enjoys far larger liberties under the English
flag than under any foreign power, even though nomi-
nally Catholic."
"Certainly. But what then?"
" Well, then, it behoves us to be patient and circum-
spect."
" Yes. Obey the higher powers. That is our teach-
ing. But I am not speaking of the higher powers. I
am speaking of the lower, infernal powers, who, through
science, literature, and a vulgar and venal press, use
every oj^portunity to defame us, and hold us and our
teachings up to ridicule, and who are the secret con-
spirators that hold the strings of governments, and
move their puppets at their will. Look at your litera-
ture, how defiled it is with anti-Catholic scurrility !
Did you ever hear of a Catholic writer who held up an
Anglican parson or Nonconformist minister to scorn ?
Never. But your whole literature reeks with infamous
calumnies on dur priesthood. Why, half your novels
deal with Jesuits and the Inquisition. And your ' seer
and prophet,' when he is not shrieking ' Oh ! heavens,'
or '■All de mi,'' is ridiculing the ' simulacrum ' of a Pope,
or screaming about an imaginary ' dirty, muddy-minded,
semi-felonious, proselytizing Irish priest,' who is sup-
posed to have disturbed the by no means normal equa-
nimity of 'his goody.' What is the result? Voters
become smitten with the virus and madness of bigotry;
then statesmen are influenced, and Acts of Parliament
passed, and the whole thing is liberty and progress.
Why, witness all Catholic France to-day, passing meekly
under the yoke, at the dictation of a few dirty Jewish
rags ! But the pitiful thing is that we sit down and
CRITICAL AND EXPOSITORY 145
tamely submit to all this. If we want a clear proof of
the continuity of our Church with that of the Catacombs,
it is found in our serfdom. The Angel of the Apoca-
lypse may mark our foreheads with the mystical sign
of Tau; but, by Jove, the Angel of Destiny has branded
the Sigma of slavery on our backs."
''I am afraid, Father Elton," said the preacher, "your
desire to emphasize your contentions has led into the
national tendency towards exaggeration. I assure you
we get on very well over there in ' darkest England,'
and that we are not so sensible of persecution, perhaps
because not so sensitive about trifles, as you imagine.
Besides, our people are really not so much influenced
by literature as you seem to imagine. It would sur-
prise you to find how little my countrymen care about
their prophets. They think more of their purveyors
and their bread and ale."
" We had but one '• man ' in our century," said Father
Elton, pui\suing his own train of thought, " and that
was lie who armed his Irish subjects iu New York, and
then told its mayor that the first contingent of savage
bigots that made its appearance in the city would find
that city in flames ! "
"•I am — ha — afraid, gentlemen," said the Canon,
who was very much disturbed, " that we are approaching
— ha — rather questionable and — ha — dangerous sub-
jects, that may — ha — introduce in their train some —
ha — slight acerljity that would mar tlie harmony of this
pleasant meeting. Suppose we adjourn to the — ha —
more equable and — ha — temperate atmosphere of the
drawinof-room."
Father Elton and the preaclier walked out together.
" The good Canon," said tJie latter, " did not quite
seem to understand his uneomi)limentary allusion. He
implies that we have been indulging a little freely."
Father Elton laughed, but looked anno3'ed.
There was a family conclave late that evening.
"Why don't they do something for that Father
146 LUKE DELMEGE
Elton?" said Mrs. Wilson. "Why don't they make
him a Monsignor or something ? Why, he's not even
a Doctor of Laws ! "
" Why do they make boobies of baronets, and judges
of jugglers ? Why are they always putting round men
into square holes, and vice versa? ^' said her husband.
" I am — ha — more convinced than ever of the — ha
— wisdom of the Church," said the Canon, " in not
having advanced to — a — ha — position of respecta-
bility and honour one who holds such extreme views.
That clergyman is — ha — positively revolutionary, and
— even — ha — anarchical in his ideas."
" Are there many like him in Ireland ? " asked Dr.
Calthrop.
" Most happily, no ! " said the Canon. " The vast
number of our clergy are amiable, industrious, respect-
able members of society ; strictly observant of the laws
of their — ha — Church; and obedient and — ha — re-
spectful to constituted forms of government."
" Because if you had a few thousand, or even hun-
dred, of that species with his intelligence and vivacity,
you need not have been whining for your Catholic Uni-
versity so long," said the Doctor.
" I can't see for the life of me what these clergymen
dabble in science for ? It is bad enough to have ' priests
in politics,' but 'priests in science,' monopolizing our
every department, and possibly anticipating our discov-
eries, would be intolerable," said Dr. Wilson. " That
man, now, seems to have been reading up all our sci-
entific authorities. Did he quote Shaler and Eimer,
Calthrop ? "
" Ay, and seemed to know them well. After all, it
touches their own department ; and I must say that I
brought that unpleasant discussion on myself. But I
confess your good clergyman is to me a greater surprise
than anj^thing I have seen on this memorable visit.
How little we know of each other ! "
" Mrs. Wenham thinks very highly of him," put in
Mrs. Wilson, diffidently. " I lieard her say to Bar-
bara : ' That is a man to hold souls in leash.' "
CRITICAL AND EXPOSITORY 147
" That's women's ways," said her husband. " They
like a master. They are ambitious to rule ; but they
love being ruled. No woman can be an autocrat. She
must have a higher power to worship."
" Did you say, Bessie," asked the Canon, " that that
— ha — excellent clergyman visits at the — ha — Vice-
regal Lodge and lunches at the Castle ? "
" There is no doubt about it, Canon," she replied.
" He is even a favourite with Lady C , who consults
him on many points."
"Then I presume he suppresses — ha — his rather ad-
vanced and — hii — subversive principles ; and probably
presents the teachings of the Church in an — ha — at-
tractive guise."
" Depend upon it, he does nothing of the kind," said
Dr. Calthrop ; " he is not a man to water down his
principles, and if he did, he would lose all his piquancy."
" But the recognized authorities, sir, the — ha — rep-
resentatives of the Queen, hqw can they listen without
— ha — emphatic protest to such disloyal principles?"
asked the ('anon.
" Oh, these eccentricities are quite tolerable, and even
amusing," said the Doctor, " to Englishmen. It is only
when we see such principles reduced to practice by
silent and steady organization that we bring down the
whip.
" Ijut the language, sir ! — " said the Canon.
"We never mind talk,'" said the Doctor; "it is the
silence we dread." And the Canon thenceforward was
dumb.
" There's a letter from Louis by the evening mail,"
said Mrs. Wilson, addressing her husband.
"A mod(\st request for twenty pounds ? " asked the
Doctor, lifting his black eyebrows.
" No, indeed. You can read it. There's nothing of
that kind in it." And the tilial letter ran thus : —
"Dearest Mother: — Arrived here quite safely on the 11th
and looked np my old di,2[,Q,ings. Things were pretty rough and
disorganized, as 1 was not expected so soon by the housekeeper.
148 LUKE DELMEGE
None of my chums has returned, and London is yet a desert. The
natives are just now swarming on the cool hillsides or in the deep
valleys of the Alps, or leaning over the gunwales of their yachts
in the Mediterranean, or fishing in the Xorway rivers. But there
is a pretty large crowd of country cousins in the streets, very open
as to their mouths, but very close as to their pockets. They move
in squads, and seem to be in a condition of chronic i^anic. You
can imagine how dull all this is ! Nothing to do. Hot streets, blaz-
ing skies, no society. Well, a little. We had a meeting of the
pre-Raphaelites on Monday evening, in which, before parting for
the long holidays, several arrangements were made. I am booked
for a lecture on ' Turner ' some time in January. We had also a
garden party up the river at Uskholme. A select few of the rab-
ble of artists, poets, musicians, etc., met at the house of Lady
L , whom you already know as a patroness of the arts. She
asked me to come. I pleaded headache, sunstroke, several engage-
ments. No use. I had to go. It was delightful. Slightly bar-
baric, but rather novel and quite fit for hlase people. But these
things don't suit me. I am working hard. I have got permission
from the Resident Surgeon to attend St. Thomas's every day. I
go through every ward and every case in succession. It is weary
work. But I have an axe to grind. By the way, tell Barby I am
not neglecting the ' one thing necessary.' I was at Vespers at the
Cathedral on Sunday evening. The music was gorgeous ; the cere-
monial superb. But the sermon ! I ! Alas ! who was the preacher,
think you? Our young peasant friend, who sang that rebel song
that so shocked uncle. It was awful. Just a potpourri of medi-
peval absurdities — free-will, grace, pre-determination, prescience.
And such an accent ! Great heavens ! You could cut it with a
knife and hang your hat on the splinters thereof. What are they
doing in those Irish colleges? I have heard an acquaintance say
that a young priest is the greatest greenhorn in existence. But
our Church is deeply concerned in these things. No Protestant
could take away with him anything but contempt after hearing
this scholastic rhodomontade. Far different was another experi-
ence of mine. I went over lately to hear Dr. Vaughan, Master of
the Temple, preach. Don't be alarmed, dear mother ! You know
Catholics can go where they like here, without prohibition. Such
calm, majestic, well-reasoned, well-delivered language I had never
heard before ; and such self-reliance without affectation, and self-
restraint without coldness.
" I wish I were a theological student, and could sit under his
chair."
" Ls that all ? " said Dr. Wilson.
" That's all," said the proud mother, " except a few
trifling personal remarks at the end."
CRITICAL AND EXPOSITORY 149
" The young cub ! " said the father.
"I think," said the Canon, "that that is — ha — an
admirable letter. It manifests distinctly four or five
— ha — features that are very consoling. It is clear
that our dear boy is moving in — ha — excellent soci-
ety. That distinguished lady who — ha — had the
goodness to invite him to her garden party must have
seen something more than usually attractive in Louis.
Then, his devotion to — ha — study — clinical, is it not,
Doctor ? What zeal and perseverance it needs to re-
main whole days in the — ha — dreadful wards, in mo-
mentary — ha — danger of contracting disease ! Then,
his attention to his — ha — religious duties. Vespers
are not — ha — obligatory in our Church, Dr. Calthrop ;
but you see how early — ha — impressions and careful
Christian training mould the — ha — entire future ca-
reer of our bovs. What is that, Bessie ? The music
was — ha — "
" Gorgeous ! " said Mrs. Wilson, consulting the letter.
"I am sure that is — ha — excellent criticism," con-
tinued the Canon. " And then his witty, indeed, rather
too free — ha — remarks on preaching! But, then,
young men, young men ! And his solicitude for the
Church — the appearance she — ha — makes before the
public ! How lamentable that they will not turn out
— ha — better types from our colleges ! Mark the — ha
— distinction between this — ha — rude young Celt and
that refined and polished clergynum — named, Bessie?"
" Dr. Yaughan, Master of the Temple ! " said INIrs.
Wilson, again consulting the letter.
" Dr. Vaughan, Master of the Temple," echoed the
Canon. "And how does Louis — ha — describe this
clergyman's eloquence ? "
" Calm, majestic, well-reasoned, well-delivered," said
Mrs. Wilson, reading.
'" Calm, majestic, well-reasoned, well-delivered," echoed
the Canon, leaning on each word with emphasis. " I
should say tliat such a — ha — discourse was most cred-
itable and — ha — respectable."
150 LUKE DELMEGE
" What would you think of Louis becoming a theo-
logical student ? " said Dr. Wilson.
The Canon saw the sarcasm, and winced.
" I should say, indeed," he replied, " that at this period
of his career it would be — ha — inadvisable to change.
But I am — ha — quite sure that whatever profession
Louis adopts, he will maintain the honour — ha — of
our family, sans tache.^''
" Come, Calthrop, and have a final cigar," said the
Doctor.
" I say, Wilson," said Dr. Calthrop, as he pinched off
the end of his cigar, " you'll forgive the comparison ;
but your good brother-in-law reminds me strongly of
the 'Father of the Marshalsea,' or Casby."
" He is neither," said Dr. Wilson, " but quite an in-
genuous, good man, who has put on a little mannerism
with age. Some think it the result of disease, for it is
certain he was a red-hot rebel in his youth. There is a
curious story told of him. When he took possession of
his first parish, he had scarcely arrived when he got a mes-
sage from the local magnate to have his church cleared
of pews, benches, and seats early on Monday morning,
for that the landlord's corn should be threshed there."
" What ? " cried Dr. Calthrop, removing his cigar.
" I am speaking of facts," said Dr. Wilson. " The
priest took no notice of the order, but summoned some
few sturdy parishioners ; and when the landlord's men
had arrived, they were confronted with quite a regi-
ment of rapparees. They were unprepared, for this had
never occurred before. They had always been allowed
to thresh their corn on the chapel floor. They had to
retreat, and inform at headquarters that there was an
insurrection ; and tlien — "
"And then?" said Dr. Calthrop, deeply interested.
" And then the landlord asked the priest to dine ; and
ever afterwards there was a cover laid for the priest in
the mansion ; and he actually got permission to hang up
a bell in an extemporized turret."
" It seems to me," said Dr. Calthrop, " that we Eng-
CRITICAL AND EXPOSITORY 151
lish will begin to understand you somewhere about the
day of general judgment."
" I'm afraid we'll hardly be disposed to continue the
acquaintance then," said Dr. Wilson. " We'll have to
part company that day, if not before." Dr. Calthrop
laughed.
" But the little affectations of the Canon date from
that event," said Dr. Wilson. "He became a man of
peace, and is one of five or six of his profession in Ire-
land who believe in landlords — and the Utopia, where
the lion lies down with the lamb. Hitherto he has been
justified. His parish is a paradise. He has a consid-
erable private income, and it all goes to improving the
condition of his people. The cabins have become cot-
tages. The old manure heaps are swept away. Flow-
ers, vegetables, new breeds of poultry — everything
novel and progressive he has introduced. No one dare
oppose him. He is an autocrat, or rather a patriarcli.
His very mannerism affects the people strangely. When
he stands at the altar on Sunday morning and sa3's ' Ha I '
you would think Moses had come dt)wn from the moun-
tain, so reverential and awed are the people. He doesn't
boast ; but what the Jesuits did in Paraguay, he is doing
in his own parish."
" I'm so glad you told me. I'm really proud to meet
such a man," said the guest. " O si sic omnes ! "
" But like all his class, who are not entirely absorbed
in their sacred duties, he must twine his tendrils around
something. And lu; has chosen Louis and Barbara
instead of a dog or a liurse."
" I am not surprised at his affection for his niece,"
said Dr. Calthrop: "she is the gentlest and sweetest
girl I have ever seen. I have never seen a hawk and a
dove in close company till to-night, when I saw that
woman sitting near her at the dinner table."
"Ay!" said Dr. Wilson, and liis voice would have
broken sadly but for that blessed cigar ; " but like all
things else, she Avill leave me. Now, I could si)are
Louis easily, but I can't spare her. She'll go and he'll
152 LUKE DELMEGL
stay ; and I am not certain which will be the more bitter
trial."
" Go where ? Where will she go ? " said Dr. Calthrop.
" Look here, Calthrop ! You cannot understand. It
is all the d — d literalness of this religion of ours. ' Go
sell all thou hast and give to the poor ; ' — ' Consider
the lilies of the field ; ' — ' What doth it profit a man ? '
— 'Deny thyself, take up thy cross, and follow me.'
This is what we are ever hearing ; and these young
featherheads believe it all and take it letter by letter."
•' It sounds very like the Gospel, though," said Dr.
Calthrop.
" Of course. But this is the nineteenth century.
' Consider the lilies of the field ! ' What chance would
any unfortunate man have, with such a belief as that,
amongst the army of rabid and unscrupulous Orange-
men here in Dublin ? He would be in the workhouse
in a month."
" I suppose so," said Dr. Calthrop, smoking leisurely.
"■ Now, there's the beauty of your religion," said Dr.
Wilson. '' It fits you like a dressing-gown — ease, beauty,
elasticity. You can sit, stand, or lie. You can be any-
thing you like — Turk, Jew, or atheist, Freemason,
agnostic, Socinian, — but no one minds. You can rob,
steal, swindle, and sit down calmly the following Sun-
day and hear that such have no place in the Kingdom
of Heaven. I call that delightful. But let one of our
musty, barefooted friars say, with certain emphasis next
Sunday : ' Come, rise up, and follow the footsteps of
blood,' why, every little girl is dying to start at once
for China or Japan, and get her little neck chopped off
by some pig-tailed savage. And this will be the way
witli Barbara. Instead of a few balls and parties, and
then a decent marriage, she will become a ' servant of
the poor,' or kitchen-maid to a parcel of lunatics."
"• And your son — has he similar notions ? "
" Will sow his wild oats, I suppose."
" And then ? "
"And then depend on his uncle for a dispensary."
CHAPTER XIII
RACIAL CHARACTERISTICS
Luke Delmege had passed through the stages of pri-
mary education at a national school, of secondary edu-
cation at college ; he was now enrolled as graduate in
the great University of the World. Books were his
professors, and men were his books. The former were
fairly consistent in their teaching ; the latter were for-
ever puzzling and troubling him with their strange
inconsistencies. The fragments of the best of human
literature that have escaped the corrosion of centuries
could be pieced together and made a harmonious whole ;
but not even charity itself, the best and most cunning
of artists, was able to reconcile with themselves, or with
any standard of truth or principle, the ever-varying ec-
centricities of men. Hence came Luke's final tempta-
tion, to whicli he succumbed, as we shall see — namely,
to live in ideas, not in action ; and hence, here in the
Babylon of the world, he yearned from time to time for
more liberty of thought, free from action ; for a little
solitude to soothe weary nerves and a perplexed mind.
One of the many weary tilings that puzzled Luke in
these, his novitiate days, was the tremendous waste of
power, moral and intellectual — the output of energy
and zeal in every parish in England, and the infinitesi-
mal results. He could not understand why all England
should not be gathered into the fold, as sheep would
flock to a mountain refuge at the approach of a storm.
Here was Truth ; here was Peace ; here was Grace !
Why dwell ve in the valleys of darkness when tlie
mountain of light is so near ? \V hy perisli m the storm
163
154 LUKE DELMEGE
when the shepherd beckons to the safety of His fold ?
He took up the weekly papers. Yes ! Life, vitality,
energy everywhere. Sermons, exhortations, organiza-
tions — sermons, convincing and appealing ; exhorta-
tions, pathetic and luminous ; organizations, perfect and
vital ; but it was ploughing the sea and casting seed on
the desert. The claims of the Church were irrefragable
and invincible. So Luke thought and felt. He took
up an Anglican paper. His eye caught the lines : —
" And wliilst thus we can contemplate with pride and satisfac-
tion the history of our Church from the days of Augustine until
now ; its purity of doctrine, untouched by superstition ; its consist-
ency and comprehensiveness ; its beautiful ritual, that never de-
generates into mummery ; and the vast number of heroic souls it
has given to the world and the world's most sacred causes, we are
speechless with astonishment at the insolence of this Italian mis-
sion, that has unhappily got a foothold in our midst. It is as if a
colony of hinds was sent to colonize and civilize a university."
Luke read it over twice with blazing eyes. Then he
rolled the paper into a knot ; and played Rugby football
around his room for the next half an hour, accompany-
ing the amusement with the following soliloquy : " The
English truthful ? They are the greatest liars and
hypocrites on the face of the earth. They are too con-
temptuous to stoop to lying in private life. They care
too little about you to condescend to lie. But in poli-
tics, commerce, religion — whenever a point has to be
gained, they will lie like Satan." He raised the subject
at dinner that day. His confreres laughed. It was
only Celtic effervescence.
" But you know, Delmege," said Arthur, a bright
young priest, " if you want to practise a |>as seul or an
Irish jig in future, please try the Chapter-room, and
don't throw down my ceiling."
A few days later he crossed Westminster Bridge, and
doubling hither and thither through narrow streets, he
stood before a medireval church. It looked like a piece
of Pompeii, dug from the dust of centuries. He en-
tered. The beautiful stained glass almost blinded him
RACIAL CHARACTERISTICS 155
with its colours ; but lie only cast one curious look
around, said a short prayer, and went out. It was not
art, but a man he was in quest of. He knocked at the
presbytery door and was ushered into a small, gloomy
parlour. Its furniture consisted of a round mahogany
table, two chairs, and a dilapidated sofa. The day was
dark, and the gloom so great that Luke coukl not read
Compline. In a few minutes the door opened and
a priest entered. He was a tall, handsome man, very
dark, with thick black hair, just turning to gray, and
great glowing eyes, that gave one at once the idea of
great penetration and strength. The first quick view
said unreservedly : " This is a giant amongst men —
one who will leave his mark on the age." But alas I it
was as if a lay figure had its props suddenly loosed ; for
after the first brief salutation, the world-weary priest
flung himself on the sofa with a gesture and an aspect
of infinite weakness or pain.
Luke timidly put a few questions on some theological
subject, which were courteously answered ; and then,
passing his hand across his foreliead, this great convert
said : —
" I know you will excuse me. Father, when I tell you
that I am not at all well, and even conversation is pain-
ful and wearying. I am threatened with neurastlienia
from overwork, and 1 must go abroad Allow me to
say good-evening."
Luke stammered an apology as he took the proffered
hand. He looked up onto the finely cut, worn face ;
and as he thought "this man sacriticed a. thousand a year,
and broke every family tie for the sake of truth, and is
now a martyr to work for Christ," his heart repented
of his rash judgments on the race ; and with Celtic im-
])ulsiveness, he stooped and kissed the white hand that
lay in his own, and de[)arted with strange sensations.
" Neurasthenia ! Thaiik God, -we never heard of that
in Ireland. But is it a subject to thank God for? Is
it not better to wear out than rust out? And is tliere
not something in that singular philosophy of St. Paul
156 LUKE DELMEGE
about ' spending and being spent for Christ ? ' And
omnia detrimentum feci, et arbitror, ut stercora?'
Which of the two would you choose, Luke ? To pass
on, in smooth and placid respectability to the canon's
stall foreshadowed for you by the Canon, or to be
utterly wrecked in middle age like this martyr-priest,
who has now to go abr(Xid and be supported by charity
for the remainder of his life ? "
There is no doubt whatever that this latter is the more
heroic. But is it prudent? Is it consistent with com-
mon sense ?
And Luke was confronted with another puzzle. And
if he felt that the sublime philosophy of Christianity
was altogether in favour of self-sacrifice and suffering,
on the other hand the '■" common sense of all mankind "
was just as emphatically against it. And which is
right ? Dear me I dear me ! what an enigma is life I
But that weary figure and furrowed face haunted Luke
for many a long day.
It was evening now. The lamps were lighted, and
he turned back into the church. The seats were being
gradually filled, and Luke determined to wait for Bene-
diction. He sat under one of the gas jets and took out
his diurnal to finish Compline. Then, just as the sac-
risty clock tolled seven, the same wearied, broken priest,
preceded by a few acolytes, emerged from the sacristy
and knelt before the high altar. He looked stooped
and shaken, and his voice was almost inaudible as he
recited the Rosary. There was a short, sweet hymn to
our Blessed Lady ; and then the tired priest ascended
with difficulty the steps of the pulpit.
" Surely he's not going to preach ? " said Luke.
Ah ! yes, he was. No relaxation or intermission
here, until the poor frame sinks to rise no more. It
was a voice from the grave. It sounded so gentle, so
mournful ; and the preacher seemed to experience such
tremendous difficulty in seizing and arranging his fugi-
tive thoughts, that Luke every moment expected a bad
break-down. It was quite clear that the faculties of
EACIAL CHARACTERISTICS 157
the mind were refusing to work. They had been driven
too hard, and were in revolt. And so there were repe-
titions and very inconsequential arguments, and a very
few words were mumbled and mouthed as if from a semi-
paralyzed tongue ; and a few verbs were misplaced and
mispronounced, and there was an agonized look on the
preacher's face, as if he were face to face with a trial
whose issue might Ije fearful and sudden. Luke couldn't
bear it. He looked away and thought : Only a few
years ago this man had won the Ireland Scholarship
and the Newdigate Prize at Oxford, and was in a fair
way towards a Fellowship and a Mitre. What a sacri-
fice ! What a chano-e ! Then the concluding- words
came clear and solemn : " You shall know the truth,
and the truth shall make you free." These were the
last public words of the speaker, and Luke was per-
plexed to liear them. During the solemn rite of Bene-
diction that succeeded, Luke saAv only bowed lieads, nor
was there even a whispered prayer ; but at that most
toucliing prayer which is said just as the monstrance is
replaced u])on tlie throne, that prayer for the convcn--
sion of England that takes one back insensibly to luiuiau
catacombs and pagan imperialism, Luke thought he
heard the sound of sobbing.
" It cannot be," he said ; " these English are too
stolid."
But a few moments later he saw faces of well-dressed
ladies wet and glistening with tears, \\lii(li immediately
wer(^ wiped away; for, you know, we are Englisli, and,
above all things else, we must not vicld to sentiment or
demonstrative piety, and I>uke thought — I'acial char-
acteristics are humbug. Tlie human lieart is the same
everywhere.
Me passed rapidly along the streets on his way
homewards. He was brt)ught to a sudden standstill on
the side way of the Strand b}^ a long queue of men, two
and two, who, ranged on tlie outer edge of the pavement,
waited in calm, stolid silence for sometliing tliat was
slow in coming. There was quite room enough on the
158 LUKE DELMEGE
inside path for pedestrians. What is it ? A funeral?
No, not at such an hour. It was only fifty or sixty
men, waiting for a place in the theatre close by. They
were as silent as mutes. " What a laughing, rollicking,
joking crowd that would have been in Ireland ! " thought
Luke. " Verily, they take their pleasures sadly ! After
all, they are a stolid, unfeeling race ! And what mer-
curial beings are we ! "
Just then, an arm was locked in his, and a very marked
Hibernian voice exclaimed : —
" Well, Luke Delmege, who'd ever think of seeing
you here, waiting to get into the Gaiety ? The world
is topsy-turvy enough ; but I never thought you could
turn such a somersault."
Luke laughed at the absurdity, as he recognized an
old college acquaintance, who had " cut " in his physic
year, had then become a successful journalist, and was
now one of that famous band of matadores who were
fretting the flanks of John Bull.
" Come along," said the " Mimber," " we'll have a cup
of tea here at the ' Marguerite,' and then you must come
to see a field night at the House. No ! no ! no excuses !
there's electricity in the atmosphere, and sure to be a
thunderclap to-night."
" Then why are you not at your post ? " said Luke ;
"isn't the House open since four? "
" Quite so, old man, if you allow me to use such a
familiarity with an old chum, but we allow the animals
to feed from seven to half-past eight. Then, when well
gorged with meat and wine, they're an easy prey."
" And do you keep your heads cool ? " said Luke. His
friend lifted up a cup of tea, and nodded significantly.
" Tell me," said Luke, " and you can tell me, for
you have experience, do you believe in 'racial char-
acteristics'? The problem is puzzling me dreadfully."
The Member laid down his cup, took out a cigarette,
lighted it, looked long at Luke, and spoke : —
" Racial characteristics ? I do, firmly. I believe, for
example, that we, Irish, are the coolest, most judicious,
RACIAL CHARACTERISTICS 159
most calculating, far-seeing race on the face of the earth.
Our cunning is Ulyssean ; our wisdom is Promethean,
and, as for tenacity, nothing in all creation can beat us
— but an oyster ! Come ! "
They walked rapidly down by Trafalgar Square, past
the great Whitehall buildings, and, just as they ap-
proached the Westminster Palace Yard, on a sudden the
vast rush through the crowded thoroughfare stopped as
if by magic. Stately carriages, gaily dressed pedes-
trians, cabs, horses — all stood still, as if petrified. The
Member looked calmly at the imperial demonstration in
his honour for a moment, then moved across swiftly, and,
unlocking his arm from that of the astonished Luke, he
said : —
" You go around by the public entrance. I shall
meet you in the lobby in a moment."
Luke had not long to wait in the famous lobby, just
long enough to see that, if there be on the face of the
earth a levelling, democratic spot, where all distinctions
are fused down, and all human hopes concentred and
unified in one desire, it is here. That desire is to see
your own Member. Luke had not long to wait. Gaily
and happily at ease, dispensing smiles all round, yet
maintaining a certain unperturbed dignity, his friend ap-
peared. The i)oliceman saluted and shouted : ''The Rev-
erend Luke Midge." Luke admitted the impeachn:ent,
and was led into the inner sanctuary througli rows of
marble busts and stately pictures of long-buried states-
men, whilst the disappointed mob howled in their hearts
outside. Into the inner lob))v, sacred to statesmen, mix-
inof amontjst notabilities, rubbing his shouhler against
Cabinet ministers, the wondering Luke passed with Ids
guide, who accosted a gorgeous official and demanded a
ticket for his friend.
"• You can have a seat in the gallery, sir," said the
official with awful deference, " but I regret to say that
all the seats are taken under tlie gallery."
" I beg your pardon. There's one vacant," said the
Member. " 1 insist on having that seat."
160 LUKE DELMEGE
" That seat, sir, belongs to Lord Vavasour. He's
just dining witli the Secretary for Home Affairs, and
has kept it engaged till his return."
" You should know the rules of the House, sir," said
the Member. '•■ No stranger can retain a seat, except
he is in actual possession."
" Quite true, sir," said the official. " You must not
consider me discourteous ; I was trying to smooth
matters. Name, please ? "
" Delmege ! " said the Member, as the official handed
the ticket to Luke, who, half ashamed and almost terri-
fied, passed wondering up the narrow stairs, and in a
moment was in the " House." It was a wonder, a sur-
prise, a disappointment; but we needn't repeat the old
story here. Luke sat still on his narrow bench, rnd
gaped.
" Take off your hat, please ! "
Luke had forgotten his politeness and his loyalty.
The official said quietly and politely : " It's like a school,
sir ; and, by-and-bye, you'll see some rough horseplay."
" Does this — this — assembly control the destinies of
300,000,000 people ? " asked Luke.
" It thinks so ! " said the man.
Just then the suj)porters of the Government began to
drop in. Luke was on the Government side of the
House. There was but a low balustrade between him
and them. In they came, flushed as to face, and very
white as to capacious shirt front. They congregated
in groups of three or four, and began to exchange re-
marks. There was a pleasant odour of whiskey and
patchouli in the air. " I thought the English never
drank spirits," said Luke. "The racial characteristics
are a puzzle."
Yes, the air was electric. You couldn't tell why.
There were no indications. There was no great debate
on. Members lounged and chatted and laugfhed. There
was no drawing up and marshalling of forces, no organ-
izing of battalions, no arrangement of reserves. But
the air was electric. You felt it tingling in your fin-
b
RACIAL CHARACTERISTICS 161
gers, and running up along your spine. The servant
felt it.
" There's something on to-night, sir ! " he said.
Three feet away from where Luke sat, close to one
of the pillarets that sustained the gallery, a very little
man, with a very long coat, a bald head, and a heavy
mustache that curled up to his ears, was engaged in
earnest consultation with a colleague. "• Tlie leader of
the House, sir," whispered the servant.
At last, the hours stole on to eleven, and Luke began
to think it was time to go home. His friend, the Mem-
ber, came over, sat on the balustrade, and began to chat
gaily. Not a word between him and the full-dressed
mob around. They'd have torn him limb from limb if
they dared.
" Going home ? " he cried to Luke. " You'll do noth-
ing of the kind. The Lord has given you a chance that
will never occur again."
Just here, an old officer, gray -headed and gray-
bearded, spoke to the Member. He was a su])piiant —
a humble, abject, beseeching client. He begged and
entreated the Member to bring on some wretched thing
about pensions, or to promise to speak if the bill were
introduced.
" I shall do nothing of the kind," said the Member,
haughtily. '' We have other work before us to-night."'
The officer slunk away, cowed and discomfited. Luke's
opinion of his country was rising steadily.
'•'Now I must be off," said the Member. "There is
big-wig in the chair. Now,' sit fast, old man. And
look here ! Don't let your feelings overcome you ! If
you cheer, or toss up your liat, they'll turn you out,
and you won't see a bull-baiting again."
And so Luke waited patiently, now watching the
confused, anxious crowd at the ministerial side of the
House, and again fixing his eyes on that silent, serried
mass tliat thronged the lowest benches on the left of
the Speaker's chair. And here, the object of all vision,
of all thought, of all anxiety, sat the Man of Mystery,
M
162 LUKE DELMEGE
silent, immovable, whilst anxious ministers looked to
him for a sis^n or some articulate utterance of what he
was brooding over and plotting there in the corner
seat just below the gangway. At last, one of his lieu-
tenants rose, and moved the adjournment of the House.
The proposal was met with a shout of indignant scorn.
A division was demanded, and Luke, with the rest, was
relegated to the lobby. In a few minutes it was over,
and they returned. The Government had a sweeping
majority. There was a cheer of exultant triumph.
The first lines of the enemy had been repulsed. The
debate went on. Then quietly, a second lieutenant rose
in his place, and moved the adjournment of the House.
This time a yell broke from the ministerial benches.
The adjournment was fiercely and angrily refused. A
division was demanded, and another Pyrrhic victory
gained. There was a mighty shout from the ministerial
lists. Calm and immovable sat the Irish (/uerrilleros,
whilst their opponents, wild with passion, appeared to
be lashing themselves into frenzied madness. The
debate went on ; and just as the hands of the clock
pointed to twelve, a division was again demanded. With
suppressed, but badly suppressed passion, the leader of
the House leaned forward on the despatch-boxes and
hissed : —
"If we have to remain in session for forty-eight
hours the Government is determined that this measure
shall pass ; nor will the House adjourn until that is
accomplished."
The captain of the guerrilleros sat silent and grim.
And then a peal of electric bells ; and then the solemn
march through the turnstiles ; another Governmental
victory, and the House settled down to business again.
Then arose another of the lawless but disciplined
phalanx, and moved the adjournment of the House.
There was another angry yell ; and again Agamemnon
spoke : —
" I assure the honourable gentlemen at the other side
of the House that the Government has no intention of
RACIAL CHARACTERISTICS 163
yielding on that point, and that the House must remain
in session until this measure is carried."
Then the Silent One arose, and eight hundred beings,
the flower of English intellect, hung breathless on liis
words. They were few. Passing his hand behind his
coat-collar, and then running it down through his thick
hair, he spoke in the echo of a whisper ; but it was
heard in every cranny in the building: —
"• The Right Hon. gentleman refuses to adjourn the
House. I tell him the House will adjourn, and the
sooner the better."
It was a plain challenge to the omnipotence of Eng-
land, and as such was accepted. This time there was
no shouting. The division bell rang. The members
trooped through the turnstile. Another victory for the
Government ; but the leader of the House again came
forward, and leaning his arms again on the despatch-
boxes, he said, almost humbly : —
" There's no use in prolonging the useless debate in
the face of such obstruction. The House stands
adjourned." The officials laughed. The ministerial
following was bewildered. Then, as they recognized
their defeat, tliey muttered curses on their leaders ;
and angry, shamed, disappointed, they trooped from
the House. The victors did not even clieer. l^uke
thought : " I'll never believe in racial cluiracteristics
again. I knew they were always humbug ! " His
friend, the jNlember, came over.
"• Wasn't that pretty ? Crumpled up, like a piece of
tissue-paper ! "
^ Can you kee}) it up ? " (pieried Luke. His friend
looked long and earnestly at him.
" Yes, till victory, which we, the descendants of kings,
shall then most royally throw away. 'Diil I really
hurt you, poor old lUiU ? Em awfully sorry. Get up,
old man, and come have a drink.' That's the finale to
the comedy you have witnessed. Good-niglit ! "
The great clock of St. StepluMi's was chiming "one"
as Luke crossed Westminster Bridge.
164 LUKE DELMEGE
" Glad I have a latch-key," he murmured ; " the old
Vicar wouldn't like it, and he sleeps with one eye
open."
A party of revellers was coming towards him. They
tried to jostle him off the footpath. At another time
he would have yielded ; but the si:)ell of conquest was
upon him. He resisted, and came into personal contact
with one, who was almost intoxicated. It was Louis
Wilson. He, too, recognized Luke ; and turning away,
he said to his companions : —
" 'Tis only a peasant priest from Ireland. I know a
little of the fellow. He hath a pretty sister."
The next moment Luke's strong hand was on his
collar, and he swung him round.
" Now, gentlemen," said one of the revellers, " this is
Westminster and not Donnybrook. Keep quiet, or
bedad, and begorra, you will find yourselves in the
lock-up."
" Your names, gentlemen, please," said an officer,
moving up.
Luke heard as in a dream : "11 Albemarle Buildings,
Victoria Street."
Wilson passed on.
" Never mind, sir," said the officer, as Luke fumbled
for a card ; " it will rest here unless he prosecutes.
But take no notice of these fellows in future."
There was no real sleep that night for Luke. Amidst
the agony and shame and remorse that kept the wheels
of his brain burning and revolving, he thought of coun-
try and home. He saw the calm peace of Ireland rest-
ing as in a cloud above and beyond this hateful
Tartarus. He would give worlds to be at home — at
home at Lisnalee, pencilled in shadows above the misty,
beloved sea. He would sacrifice a few years of life to
be in the midst of the kindliest people on earth, awa}^
from these horrible automatons ; and he saw with tears
the little parlour, and the " Inseparables," and Father
Tim dropping aphorisms at leisure, and at leisure drop-
ping slices of lemon into his glass. And then the
RACIAL CHARACTERISTICS 165
burning shame came back again, and, as he dropped
into an uneasy slumber, he muttered : " I believe there
are racial characteristics after all."
When he woke from unhappy dreams next morning
the spectres had vanished. London, life, ambition, a
great future were all before him, Lisnalee was a gray,
blurred shadow of the past.
CHAPTER XIV
WEIGHING ANCHOR
It was inevitable that an airy, impetuous, variable
spirit like this should, under pressing circumstances,
weigh anchor and drift with the tide. Gradually, as
his fine genius asserted itself, he rose above all his con-
freres, both in the excellence and the efficacy of his work
and in his unquestionable superiority of intellect. The
Rev. Luke Delmege was beginning to be noticed. His
Bishop, who had returned from Rome, and then from a
long round of visitations, appeared not to remark hira
particularly, which Luke, in his rising pride, set down
to national prejudice. Once the Bishop said : —
" Delmege, you are not quite so mercurial as the gen-
erality of your countrymen. Don't you like your sur-
roundings ? "
Then Luke protested that he was happy, very happy,
and did not seek a change.
Once, too, the old Vicar said in his rough, kindly
way : —
"Here you are again, Delmege! It is a bad thing for
a young man when the papers notice him. You'll have
as much space soon as Madame Seigel's Syrup."
But the younger men were more explicit and generous.
His name had gone across the river, and he had been in-
vited to preach at the Commercial- Road, and to lecture
to workingmen at the Mechanics' Hall in Holborn. He
had pushed on his schools until the Inspector wondered
at his own report, and the Diocesan Inspector had asked
for him as an assistant.
166
I
WEIGHING ANCHOR 167
Meanwhile, and, of course, imperceptibly, all this
externation was affecting his character deeply. His
soul was starved. All his energies went off in enthusi-
astic work. He never perceived that it was sheer
materialism, Avhen the soul was absent. In the begin-
ning he consecrated his work and put a soul into it.
Then, as vanity assumed control and men's praises
echoed around him, he puslied forward wildly. Work,
work, work — here was his cry! The gentle personal
love for his Divine Master hallowed and sanctified Ins
earlier efforts ; but by degrees this evaporated in favour
of a Cause. But the Cause was an Impersonality,
though he called it "the Church." If he had identi-
fied the Church with its Divine Spouse, all would have
been well. But no ! The honour of the Church, the
advancement of the Church, the glory of the Church —
words always on liis lips, and of such awful and lial-
lowed significance, — conveyed no meaning, no life to
his actions. He would have been deeply offended, if
any one had hinted that he had degenerated into a form
of worship that is generally veiled under a sacred guise
— and only labelled by the truthful malice of the world,
or the still more truthful revelations of humility —
egotlieism. Did not the ancient monks say, Lahorare
est orare? And here just now is not the sage of Chelsea
preaching the same divinity of work '! And is not Stanley
in Christ Church, and Jowett in IJalliol, stimulating
the flagging energies of Oxford undergraduates by the
same? Work, Avork, work, for it is the law of the uni-
verse, — the laws of birth and death, of stars and flowers '
Work, because thereby you are identified with Nattire
by obeying its sacred laws, and thereby alone is true
happiness attainable I If any one had whispered to
Luke in tliese days, when he tliought he was soaring on
the highest altitudes of inspiration: "Come apart and
rest a little wlnle ! " he would have scorned the sug-
gestion as a temptation to abuse of the highest instincts
and betrayal of the most sacred interests.
It was rather fortunate for Luke that, amidst the
168 LUKE DELMEGE
inevitable jealousies aroused by all this publicity, he
had just strength of mind enough to move steadily
onward, though not unbiased or undisturbed. He liad
not yet had experience enough to write on the tablets
of his mind the Pauline summing up of existence —
intus timores; but his life was not lacking in those
external modifications which the Apostle styles — the
/oris piignce. Unfair and unfavourable criticisms, little
hints of possible imprudences in public utterances, vague
suggestions of subdued heresy, the complete suppression
of some fine public lecture — these were the drawbacks
in a buoyant and most hopeful career. In the moments
of doubt and depression that followed, — and they were
many, — a memory of past times, of the frugal banquets
of the " Inseparables," of Father Tim's drolleries and
of Father Pat's kindness, would recur to him ; and
sometimes there would float across the unda irreme-
abilis a tiny letter from the cottage above the sea at
Lisnalee, or from the library of Father Martin — hope-
ful, cheerful, amusing, as a butterfly would float in from
spring meadows and lose itself in the horrors of some
Lancashire factory, or as a child would place a flower
in the fingers of a bronze and unfeeling statue. Then
Luke had a friend. And it needs not the sacred en-
dorsement of Holy Scripture, or the expansive comments
of that great interpreter, Shakspere, to be assured that
the best gift of the gods to man is a true and truthful
friend. And Luke's friend was not afraid to tell the
trutli. Witness this. They were walking on the banks
of the Serpentine.
" I always choose this place for quiet meditation,"
said the friend, in an explanatory tone to Luke, who
was rather surprised to be suddenly introduced into
the mighty gangway of Life-Guards, servant-maids,
and babies ; " here you are alone, as much alone as
Werther and his stars. You meet no one that will
trouble the rim of your hat ; babies, — God bless them I
— are liappily unconscious. The other elements of
civilization here in the heart of the world are too much
WEIGHING ANCHOR 169
engrossed with each other to heed you. I am alone
with the stars. Now, Delmege, old man, can you bear an
operation? For I am going to do what my judgment
calls the rashest and maddest and most ungrateful thing
— 1 am going to pull a friend's tooth. It is quite true
that tooth is aching. Nevertheless, man is an ungrate-
ful animal. I know you won't bite ; but j)romise not
to say a cuss-word. I can't bear that."
"All right," said Luke, "go ahead! I'm used to it.
There never before was such a target for the small shot
of gratuitous advice. I am as bad as if I had the in-
fluenza. P]very old woman at home made herself a
Minerva, and every old duffer a Mentor. And here it
is worse. It is quite clear the world regards me as a
complete .and unmitigated fool ! " Which little speech
shows how far Luke had gone in the way of the "galled
jade."
" Now, look here," said the candid friend, " all that's
quite true — "
" I l)eg your pardon," said Luke, stiffly.
•• Ahem ! I mean that — you know — it may be quite
true, you know — that advice, very well meant — you
know — does not always comprehend the entire sur-
roundings — look at that impudent slut with that
soldier ! "
" Oh ! I thought you were alone with the stars," said
Luke ; which at once restored his friend's equilibrium.
" Well, now, look here, Delmege, it seems to me that
you have two careers Ix'fore you. On tlie one liand a
life of usefulness and labour, hidden, unsuspected, no
storms, no trium})hs, but a reward exceeding great ;
and on the other a life of blare and brilliancy, tliunder
and lightning, honours and crosses, and then — "
"I understand," said Luke. "You'd have me choose
the luunbler and safer path ? "
"Well," said his friend, dubiously, "perhaps ! "
" Let me tell you," said Luke, " once and forever,
that I have deliberately chosen the other ; not because
of its honours and emoluments — 1 despise them ! but
170 LUKE DELMEGE
the Church requires it. Ours is not the Church of the
Catacombs, but of Constantine ! "
" It's a truth and a faUacy," said the candid friend.
" Meanwhile, allowing all that, and presupposing that
you are right in your decision, I don't admit it, you
know — "
" Don't admit what ? " said Luke.
" That the Church requires very brilliant men, or that
the world is much in need of them."
" The world regards the Church as a molehill," said
Luke ; " a subterranean, cryptic, concealed system, bur-
rowing under all the states and governments of the
world, — its conspirators blinking and purblind in the
light of day, and with vision enough only to plot, and
delve, and undermine all the institutions of civilization."
" Out of which of the infidel reviews did you pick
that rhodomontade ? " said the friend.
" There now," said Luke, " you are losing temper,
and the tooth is not yet drawn."
" Quite true. But now for the operation. I think
you are going too fast and will get derailed. All this
newspaper notoriety, 'able controversialist,' 'brilliant
lecturer,' etc., is quite enough to turn any head not well
screwed on ; and yours, you know, ah — "
"Go on," said Luke, "go on."
" I'm hurting you," said the candid friend.
" Oh ! not at all," said Luke. " I rather like it. It
is so ingenuous, you know. You were saying some-
thing about my head."
" I see I'm hurting you," said the friend. " Now, I'll
put it in a better way. Did you ever feel an impulse
to go down on your knees and kiss the hem of the gar-
ment of some poor, lialf-witted, illiterate old duffer,
who knew just enough of Latin to spell through his
breviary, but who was doing, with sublime unconscious-
ness, the work of his Master ? "
Luke was struck dumb. These were almost his own
words, expressed with enthusiasm not quite two years
ago.
WEIGHING ANCHOR 171
" Once," he said faintly ; " but I had no experience."
" And did you ever," said the friend, not noticing,
" did you ever feel an irresistible inclination to get
behind some great, intellectual prodigy, who was sweep-
ing the whole world before him apparently, and with
one glorious coup-de-main block his hat before all his
admirers ? "
" Never," said Luke, emphatically. " I think that is
narrow-minded and illiberal."
" Well, I did," said his friend, dryly.
" Look here, now, Sheldon," said Luke, " once and
forever let me say that I feel, and am sure, that the
unnatural delay in the conversion of England is pri-
marily due to this cause. You, English, are so narrow
and conservative and petty in your views that you'll
never appeal successfully to the broad human spirit of
the age. You don't understand the Zeitgeist. The
whole trend of human thought is to reconcile revelation
with intellect ; and out of the harmony to evolve a new
and hopeful instauration of human blessedness. Now,
we must take our rightful place in this renascence. It
won't do to be silent. Or, rather, we must speak out
boldly and conlidentially, W'ith large, free interpreta-
tions of natural and supernatural revelations, or hold
our tongues altogether. Falls er nicht schweigt ! '''
" Good heavens ! " said Father Sheldon, "where did
you pick up that horrible jargon ? What in the name
of common sense, man, are you reading ? "
" Tliere now, there now," said Luke, " you don't read,
my dear fellow. There's the great drawback. Tlicre's
no use in arguing further. We move on different
jjlanes of thought. By the way, are you coming over
to Hermondsey to dine to-morrow?"
Father Sheldon said nothing. He had failed to pull
that tooth ; and of all botches in creation, an unsuccess-
ful dentist is the worst.
" Poor fellow," he said in his own sanctum afterwards,
"he's on tlie down grade, thougli he ap])ears to be sky-
flying. That rush for Mass in the morning, and the
172 LUKE DELMEGE
substitution of the Rosary for the Office are bad signs.
German snatches won't make up for it. Well, the re-
treat is at hand, thank God ! Who knows ? "
The retreat came, and the retreat was over ; and Luke
was the same — only worse. The preacher was a distin-
guished man, and, therefore, a failure in that line. Luke
was delighted — and was lost. " He had never heard
such command of language before ; " " he did not know,
till then, how religion could be lifted so beautifully into
the regions of transcendentalism ; " " how philosophy,
in the hands of a master, can be made the handmaiden
of religion ; " " and how both together can be clothed in
iridescence by the mastery of our mother tongue ; " "yes,
of course, he was apologetic, and why not ? He was
speaking to his equals, and was cpite right in assuming
that they knew all that he knew ; " "he said ' sheol ' for
*• hell ' ; well, why not ? It's the correct word, if you go
so far ; " " and he always spoke of ' eschatology ' in
place of 'eternity'; very well, isn't that the scientific
term ? " etc., etc.
" Ah ! " he said to Father Sheldon, " these are the
men we want. I'd give half a year's salary to see him
invited over to Ireland to give a series of retreats.
Wouldn't he wake them up from their lethargy '!
Wouldn't he show them what culture and education
can do ? "
" I thought your country used to be called the
'Island of Saints'?" said P'ather Sheldon.
" Certainly ; so it was. You tried to rob us of that
as of everything else. But you can't ! "
" But the preacher said that the saints and their
lives were never intended for imitation, but for ad-
miration."
" And quite right. Do you mean to say that Simon
Stylites would be allowed to remain twenty years or
twenty days on the obelisk in these times ? "
" Perhaps not. But what then becomes of your
countrymei:^ and their distinguished title ? If there's
WEIGHING ANCHOR 173
no room for one saint, what do we want with a whole
island full of them?"
" Look here, Sheldon, you are a horrible reactionary
— a medifevalist — an Inquisitionist ! How in the
world will men like you ever convert England ? "
" Fm not sure that it's worth converting," said
Fatlier Sheldon, lazily ; "but I'm sure of one thing —
that that modern idea that we are to hold up our saints,
our beautiful saints, Francis and Ignatius and Alphonsus,
Clare and Rose and Scholastica, as so many dime-mu-
seum freaks, to be looked at and wondered at as Divine
Curiosities and no more — is the most horrible conclu-
sion which our Catholic neologists have ever reached."
" I give you up, Sheldon," said Luke. " Fll write
to-night to a confidential friend in Ireland to get over
Father Azarias as soon as possible. He has a big field
there."
" I suppose so. May the Lord grant you, Irish, a
good conceit o' yersel's."
Tliey were sitting at coffee in the library. It was Sun-
day, and dinner was at four P.M., instead of the usual
hour, one o'clock. Tlie P>is]io[) had said a few pretty
things about the distinguished preacher the day before
at dinner. But the Lisliop was inquisitive. He liked
to gather opinions — nn excellent thing. You need
never ado[)t them, like the good Irish prelate who
declared with emphasis that he never took an impor-
tant step without consulting his canons. " Hut do
you always follow tlieir counsels, my Lord ? " The
Bisho}), emphatically : "Never ! "
Hut they wei'c at coffee.
"• Mow tlid you like the retreat ? "
Luke was effusive and enthusiastic. The Vicar said :
" So far as I am concerned, he might as well have been
plaving a flute the whole time. It was certainly very
pretty."
" Father Sheldon, what are you poring over there ? "
said the Bishop. Father Sheldon was a great favourite.
174 LUKE DELMEGE
In a solemn, but half-careless manner, as if he had
stumbled on a chance passage. Father Sheldon read
from the big, brass-bound Bible : —
" Michaeas said to Achab, King of Israel : ' Hear thou the word
of the Lord. I saw the Lord sitting on His throne, and all the
army of heaven standing by Him, on the right hand, and on the
left.' And the Lord said : ' Who shall deceive Achab, King of
Israel, that he may go up and fall at Ramoth-Galaad V ' And one
spake words in this manner, and another otherwise. And then
came forth a Spirit, and stood before the Lord, and said : ' I will
deceive him.' And the Lord said: 'By what means?' And he
answered : ' I will go forth, and be a lying spirit in the mouth of
all his prophets.' And the Lord said : ' Thou shalt deceive him,
and shalt prevail : go forth and do so.' "
The Bishop was silent, and serious. The Vicar shook
all over, and snorted once or twice, which was his way
of laughing boisterously. A young priest said : " You
haven't brought much charity out of the retreat, Father
Sheldon ! "
Luke said : " There is no use in talking here ; Father
Sheldon is a bronze statue, with his face turned to the
past ! "
" That's all right, Delmege. But when a man comes
to dress and drill one hundred priests, so as to refit them
for better work amongst a few hundred thousand souls,
and when, perhaps, one of these captains is himself
trembling in the balance, we expect something else
besides ' Sing a song of sixpence,' and ' Isn't that a
dainty dish to lay before the king ? '"
You'd like to see a portrait of Luke Delmege just at
this time. Well, here it is : —
" 11 Albemarle Buildings, Victoria St., W. C.
"Dearest Mother : — I went up for my first-half a week ago,
but got plucked. The questions were beastly. MacKenzie, an old
Scotchman, who lived on oatmeal till he came to London, and now
doesn't know himself, was my chief examiner. He asked the
most absui'd questions, — the percentage of fibrin in the blood,
the specific difference between enteric and adynamic fever, the
effect of hydrocyanic acid, etc. I was thoroughly made up in sur-
WEIGHING ANCHOR 17^
gery, for -which I have a peculiar taste, yet he iievei- asked a ques-
tion, except something ridiculous about the treatment of embolisms,
and I could have given him lights in psychological and mental
science, where I am A 1, but he never asked a question. Then,
he's not a gentleman. 'Young mon,' said this red-headed High-
land savage, ' I'd recommend you to qualify as a hairdresser. It is
a branch of surgery, ye ken.' I have reported him to the ti'ustees,
and demanded a second examination. Dr. Calthrop is down here,
examining in bacteriology, and, pardon the pun. lie's backing me
up. By the way, tell Barby that her clerical friend is coming out.
He now parts his hair in the centre, and has assumed an lonico-
Doric accent. P)ut I must say he preaches well and effectively. In
fact, he's becoming a crack lecturer on this side. I cannot compare
him, of course, with the Master of the Temple, for there will be
always wanting that ei^prit and those little nuance.^ of thought and
expression that denote the university man. But he is strong and
versatile, and I think, when he gets into the Attic accent, he will
do fairly well. Just tell Pap that there was a blunder in the ex-
amination programme, and I am going up again. Perhaps he may
write to Caltlirop, wdio is a power here. I'll let him know later
on about MacKenzie, and he'll probably give him a wigging. Evi-
dently, the uncouth fellow didn't know who I was.
" Ever affectionately,
" Louis J. Wilson, B.A."
One of the effects of wliicli epistle was tliis : —
" DuHLiN, Sept. 8, 187—.
"Rev. Dear Father: — I must write to tell you how proud
and pleased we all are at seeing your name so frequently in the
Catholic Times and Tahlcl, and in so honoured a way. And now
comes a letter from Louis, enthusiastically souiuling your praises.
I should give extracts, but I am afraid I sliould hurt yon. But he
is a great admirer of yours, and I cannot help thinking that our
dear Lord has created this reverence and admiration in order that
you may exercise a holy controlling influence over ]ioor Louis in
the midst of London temptations. I am supjwsing that you have
not met him as yet in Loiulon ; but his address is: 11 Albemarle
Buildings, Victoria Street, London. W. C. and I am sure, if you could
spare tiine to call on him, he would be highly pleased and flattered
by your condescension. Do, dear Father! It is a iiuestion of a soul
and its future, and your reward will be exceeding great. Sophy
Kennedy, an old schoolmate of mine, now in Kensington, has also
written "to say she has been to liear you ; and when I told lier you
were a friend of mine (this was presumi'tuous, of c(nirse) she
176 LUKE DELMEGE
actually sent me congratulations, and doubted if I'd acknowledge
' small people ' any more.
" 1 am taking up too much of your valuable time with my
nonsense ; but our next letter from Louis will be a breath from
Paradise.
" I am, dear Rev. Father, respectfully yours,
"Barbara Wilson."
" A pan of hot coals on my head ! " said Luke. " I
must really look up the lad. I dare say he has forgotten
our little rencontre. Of course, he felt he deserved
richly what he got."
And, accordingl}', some days later, he again crossed
Westminster Bridge, and found his way to Albemarle
Buildings. The Buildings were laid out in flats, on
the French system. A respectable, middle-aged woman
kept the keys.
" No, Mr. Wilson was not at home — had gone to the
'ospital," she supposed, " and would not return till late.
He rarely dined at 'ome."
Luke was turning away, not too disappointed, for he
dreaded the interview, although prepared to be very con-
ciliatory and condescending, when the woman said : —
" I perceive you're a clergyman, sir, and perhaps a
friend of this young gentleman."
" Well, we are acquaintances at least," said Luke,
straining at the truth, " and I am much interested in
him."
" Well, then, sir," she said, " if some one would take
him in 'ands. I fear he's not doing well. Would you
walk upstairs, sir ? "
They went upstairs, although Luke felt that he was
intruding somewhat unwarrantably on the privacy of
another. The woman unlocked a door and ushered him
into an apartment filled with some strange, pungent,
aromatic odour, such as hangs around a druggist's or
perfumer's shop. There was chaos everywhere. Pipes
of all shapes and forms, pots of unguents, masks and
wigs, photographs, some quite fresh, some faded, of
actresses and beauties. There were two side by side in
WEIGHING ANCHOR 177
a frame. One was subscribed " Circe " ; the other,
which Luke recognized as Barbara's, was simply marked
by one red spot, which Luke soon discovered was a heart
on hre. Over the mantelpiece hung a splendid enlarged
photograph of the Canon, and in the frame was inserted
a shield with the arms of the Murray family, and their
motto. Sans tache.
" It would cost me my situation, sir," she said, " if it
were ever known that I brought you here ; but I am a
mother, and I know wot it is to see the young go astray.
Has this young gentleman a father or mother ? I know
he has a sister, for every post brings 'im a letter from
'er. He never mentions his j)arcnts."
" Yes. I understand his parents are living. I know
little of them ; but I know his sister and their uncle."
He pointed to the })hotograpli.
" Well, sir, the i)oor young gentleman is doing badly.
He often comes 'ome hintoxicated, has picked up with
a dangerous lot — "
"• Does he read ? " queried Luke, looking around in
vain for thick folios and bones.
''A good deal of these," she said, pointing to a lieap
of tattered novels. " But these are the real dangers,"
— she pointed to the photographs, and took down a
phial from the mant('lj)icee.
" He can take all that in a day,'" she said, pointing to
the label, " enough to kill ten men. And he won't stand
much longer, sir ; mark my words, he won't stand much
longer, unless some one ste})s in to save him.
'• Vou won't see him sometimes for days together,"
slie continued. ''I knocks and knocks, and, thiid^s I,
we'll lia\'e a erownei-'s in(|uesi here soon. And then he
comes out a-shaking all over like a lias[)en, an' his laee
a-shining like the hangels. lUit it ain't liangels, init
devils, he has seen."
" I'm much ol)liged to you for your confidence," said
Luke, coming downstairs. " 1 must see to it at once."
"• And you won't mention to no one what I have
showed you?" said the woman.
N
178 LUKE DELMEGE
" Never fear," said Luke.
" A pretty bad case ! " he thought, as he wended his
way homewards ; " a pretty bad case. I must write to
his sister or uncle. And tliis is the fellow I was half-
afraid of a couple of years ago in that drawing-room.
It needs travel and experience to know the world after
all, and to know that there are few in it that are not
beneath you."
Which shows that Luke had now fully adopted the
philosophy of one of his Mentors, and was. holding his
head — very high.
t
BOOK III
CHAPTER XV
AYLESBUKGH
" I HAVE been thinking of making some changes in
the Cathedral staff," said the Bishop to the Vicar in the
library. "• I'm not too well satisfied with the seminary,
and should like to see more life and progress there.
Would not Father Sheldon, with his very high ideas
about the priesthood, be an admirable guide for young
students ? "
'"' Certainly," said the Vicar, " except that, like myself,
lie speaks too plainly sometimes."
'' Very true," said the Bishoj). '' There would be
some danger there. And J must remove Delmege — "
" Delmege ? " said the Vicar, quite alarmed.
" Yes, for his own sake. I see clearly he is rather
too interested in the platform — too little in the
pulpit."
" lie speaks well, and is doing excellent work," said
the Vicar.
•' True : but is all that he says either useful or edify-
ing, do you think ? "
'^ Weil, he does rub the wrong way sometimes," said
the Vicar, reluctantly.
"I had been thinking of speaking to him seriously
about some of his utterances," said the Bishop. •• 'I'liat
perj)etual har[)iug on the Kiiglish schism and mi Irish
fidelity does not exactly i)lease our English audience.
'We kept the Faith in Ireland when, at the dictation of
a savage king, i/ou Hung aside the glorious heritage,'
does not soothe the British mind."
181
182 LUKE DELMEGE
" I should say not," said the Vicar, laughing. " But
it is the truth, not its utterance, that is painful."
" Then," said the Bishop, resuming, " I turned over a
file of newspapers the other day, and came across this
singular passage in one of his lectures : —
" The English mind is by nature antagonistic to Catholic truth.
It was not Luther, it was the legend of ' Faust ' that prepared the
way for the Reformation. The world was tired of asceticism and
saints. So v/ere the English. They wanted the gods, their liberty,
their sensuality. They found their gods in such satyrs as Luther
and Henry; they found their liberty in the assertion of individual
freedom ; sensuality followed. And if all England were Catholic
again, and the Pope presumed to order an additional fast-day, you
would call out the Reserves and mobilize tlie fleet at Spithead."
" Yes, I remember," said the Vicar, laughing. " The
fellow has the knack of putting the truth unpleasantly.
I remonstrated with him. ' Is it true or false ? ' he
said. ' Perhaps true,' I replied. ' Then why not tell
it ? ' he said. He can't understand that it is not always
desirable to advance unnecessary truths."
" He wants experience," said the Bishop. " I was
going to say 'correction.' But, you know, these fire-
eating Irishmen won't take correction. Then I thousrht
of sending him to Whitstable. But that is too great a
responsibility — "
" I shall miss him greatly," said the Vicar. " He is a
fine, manly young priest ; hits straight from the shoul-
der, and is undoubtedly a clever fellow. What a pity
these high-blooded natives won't bear the bit ! "
"Then I thought of Aylesburgh," said the Bishop.
" I could bring up old Collins here. But would Drys-
dale be able to control this young enthusiast ? "
" I think so. Delmege, the moment he recognizes
the sanctity of his pastor, will be as wax in his hands."
" Be it so, then," said the Bishop.
" I shall miss him sadly," said the Vicar, with some-
thing that seemed like a sob. " No doubt, we are a
leaden lot."
The following Sunday evening there was an impor-
AYLESBURGH 183
tant function in the Cathedral. The Bishop was to
assist in Cappa magna. Luke was to preach.
All were assembled in the inner sacristy just before
the ceremony commenced. Luke was slightly nervous.
It was the first time he had to preach in the Bishop's
presence, and, say what you please, it is an ordeal to
speak before an accom})lished preacher, who also holds
the keys of life and death.
" Would you assist the Bishop ? " said Arthur, who
was master of ceremonies, "whilst I look after the
altar."
Luke moved forward and took up the Cappa magna.
Now, the Cappa magna is the most beautiful of all the
beautiful vestments with which Mother Church, in her
great love, clothes her children. I cannot conceive how
any lesser genius than that of Michael Angelo could
have devised it. A judge's ermine is nowhere in com-
parison, and even the coronation robes of royalty pale
into insignificance before it. But, like all beautiful
things in Nature and art, it must be handled with
science and skill and delicacy. You succeed by a liair's
breadth, and it is a success. You fail by a most tri-
fling misdirection, and it is a consummate and irre-
mediable failure. Now Luke had neither science —
because he knew nothing about this airy, fluffy, deli-
cate thing ; nor skill — because he had never touched
it before ; nor delicacy — for his strong, muscular fin-
gers had not yet tapered into sensitive, nervous points.
But he had all the confidence of inexperience. He took
up the beautiful silk and ermine in his arms, and tossed
it lightly over the Bishop's head. The Bishop shouted :
"Take care! " But it was too late. The Bisho]) found
that the long, shining masses of crimson silk hung like
a curtain l)efore him.
" You have put it on wrongly,"' he said angrily.
Luke tried to remedy the blunder by shifting the
ermine around. It refused to be shifted. Luke was
as crimson as the silk. Me pulled and shifted and
tugged.
184 LUKE DELMEGE
"Take it off," said the Bishop.
More easily said than done. Luke lifted it, and then
found the Bishop's head hopelessly entangled in the
mighty mazes of tlie silken net. Then came a series of
objurgations and apologies accompanying the tremen-
dous conflict, whilst every moment seemed to involve
the Bishop more hopelessly in the silken intricacy. The
brethren moved not. There was a faint sound as of a
titter ; but no ! British equanimity and self-poise
were proof against the temptation, and no one stirred
from his statuesque position to help the struggling ag-
onists. It was too good to terminate or interrupt.
They enjoyed it in British fashion by looking at one
another. Just then the master of ceremonies came in.
He ran his hands into the pockets of his soutane, looked
around calmly, and said aloud : " Well, I'm blessed ! "
Then, moving forward, he pushed Luke gently aside
with " Allow me ! " and, putting his arms under the
tangled silk and ermine, he gently lifted it, turned it
around, kicked back the long, shining train, and it was
done. Then he ordered all forward, and Luke, with
burning face and tingling nerves, took his place in the
procession. He found it difficult to compose himself
during Vespers, and forgot all about his sermon in the
painful retrospect, until Arthur bowed to him, and took
him over to receive the episcopal blessing. The Bishop
saw his embarrassment, and showed, as only a Bishop
can, some invisible and intangible kindness. Then
Luke was in the pulpit. He stammered through his
text ; then recovered himself, and spoke the first four
sentences of his sermon well. His clear, metallic voice
tolled slowly through the great overcrowded building,
searching into every corner, as he leaned on every syl-
lable and accented every final consonant. Then, in an
unhappy moment, his memory reverted to his little
gaucheries in the sacristy, and, as the shame came back,
he forgot the trend of his discourse and began to floun-
der through some dreary platitudes. But pride came
to his relief, and his heart began to pump blood into his
AYLESBURGH 185
brain, until all the faculties fortified took up their work
again, and the paralysis ceased, and the faithful and pliant
instrument obeyed the soul ; and without blunder or flaw,
the beautiful discourse flowed on to the end, and men
drew breath and said *' It was good ! " After Benedic-
tion, and before divesting himself even of his biretta,
the Bishop came over, shook Luke warmly by the hand,
and said : —
" I have rarely heard anything so beautiful and
practical ! " whicii, from a Briton, meant a good
deal.
Next day Luke was in his library. The spirit of
work had now seized him and possessed him, until he
felt work, work, work, was the elixir of life. He had
now determined to plunge deeper than ever into his
slums, and to drag out of their horrors the souls that
were festering there. For this purpose he had drawn
up a large map, showing every street, lane, alley, and
court in his district, and was just giving the finishing
touches to an aristocratic and classical spot, called
Granby Court, Granby Lane, off Spittal Alley,
when the door opened and the Bishop entered.
" At work, Delmege ? "
" Yes, my Lord ! "
" What would you think of going to Aylesburgh ? "
"Ay — ay — Aylesburgh?" stanunered Luke.
" Yes ; I am sending you on to Drysdale. He is a
brusque Briton, but a good felhnv. You'll like him.
When could you be ready '.'' "'
" ()h ! at any time your Lordship pleases," said Luke,
somewhat nettled, and thinking this might mean a fort-
night's notice.
""• Well, it's just now three. There's a train at half-
past four. Could you meet it?"
Then the whole thing burst on Luke's mind, and he
said, stiffly, as he rose: "If your Lordship jjleases ! "
— and passed out of the room.
Whilst he was engaged in packing his few books and
186 LUKE DELMEGE
clothes, a timid knock was heard, and Father Sheldon
came in.
" What's up ? " he cried in amazement.
Luke turned away.
" What's the matter, Delmege ? Where are you go-
ing ? " said Father Sheldon, quite alarmed.
" Never mind," said Luke, turning around. " Look
here, Sheldon, you are all the same— a pack of hypo-
crites. I tried to believe otherwise ; but now my turn
has come."
" I don't understand you," said Father Sheldon.
"Are you going back to Ireland?"
" I wish I were," said Luke, bitterly. " Only that I
have engaged myself for seven years, 1 should go back
by the first train."
"But, for heaven's sake, man, what is it all about?"
" It's all about this — that I'm ordered off to Ayles-
burgh at an hour's notice, as if I had the plague. Of
course I should have expected it. The moment a young
Irishman makes himself useful, or — or — a — remark-
able, that moment lie's shifted to some obscure place."
" There may be some reason," said Father Sheldon,
diffidently.
" Of course there is. The universal reason of jeal-
ousy. I shouldn't mind so much, but the good I^xshop
was kind and — hypocritical enough to pay a marked
compliment last night, and tlien — "
" I'm extremely sorry," said Fatlier Sheldon, moodily.
" There's more Saxon duplicity," said Luke, bitterly.
" I'm quite sure there's not one in tlie house who is half
so glad as you are — "
" Be it so," said Father Sheldon, going out.
As Luke passed down the corridor, he stopped for a
moment at the Vicar's door and timidly knocked.
" Come in ! " said the gruff, well-known voice.
" I'm going," said Luke, briefly.
" I know it," said the old man. " There's a quarter
due."
" I'm sorry for leaving you, sir," said Luke, with a
AYLESBURGH 187
gulp; "you have been very kind, and I couldn't go
away without saying good-bye ! "
The Vicar was writing. He folded the paper in an
envelope, and handed it to Luke.
" Good-bye, Delmege," he said. That was all.
" All alike," thought Luke. " Made out of putty and
then frozen."
It was a week before he opened the envelope. Instead
of £7 10s., the quarter's salary, the check was written
for X15.
A two hours' run brought the sad and disappointed
Luke to his new home. He drove rapidly to the pres-
bytery. The rector was not at home. The housekeeper
left his lugg'^ge in the hall, and did not even show him
his room. He went out to see the church, muttering
"brusoue and British enough ! " The little church was
very dark, and the air was redolent with incense. He
caid a little prayer, and looked around, trying to imagine
his congregation.
"Somewhat '""iffercnt from the Cathedral," he thought.
" I shall not hiive to raise my voice here." He went
behind the choir screen, and examined the nuisic. He
then studied., the brass tr.blets on the benches, with tlie
names oi the pow-proprietors. There was no " Lord,"
not even a "Sir."
"The Canon would be disappointed," lie M'hispered.
He meant hiniLielf, though lie did not know it. He
started at some names. They were connected with art
and literature. " I must mind my P's and Q's here,"
he whispered. " Let me see." He went up to the })re-
della of the altar, and looked around, casting his voice
in lmarinc<,tion ui) to the stained Crucifixion that li<Tlited
the front gallery. "'Twill do," he said. He meant
"I'll do." He examined the cards in the pews again.
"'The Misses Pardoe ! ' " he said. "I wonder who
are these. ' Frilulein von Essler; ' 'Mademoiselle Dcs-
hayes ; ' rather cosmopolitan. ' Jeremiah O'Connor.'
Hallo, Jeremiah !
'Quae regio in terris, iiostri non plena laboris?'
188 LUKE DELMEGE
'Arthur Henry Halleck ! ' Can this be the Nineteenth
Century reviewer? After all, I shall have some one to
speak to.''
Just then a visitor arrived in the shape of a great
brown shaggy retriever, rin^;eJ all over with bronze
curk. Gravely and sedately he moved up the aisle,
until he reached to where Luke was standing watching
him. He then as gravely lifted his right paw, which
Luke instantly grasped.
" Good-day, old fellow," he said ; " you're the first to
welcome me. I'd swear you are an Irishman." So
they passed into the presbytery again. This time the
rector was at home. He rushed out, a fussy little man,
his gray hairs all tossed awr}^ fussil}^ shook hands with
Luke. "You, Delmege?" — took up the hat-box, bade
Luke take the portmanteau — '• Come along to your
room ; you'll have to rough it here, you know. There !
A place for your books, bed, chair, table. You'll have
some tea ? "
" At the usual time," said Luke, coldly= He thought
there was hardly sufficient recognition of his dignity.
Then he sat down and looked, around sadly. It was
not a prepossessing kind of room. It was very large,
with a very low ceiling, worm-eaten boards, pretty large
rat-holes in the corner, cupooards where ghosts might
hide — altogether a rambling, antique, haunted, myste-
rious kind of room, such as you might see in ancient
castles, long since disused. One thing redeemed its
darkness and general mustiness. There was a noble
window, opening on a tiny plot of "rass, and command-
ing an extensive view of a high, brown, bare wall, which
Luke soon found was the northern gable of a hideous
Wesleyan conventicle. For hence in the long summer
twilights, and the long winter nights, did Luke often
hear the dismal wailings of Calvinistic hymns, droned
out by raucous male voices or the shrill trebles of women,
and the eternal burden was : —
Oh ! let us be joyful, joyful, joyful,
When we meet to part uo more !
AYLESBURGH 189
But there was one hymn, rcdole:it of Calvinism and dis-
cord, which was sung morning, noon, and night in this
dreary conventicle. It haunted Luke like a spectre,
and he confessed that, to the very end of his life, it
sent his heart into Lis boots. It was all about being
saved I saved ! ! saved ; ! !
"If these be the pa?r.ns of the elect," thought Luke,
" I wonder on what unimaginable minor key are pitched
the wailings of the lost ! "
It was his first introduction to the gloom and desola-
tion of the English religion.
" And these are the peojile who, through their writers,
through Dickens and Arnold and the host of globe-trot-
ting cynics, try to turn into ridicule the sweet, sunny
religion of Italy and Spain ! But they produced a Faber,
Luke. Well, that saves tliem somewhat."
There was a short service and Benediction in Thurs-
day evening, at wliich, to Luke's surprise, there was a
very large attendance. And hero ho noticed that almost
invisi])le but terrible line of demarcation, that in all Eng-
lish churches separates the imperialiGta from the helots.
The front l)en(hes were sparsely filled with well-dressed,
stately Englisli ; the last two benches were well filled
with poorly dressed Irish, whose very attitude was an
apology. And Ijack in the gloom of the jiorch, hidden
in the shadows of the confessionals, the exiles thronged,
and swayed to and fro, and flung out their arms in adora-
tion, and shook •'.heir beads, as long ago on the mud floors
and whitewashed cabins in the Iri;h bills. Luke couldn't
stand it.
" Stand up, and go on to those vacant seats," he said
peremptoril}'.
" God bless your reverence ; but we'd rather be here."
And there tliey remained.
li was his iirst little rencontre with his pastor. He
referred, in not very measured terms, to this heretical
exclusiveness in tlie House of the Great Father.
" There should be no distinction of class here, as there
shall be none on the Day of Judgment. And, from my
190 LUKE DELMEGE
experience of England, Doctor, I tell you that the one
secret of the Church is this: Preserve what you have
got and develop it; don't waste your energies in fishing
in barren waters."
" Your experience? " said Dr. Drysdale, mildly and
apologetically. " You've been a good many years in
the country? "
" Two years and six months," stammered Luke, blush-
ing at his own conceit.
" (_)h ! I nearly agree with you, my young friend,"
continued the rector ; " but there are practical diffi-
culties, which, perhaps, at some future time, you, too,
may be invited to solve. For example, did it occur to
you that there is a heretical gas company that insists
on being paid every quarter ; and a heretical corpora-
tion that demands rates ; and an organist who, though
not a heretic, wants bread and butter ; and a sacristan
who, though an excellent Catholic, must be fed as be-
comes a l>riton ; and last, not least, a most estimable
young Irish confrere who, perhaps, too — but, perhaps,
I'm wrouCT ? — Can it be that our idealistic brethren
across the Channel live, in a balloon-like way. on fresh
air?"
" Ye have left them precious little else to live on,"
said Luke, who was half angry, half amused.
Neveiih -less, his training had already habituated
him to common sense, and he rather admired the
rector.
Luke preached on Sunday evening after Compline.
Luke preached well. He did not anticipate a very dis-
tinguished or appreciative audience, and his nerves were
calm under the indifference. But when his practised
eye detected quite an aristocratic and educated audi-
ence, he pulled himself together, and directed his train
of thought in the channels that might suit them.
"■ I dare say they have heard of me," the dear little
idol whispered, " and expect something. I must not
disappoint them."
And here let it be said that in these two years and a
AYLESBURGH 191
half Luke had picked out of reviews and pamphlets more
theological information than he had acquired in his four
years' divinity course. And now he had to study more
closely, and address his studies to special subjects, be-
cause he found, in a few weeks, that he was now ad-
dressing not only a congregation of converts, but that,
every Sunday evening, his audience was largely com-
posed of Protestants of every shape and hue, from the
eager solicitor, or doctor, or banker, down to the dra-
goon from the cavalry barracks, who, during the dis-
course, sliced oranges for his best girl. This latter
episode, indeed, rather disturbed Luke's equanimity at
first, and his Celtic temper brought him perilously near
an explosion ; but he became accustomed to the unin-
tentional irreverence, and, after a few Sundays, ceased
to notice it.
Then he found that, on Monday morning or Tuesday,
a Baptist, or Socinian, or Unitarian would claim an
interview with the object of controverting some state-
ment in the sermon ot" the previous evening ; and Luke
became suddenly aware that there was a good deal to
be studied and considered before he could break through
the crust of self-opinion that gathers round the right of
private judgment.
But we are anticipating. On the first Sunday even-
ing, when Luke entered the presbytery, expecting to
receive the congratulations of his rector, he was sur-
prised to find the little parlour full of })arishioners.
Three or four families were represented, from father,
grave and solemn, and mother, smiling and happy, down
to grown maidens and youths with great l)lack eyes and
pale faces, and even litth^ children, w ho looked up boldly
and in((niringly at the new assistant . There was a little
amicable ri\ airy amongst them, and the quesiion was —
who was to secure this clever, handsome, voung Irishman
as guest for the evening.
"Now. Mr. (lodfrey, you are always monop(~>li'/.ing our
priests. There was no such thing as getting Father
Collins to come to us."
192 LUKE DELMEGE
" Oh ! dear, dear ! and we used to say that Father
Collins lived at the Hermitage."
" Now, Mr. Godfrey, we really must make a rule that
will not be infringed upon. We must have Mr. Del —
Del—"
" Delraege," said Luke, smiling happily at this battle
in his honour.
" We must have Mr. Delmege every Sunday evening,
and on alternate Thursdays."
'•' Really, ^Irs. Bluett, you are most grasping and in-
tolerant. I appeal to the Doctor."
The Doctor was tossing up the long ringlets of a little
maiden of five summers, and here looked up.
" I'm sure," he said, shrugging his shoulders, '' I
shan't interfere. If you could manage to divide him,
as Solomon intended with the baby, it would be all the
better."
Mr. Godfrey, however, bore away the prize trium-
phantly. Luke had sense enough to whisper to his
rector : " Shall I go ? "
" By all means. But don't stay later than ten.
They'll like you all the better."
And this was Luke's first introduction to a good pas-
tor, whom ever after he regarded as the greatest and
dearest of the " dii majores" who were enshrined in the
secret temple of honoured friendship, and to the circle
of the gentlest and sweetest people that he had yet or
ever known. It is quite true, indeed, that he had some
academic discussions from time to time with his pastor,
generally on political topics, but these, too, were tacitly
avoided after a while. And for a time he was embar-
rassed and puzzled at the idiosyncrasies of English
life. He couldn't manage cold roast beef and cheese
and ale at eight o'clock at night ; and old John Godfrey
was considerate enough always, when placing his hand
on the cover of the Stilton, to shout : " Look out. Father
Delmege ! " So, too, he found it hard to understand
how grave men of forty or fifty could spend hours over
a stupid game of dominoes, with nothing but counters
AYLESBURGH 193
in the pool ; and he thought whist insufferable. Some-
times, too, he fidgeted in his chair as he sat around a
winter's fire, and a calm, Carthusian silence pervaded
the whole family circle.
" Isn't this enjoyable. Father Delmege ? " John God-
frey would say, taking the long clay from his mouth
and exhaling a mighty cloud.
"Very," Luke woidd answer, adding in his own
mind, " not quite as bad as a jail, but a great deal worse
than a college."
But he got used to it, and his nerves were gradually
toned down into the silky smoothness that reigned
everywhere around him. And he began to see great
deeps of affection and love far down beneath the icy
surface ; and every day he was made aware of genuine
kindness, gentle, undemonstrative, unobtrusive, until
he grew to love these grave, pleasant people, and they
loved him in turn.
"Bah !" he used to say angrily to himself sometimes,
" there's only a sheet of tissue-paper between the two
races, but politicians and journalists have daubed it all
over with the visions of demoniacs. When will the
great man arise to drive his fist through the obstruction
and let the two jieoples see each other as they are ? "
And the great, white-haired Canon at home besfan to
rise steadil}' in his esteem, and Lisnalee became more
shadowy and cloudy than ever.
Luke would not sing " The Muster " now.
"I really must write to Sheldon," he said. " I treated
him badly. I am almost tempted to write the Bishop
to thank hira. But I'll express it later on."
CHAPTER XVI
ENCHANTMENT
The Canon sat in his favourite arm-chair in his rectory
at home. The morning sun streamed in, and made a
glory of his white hair, as of an Alp in the sunlight.
The Canon was happy. And he was happy because he
had not yet attained everything he could desire. For,
you know, the unhappy man is he who, like poor
Herder, has got everything that even Shakspere offers
to old age, and has nothing to look forward to this side
the grave. There were some things yet to be desired,
to be reached unto, to be seized, — to be enjoyed ? No !
The enjoyment is the pursuit ; it ceases when the hand
closes down on the prize. And yet, with every conso-
lation around him, and that most sublime of consolations,
the growing happiness of his people, forever under his
eyes, there were some misgivings — the rift in the lute,
the fly in the amber, which are inseparable from all
kinds of human felicity. A letter lay open on the
table. It was a pathetic letter, and, more pathetic still,
it contained a poem. This the Canon read over and
over, and the tears were in his eyes. Yet the Canon
was happy, for he was a good man, and he had the
power of relieving misery always within his reach.
Indeed, it would be difficult to say which was the
happier — the benevolent Canon, who presented some
poor woman with a brace of Orpingtons, with the
assurance that she would have a glorious " cluck " in
the springtime, or the poor woman who was just about
to enjoy the pleasures of proprietorship. And when he
had got thirty per cent, knocked off the rents of his
194
ENCHANTMENT 195
tenantry, he walked on air for several days afterwards.
So the Canon was happy, for he was writing a check for
ten pounds this morning, and the check was made pay-
able to Louis Wilson. The old fool I says some one.
Not at all ! You'd do the same yourself, my indig-
nant friend, if you had a little account at your banker's,
and if you chanced to have these lines addressed to
you : —
lie stood afar, as one without a God,
Waiting in darkness for the deeper night,
AVhen sleep would come — the long and soulless sleep,
That seemed to him more peaceful than the hope
Of future immortality.
In the silence of that solemn midnight hour.
While calmly slept the world, and stars kept watch.
And the land was flooded with the moon's weird light,
And the heavens and the earth were steeped in beauty,
He laid him down thus wretchedly.
And a ray of moonlight glittered on the blade.
That leaped with deathly swiftness to his heart;
And the stars looked down in pity as he sank
With closed eyes, among the sleeping flowers,
To rest forever peacefully.
The Canon was not a critic ; nor had he an ear for
music, or a finical respect for accents and syllables. He
had only an imagination. And he saw the moonlight,
and the sleeping tlowin-s, and the crushed grass, and
the blade with the dark stain — ugli I and the Canon
wept with pity, and debated wilh liimself long and
earnestly whether lie would not eliange that check and
write fil'ty. I)Ut the cbeck was posted to No. 11 Albe-
marle Buildings ; and the good liousekeeper, whose rent
had fallen into sad arrears, chuckled as she guessed :
''A check from his huncle ! "' But the Canon went
around these days in an anxious and happy mood, fearful
that every post would bring him an account of a coroner's
inciuest. But to all outward appearanee he was the
same grand, majestic Canon, and the people said : " How
great antl how happy!"
During these happy months, Luke Delmege was
196 LUKE DELMEGE
floated along in a current of calm peaceful work, broken
only by the innocent pleasures of refined and beautiful
social surroundings. He had time to think at last,
though he never ceased to work. And one of his
thoughts was this : This fever and fret of work, work,
work — What is it all for ? What is the object of it ?
The answer was : Work needs no object but itself,
because work is its own reward. There was something
in it, but it was not quite satisfactory ; for, in that case,
an immortal being had no higher object in life than a
steam-engine. He proposed the question often to him-
self ; and he proposed it at a happ}^ gathering at a cer-
tain house, which had gradually become his salon and
academy. Here invariably once a week, sometimes
twice or thrice a week, Luke had the inestimable privi-
lege of meeting a small, select coterie of esoterics,
representative of every branch of literature, science, and
art, and even divinity. For here came many soft-
mannered, polite, well-read Anglican clergymen, who
stepped over from their snug, if dingy, houses in the
Cathedral close, and brought with the man atmosphere
of learning and refinement and gentle courtesy, which
had a perceptible effect on the character and manner
of this young Hibernian. And here, mostly on Wednes-
day evenings, were gathered celebrities, who slipped
down from London by an afternoon train and went
back at midnight ; and Luke began to learn that there
were in the world a few who might be masters and
teachers forever to a First- of- First. And Luke grew
humble, and began to sit at the feet of some Gamaliel,
and his quarter's salary was spent long before he had
received it in buying books, the very names of which he
had never heard before. And with his plastic Irish
nature, he had begun to fit in and adapt himself to
these new environments, and even his dress bespoke a
change. And he studied, as carefully as a novice in a
monastery, to subdue the riotous and impassioned ele-
ments of his nature, and to become as silky and soft
and smooth as those with whom he associated-
ENCHANTMENT 197
But he proposed the question to Amiel Lefevril, one
of the three maiden sisters who presided over the salon,
and who had lieard a good deal from Catholic friends
about this new light, which had suddenly dawned from
Ireland on the gray monotony of a dull English cathe-
dral town. And it came around in this way. The
lady had got a letter from the great Master of Balliol,
who had just finished his work on the Republic of Plato,
and one sentence ran thus : —
" You have endless work to do in your own si^here ; and you
must finish that, and not fancy that life is receding from you. I
always mean to cherish the illusion, which is not an illusion, that
the last years of life are the most valuable and important, and
every year I shall try in some way or other to do more than in the
year before."
" You see," continued Amiel, " these are the words
of an old man, — a great old man; and how applicable
to you, before whom the years are spreading in a long,
sunlit vista."
"But — but," said Luke, with the old sic-argumen-
taris style, but now, oh ! so modified, "life must have
an object. There must be an ideal — an object to
attain."
'' Distini/uo ! " said the lady, and Luke almost jumped
from his chair at the old familiar word. " If you are
selfish and self-centred you need no other object than
the tonic of daily work to strengthen and purify every
mental and moral faculty. But there is a higher plane
to which you will reach, and where you become divinely
altruistic. That is, when you acknowledge and un-
derstand that the crown of life is self-surrender, and
when the interest of the individual is absorbed in the
interests of the race."
It sounded sweetly, and wrapped Luke's senses
around as with an atmosphere of music and perfume ;
but his judgment was not convinced.
" I thought I heard some one enlarge a few nights ago
— yes, indeed, it was Canon ^lellish — on the woi'ld-
weariness of all our great writers and workers — on the
198 LUKE DELMEGE
dread despair of Arnold of Rugby and Matthew Arnold
— on the justification of suicide by George Eliot, and
the wish that it could be justified by Carlyle."
" Quite so," answered Amiel. " The necessary result
of too great enthusiasm — the reaction from the Schivdr-
merei towards ashes and weeping. But, brother, you
were unhappy in your illustrations. Those bright lights
whom you mention burned for themselves only, leaving
smoke and darkness behind them. You and we must
seek better things."
" I cannot quite grasp it," said Luke, vainly stretch-
ing towards the insoluble. " I see some great idea
underlying your thesis, but I cannot seize it."
" Then 1 must take you by the hand, and lead you
into the inner circle of the mystics. You know, of
course, that all great thinkers now understand the
nature of Life's symbolism — that the whole world of
experience is but the appearance or vesture of the
divine idea or life, and that he alone has true life who
is willing to resign his own personality in the service of
humanity, and who tries unceasingly to work out this
ideal that gives the only nobility and grandeur to
human action — that is : —
Seek God in Manl
not
Man in God,
which latter has been the great human heresy from the
beginning."
It sounded nice, and it gave Luke a good deal of food
for reflection. This self-surrender, this absorption in
the race, the Bt/o lost in tlie All, and immortal in the
eternity of Being — this is the very thing he souglit
for ; and was it not the thing the martyrs sought for —
the high- water mark of Catholicism ? He ventured to
hint vaguely at the matter to his rector, who rubbed his
chin and seemed to smile, and said: —
" I think, Father Delmege, you had better keep to
ENCHANTMENT 199
John Godfrey and his pipe, and leave these Anglo-
French blue-stockings alone."
Luke pronounced the old man reactionary.
"However," said Dr. Drysdale, "you want work for
humanity. All right. I'll hand you over the county
jail. You will meet some pretty specimens of humanity
there."
" 'Tis all this horrible mechanism," said Luke ; " these
English cannot get over it. Man is only a tiny crank
in the huge machine — that's all the}^ can conceive.
How different this teaching — Man, a Symbol of the
Divine! "
Yet the beautiful, smooth mechanism w^as affecting
Luke unconsciously. He no longer heard the whir and
jar of machinery, or saw the mighty monster flinging
out its refuse of slime and filth in the alleys and courts
of southwest London ; but the same smooth regularity,
the same quiet, invincible energy, was manifest even here
in the sleepy cathedral town. Here was the beautiful
tajiestry, pushed out from the horrid jaws of the great
mill ; beautiful, pei-fect, with all fair colours of cultured
men and stately women, and woven through with gold
and crimson threads of art and science and literature.
And Luke felt the glamoui- \\ra})ping liini around with
an atmosphere of song and light, and he felt it a duty
to Ht himself to his environments. He was helped a
good deal.
" Quick, (juick, quick. Father Delmege ; you're two
minutes late this morning. These people won't wait,
you know."
Luke felt his pastor was right; but he could not help
thinking: God be with Old Ireland, wdiere the neigh-
bouis meet leisurely for a seanachus on Sunday morning,
and sit on the tondtstones and talk of old times! And
no one minds the priest being half an hour late ; nor
does he, for he salutes them all affably as he passes into
the sacristy, and they say " God bless your reverence ! "
Or : " Look here, look here, look here. Father Del-
mege ; now look at that corporal! There you have
200 LUKE DELMEGE
not observed the folds, and it must be all made upk
again.
Or : " Could 3^ou manage, Father Delmege, to modu-
late your voice a little ? This is not the Cathedral, and
some of those ladies are nervous. I saw Mrs. S start
and look pained whilst you were preaching yesterday.
It was like an electric shock."
" God be with Old Ireland," thought Luke, " where
the people's nerves are all right, and where they meas-
ure your preaching powers by the volume of sound you
can emit."
But he did tone down his voice, until it became a
clear, metallic tingling, as of sled-bells on a frosty night.
They had long, amiable discussions on theology during
the winter evenings after dinner. In the beginning,
indeed, Luke would break out occasionally into a kind
of mild hysterics, when the grave, polite old man would
venture a contradiction on some theological question.
Luke did not like to be contradicted. Had he not studied
under at college ? And had he not experienced that
the right \ray to discomfit an antagonist is to laugh at
him, or tell him he is quite absurd ? But the gravity of
this dear old man, his quiet, gentle persistence, began to
have an effect on Luke's vanity, and gradually he came
to understand that there are a good many ways of look-
ing at the same thing in this queer world, and that it were
well indeed to be a little humble and tolerant of others'
opinions. For the truth forced itself on Luke's mind
that this old man, although he never studied in the hal-
lowed halls of his own college, was, in very deed, a pro-
found theologian, and when Luke, later on, discovered
quite accidentally that this gentle man was actually the
author of certain very remarkable philosophical papers
in the Dublin Meview, and that his opinions were quoted
in the leading Continental reviews, he was surprised,
and thought — who could ever believe it ?
This idea of toleration Luke was slow in grasping.
He had such a clear, logical faculty that he could see
but one side of a question, and was quite impatient be-
ENCHANTMENT 201
cause others could not see it in the same manner. There
is reason to fear that at his first conference he was posi-
tively rude. He had a good deal of contempt for Eno--
lish conferences. It was fencing with painted laths
instead of the mighty sword-play that goes on in Ireland.
One brief case about Bertha and Sylvester, who had got
into some hopeless entanglement about property, etc.,
and that was all. Now, all the other priests calmly gave
their opinions; but Luke should blurt out impatiently: —
" That's not what ive were taught, and no theologian
of eminence holds that."'
Canon Drysdale rubbed his chin, and said: —
" I had some correspondence with Palmieri on the
matter. Would my young friend do us the favour of
reading his reply ? "
And Luke, angry and blushing, read his own refu-
tation.
But the beautiful lessons of toleration and mildness
and self-restraint were telling insensibly on his character.
One evening at the salon he ventured even to ask
questions. A grave, elderly man had been saying that
he had just visited Bunsen in Germany, and that Bunsen
was a grand, colossal heathen.
"• Did you," said Luke, shyly, " did you ever come
across Wegscheider in Germany ? "
" Weg — Weg — no, I cannot remember. Let me
see — Weimar, Wieland, Wein, Weib, Weg — could he
be anything to old Silas ? " said the traveller, gravely.
'' No ! " said Luke, a little nettled. " He was only a
theologian ; but he was heterodox, and I thouglit you
might have met him." This was really good for Luke.
He was getting gently into the ways of polite society.
"I think," he whispered to an Anglican parson, who
was always extremely kind, " that Wegscheider was a
Sabellian."
" What's that ? " said the parson.
" Oh ! I thought you knew all about heretics," re-
plied Luke.
202 LUKE DELMEGE
" A pretty compliment," said the Anglican. " No, I
never heard the word, except flung occasionally at a
Bishop as a nickname by one of our papers."
Later on in the evening Luke startled a little circle
who were gravely enlarging on the evolution of the race,
and conjecturing the tremendous possibilities that lay
before it.
" Considering what has been done," said Olivette
Lefevril, " and how we have gi;own from very humble
origins into what we are to-day," — she looked around
and into a large mirror and arranged a stray curl, —
" there is no, absolutely no, limit to the developments
of humanity. Something higher, and something even
approaching to the anthropomorphic conceptions of the
Deity is even realizable."
••' There is not much hope for it," said a belligerent
journalist, "- so long as the nations are at one another's
throat for a trifle ; and so long as gentlemen in morn-
ing dress in their comfortable cabinets can get the un-
happy proletariat to blow each othei to atoms for their
amusement."
"Ah ! but war," said Clotilde, "war, dreadful as it
is, is but the sifting and selection of the strongest and
the best. Nations emerge from war and renew their
strength as the eagle's."
" And see," said a blue-spectacled lady, " how we have
eliminated mendicancy from our midst. A mendicant
is as extinct as a dodo."
" I should give all the world to see a beggar ! " broke
in Luke, rashly.
" A beggar ! a real, live beggar, with rags and things? "
broke in the chorus of the startled multitude.
" Yes," said Luke, confidently, " a real, live, leprous
beggar — a very Lazarus of sores, if only to help us to
recall some things we read of in Scripture."
"Ah! but my dear Mr. Delmege, you quite forget
that all this took place in Syria and in the close of the
ancient cycle. This is England, and the nineteenth
century."
ENCHANTMENT 20S
" Quite so," said Luke, appealing to a Canon, " but
what says the Scripture — ' Tlie poor you shall always
have with you ' ! "
" What, then, becomes of the evolution of religion ? "
shrieked a lady. "If there is to be no progress, where
comes in your Christianity ? "
" I think," said the senior Canon, " that Mr. Delmege
is right and wrong, — right in his interpretation ; wrong
in his application. The text he has quoted means :
' Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the King-
dom of Heaven.' "
" Of course. And that embraces us all," said Oli-
vette. " I'm sure, now, that sometimes I feel quite em-
barrassed by these accessories of civilization. Can we
not do, I say sometimes to myself, with less ? Are not
these ornaments of life unnecessary and a burden ? I
sometimes feel, that, like dear St. Francis, I should like
to go abroad and — and — see the world."
"■ How could you get on without your easel and
brushes and palettes?" said Clotilde. Olivette was
the artist of the family.
" Oh ! I should hire a little Italian boy to take them
for me, and we could spend days on the Umbrian Moun-
tains, and paint, oh ! such delicious bits of scenery, and
eat nothing but olives and grapes, and drink only water
— snow-water from the fountain-peaks of the Apennines,
and — and — a little Falernian."
"And then, dear," said Clotilde, "you could go down
into the convents, and copy those dear crucifixions of
Angelico, and the sweet ' Eece Homo's'; and oh!
Olive, if you could bring me back one — only one copy
of that divine ' Scourging,' by Corti ! "
Olivette slmddered, and said coldly : —
" No ! no ! our Heine has stop[)ed all that. No more
painful realism, like the visions of Emmerich; but
sweet-faced Agneses, and Cecilias, and perhaps, now and
again, a divine Juno, or the flower-face of an Oread."
So Luke's little observation drew down tliis admira-
ble discussion on Scripture, political economy, art, etc..
204 LUKE DELMEGE
and Luke felt not a little elated as the giver of inspira-
tion and the originator of ideas. Dear me ! to think
that he, the child of an Irish farmer, should be not only
a member, but even a leader, in this select coterie in
the centre of British civilization ! And Carlyle took
years to make the British public forget that he was the
son of a Scotch mason ! Luke was floating on the
enchanted river.
He was accompanied to the door by the sisters.
" I really think I shall paint your picturesque beg-
gar," said Olivette.
" No, no, dear, don't spoil your art-fancies," said Clo-
tilde. '' What would the ' Master ' say ? "
Luke felt half-jealous of that "Master."
" If you could spare time," he said, " I should like
much to have a picture of that ship in the 'Ancient
Mariner' — the sea smooth as glass, the sun setting,
and her skeleton spars making a scaffolding against the
daffodil sky ! "
" You shall have it," said Olivette.
" Good-night, brother ! Don't forget the Atta Troll ! "
" Good-night, brother ! "
" Brother, good-night ! The Laches for Thursday ! "
" Bah," said Luke ; " there's only a sheet of tissue-
paper between the races ; but politicians and pamphlet-
eers have daubed it all over with ghouls and demons
on both sides. When will the valiant knight come and
drive his lance through it, and let the races see each
other as they are ? "
It was close on midnight when Luke reached the
presbytery. A light was burning in Dr. Drysdale's
room. Luke went softly upstairs. The old man was
at the door of his bedroom.
" I must say. Father Delmege, that you are keeping
of late most unseasonable hours — "
" I was detained by some gentlemen from London,"
stammered Luke. " It appears that midnight is con-
sidered quite early in London."
ENCHANTMENT 205
"This is not London. This is Aylesburgh. There
is a parcel and some letters in the dining-room.''
Luke went downstairs. He was chilled and depressed
at this reproof. He eagerly opened the parcel. He
had ordered from a bookseller on the Strand a pretty
fair collection — Goethe's Wilhelm 3Ieuter, Comte's
Catechism of Positivism, Mill on Liberty, Herbert Spencer
on Fro;iress and Education^ etc. Instead of the bright,
spruce volumes he had expected, he found four dingy,
clammy duodecimos. Turning to the gas-jet, he read
the almost obliterated words on the back : —
"BREVIARIUM ROAIANUM: PARS AESTIVA."
"Who has offered me this insult?" he said. "I
suppose Sheldon, who is so much concerned about my
eternal salvation."
He tore open the first letter. It was from Father
Sheldon, and ran thus : —
"My dear Delmege : — A [Miss Wilson, from Ireland, called
here to-day to inquire lor you. She said you were deeply interested
in her brother, Louis, a youni]^ medical student, at St. Thomas's.
She had not iieard of your removal to Aylesburgh, and seemed dis-
appointed. She has come over to act as housekeeper and guardian
angel to her brother. From our brief conversation I could gather
that she is eminently qualitied for both offices. I don't despair of
the Island of Saints yet. I think there's one left. She wished that
I should enclose to you their address."
The second letter ran : —
'■Mv DEAR Luke: — We expect you over without fail fi)r your
sister's wedding. Your protracted exile is causing some anxiety
here. It is pn^liable, as you have already heard, that Margery will
enter in Limerick. You know that poor Father Tim has gone to
meet his brother, Ecclesiastes, in Heaven. He left you his Brevi-
aries and a parting word — to hold your head high 1
" Yours affectionately.
"Martin IIlghes, P.P.
" Seaview Cottage, KnockuHinif."
Luke took up the Rreviaries rather gingerly. The
cover had been originally of red morocco ; but the years
206 LUKE DELMEGE
had wrought havoc with red and gold. They were
black, grimy, clammy, from constant use ; for then, as
now, the Breviary is the poetical anthology, the manual
of philosophy, the compendium of theology and patrol-
ogy to the Irish priest. Luke put down the volumes
with a shudder, and then washed his hands.
m
CHAPTER XVII
A LAST APHORISM
'TwAS true, indeed. Father Tim was dead. He had
carried his little stock of wisdom, and merged it in the
great supernal Wisdom that guides, oh ! so unerringly,
yet imperceptibly, the little currents of our lives.
There never was a man so proud of his philosophy as
Father Tim ; never a man who knew so little of the
world. His happy consciousness of the former faculty,
his liappy unconsciousness of the latter defect, or bless-
ing, made him a most lovable man.
During this s})ring the influenza, then quite an un-
pleasant novelty, was raging in his jjarish ; and ]iight
and day he swept the mountains from cabin to cabin on
his little cob. Then when tlie epidemic had ceased and
the flock was saved, the pastor was struck down, and
fatally.
Father Martin was beside liimself w ith grief. Father
Pat was too seientilic to be oversolicitous about his
friend. IJut he did all that a scientist could do; and
wonderfid were the pharmaceutical remedies that he
prestu'ibed. Alas ! Father Tim was a fatalist.
'' When a man's time comes, where \s the use in jiut-
tinof back the hands on the clock?" he said. There
was no possible reply to this.
And so, one evening in March of ihis sad year,
Father Martin made up his mind to discharge consci-
entiously his duty as a friend and brother priest, antl
warn his good neiglibour that the sands were running-
fast, and it was high time to prepare for the last great
journey.
207
208 LUKE DELMEGE
" Of course, Martin," said the poor patient, feebly,
" it is a long road, and there's no turning back when
you start. But there are no cross-roads either, Martin,
where a man could lose his way."
" That's true," said Father Martin. " Now we'll see
about the spirituals first, and then the temporals."
The ceremony did not take long, and then he made
his profession of faith.
"It isn't faith, Martil," he sobbed, "wdth me, but
bision, thalk God."
" That's true, Tim," said Martin, deeply affected.
" I'm sure the Blessed Virgin herself will come for
you."
" Ha ! ha ! " said the dying man, " no wonder she
should — no wonder she should ! She'll be very un-
grateful, and that's not her way, you know, if she
doesn't be standing there at the foot of the bed when
the light is going out."
" And you're quite sure you're not afraid to die ? "
" Afraid ? Afraid of what, man ? No ! ' Better
soon than sudden,' said I ; and it is something to go
before God with your senses about you."
" That's true," said Martin, gravely. " Now, about
your will. Where is it ? "
"There in the cupboard, such as it is," said the
patient.
Father Martin went over, and after some careful
searching amongst old receipts and rubbish, he found
the will. It was written on a sheet of notepaper, and
ran thus : —
"In the name of God, Amen.
"I, Timothy Hurley, make this my last will and testament. I
leave my dear friends, Father Martin Hughes and Father Pat
Casey, fifty pounds each for Masses for my soul, to be said at once.
Bis dat qui cito dat. I leave my successor fifty pounds for the poor
of the parish. Dispersit, dedit pauperihus. I leave the Reverend
Mother of the Presentation Convent, I.,imerick, one hundred pounds
for the children of the convent schools. Sinite parviilos ad me
venire. I leave the Superioress of the Good Shepherd, Limerick,
one hundred pounds for her poor penitents. Erravi sicut ovis quce
1
A LAST APHORISM 209
periit. I leave my parish, with the Bishop's consent, to Father Pat
Casey, because he's a silent man, and knows how to consume his
own smoke. And my Breviary I leave to Fatlier Luke Dehnege,
with the parting advice : Hold your head high, and always put a
good valuation on yourself! My soul I leave to Almighty God
and His Blessed Mother, for they have the best right to it.
Signed: "Timothy Hurley,
" Parish Priest of Gortnagoshel."
Father Martin read the document without a smile.
Then —
" There are a good many legacies here, Tim. Now,
where's all the wealth lodged?"
" Wealth ? What for ? I haven't a penny, except
you find some loose silver on the mantelpiece."
" But you have bequeathed in this will nearly, let me
see, over ,£350. Why did you make such a will if you
have nothing, as I suspected ? "
" But didn't the Bishop order us, under pain of sus-
pension, to make our wills in three months from the
retreat ? " said Father Tim, struggling with the fading
breath.
'•' Of course. But that supposed you had something
to leave. You have been very generous with nothing,
lim.
"■ Well, I thought sure that a full measure is better
than an empty sack. And sure, if there's nothing there,
they can get nothing."
'■'■ Pat and I will take care of the Masses, whatever,"
said Father Martin.
""God V)less you, Martin. I knew you would."
" Fm afraid, Tim, the Bishop will hardly admit that
you have the right of presentation to your parish."
" Well, to tell you the truth, Martin, I never thought
he would. But he's fond of a joke ; and I said to my-
self : '• Well, now, Tim, when his Lordshii) hears this,
he'll clap his hands and say, that's a goocl joke, and 1
won't balk him.' "
"Ah ! but that preaching," said Martin.
"Look here, now, Martin, there's too much preach-
ing altogether. If there's anything Fm sorry for, it is
210 LUKE DELMEGE
that I talked too much. Sure, 'tisn't the Avater that
runs down the river that turns the mill, but the water
that's caught in the mill-race."
" That's true, Tim," said Martin ; " but bishops want
men to preach ; and if you remember your Selva, you
know that it is laid down as the first duty of a parish
priest."
"And you think the Bishop won't heed the joke?"
said Father Tim, faintly.
" I fear not," said Father Martin. " He has been
very hard on poor Pat for that same thing."
There was a long pause, during which the breath of
the dying priest came only in gasps and sobs. Then
for a moment it became easier.
" Martin.'"
"Yes, Tim."
" Martil, I'b goib to leave you somethib," said the
poor priest, with a sob.
" I wouldn't doubt you, Tim," said Father Martin.
"Martil, we were always goob friends."
"Always, Tim."
"Martil."
"Yes, Tim."
" rb goib to leab you Tiny."
Here Martin became quite as affected as his friend.
" I won't take her, but on one condition," he said.
" What is it, Martil ? "
"That you throw Tony into the bargain."
" Gob bless you, Martil ! I knew I coulb depenb ob
you."
Here it may be remarked that Tiny and Tony had
been baptized in a Christian manner and with Christian
names. They were the children of a young medical
doctor who had come down to Gortnagoshel, and after
a desperate fight had secured a dispensary worth XlOO
a year. When he had secured this prize, almost at the
cost of his life, he won himself another prize, this time
a real one, in the shape of a young wife, brought up
in a Dublin hot-house of luxury and ease, and suddenly
A LAST APHORISM 211
transferred to this Libya by the seashore. But tliey
were very haj^py together, and very much happier when
Christina was baptized on Christmas Day ; and a year
later when Antony was placed under the direct patron-
age of his mother's favourite saint. For she had a great
devotion to St. Antony, and always sealed her dainty
letters with the mysterious S.A.G. Then one day tlie
cloud came down. The young doctor took typhus
fever in a mountain cabin and died. And the young
mother could not be kept back from him even by the
exceeding love she bore her children ; but slie, too,
sickened and died. And on that lonely evening, when
her soul was straining between God and her bairns, it
was Father Tim that let loose that sweet spirit for God
by taking on himself the duty of father and protector
of the motherless ones.
" Sure 'tis as easy to fill two mouths as one," he said ;
and they came home with him and grew into his soft
and affectionate heart.
" I'll tell you what it is, Martin," said the faint voice ;
"you're doing too much ; but God will bless you."
'' I tell you what it is, Tim," said Martin, '* Fll take
the cliiklren home now, and come to see 3'ou again."
"Gob bless you, Martil," said the grateful heart in
its sobbing.
Easier said than done, though, to borrow an aphorism.
Tiny and Tony were done u}) by the housekee[)er and
brought in in solemn state. Tiny was gorgeous in pink
and white. Tony was almost supercilious. He had
assumed the tor/a virilis, and, 1)y natural instinct, had
his hands phmged dce[) in his pockets. He looked
curiously from Martin to his guardian, and almost
shouted with joy when he was told to say good-bye, for
he was hencefortli to live and lodge at Seaview Cottage.
Not so Tiny. When she was jjlaced liigh up on tlie pil-
low to kiss good-bye to her guardian, she sobbed and
wept and pleaded.
"Come now. Tiny," said Father Martin, "and we'll
go home together."
212 LUKE DELMEGE
" Noa, noa, noa, noa, noa," sobbed Tiny, with her
arms around her guardian's neck. Who said "ia
donna e mobile " f
" Martil," said Father Tim, sobbing with the child.
" Yes, Tim," said Martin.
"I dilk ril keeb Tiny until — until 'tis all ober," said
Father Tim.
" All right, old man," said Martin. " Fll be back in
a few minutes. Come, Tony, old boy ! "
A few minutes drew on to a few hours, and when
Father Martin returned it was clear that the end was
at hand.
" Martin," said the dying man, feebly.
" Yes, Tim."
" Do you think will that omadhaun, Daly, be at my
Requiem ? "
" Very probably, Tim. Every man in the diocese
will be there."
"Could you keep him out of the choir?" said Father
Tim. "He's an awful roarer."
.. " Fm afraid not. He generally leads, you know."
" If I hear him yelling, Martin, and if I see him twist-
ing his head around to see are the people admiring him,
'twill make me turn in my coffin."
" Never mind him, Tim. He won't trouble you, Fll
promise you."
" Martin."
, "Yes, Tim."
" Would you read one of the Psalms for me ? "
"Which, 'Tim?"
" The Benedic — , Martin. 'Twas you introduced me
to it."
Father Martin took up the time-stained Breviary,
and read that glorious Psalm. He was murmuring
along verse after verse, until he came to " Quomodo
miseretur pater filiorum, misertus est Dominus timenti-
bus se ; quoniam ipse cognovit figmentum nostrum.
Recordatus est quoniam pulvis sumus ; homo, sicut foe-
num, dies ejus ; tanquam flos agri, sic efflorebit."
A LAST APHORISM 213
" Martin."
''Yes, Tim."
" My mind was wandering when I spoke about Daly.
Give me another absolution."
Martin imparted the Sacrament again. Then, after
a pause. Father Tim said : —
" Martin."
"Yes, Tim."
" Are you there ? "
"Yes, Tim."
"My sight — is — leaving me. But — didn't — I —
tell — you, Martin ? "
"What?"
" That the — Blessed Virgin — would — come for —
me?"
"You did, Tim."
" There — she — is, Martin ! "
" Where ? " said Father Martin, staring wildly.
" Look — there — over her — picture. Yes," he said,
speaking to the invisible, "I'm ready. Never — refuse
— a — good — off — "
And Martin was alone in the room.
There was a vast gathering at the obsequies. Father
Daly did chant the Antiphons, and the most magnifi-
cent music of the Catliolic burial service ; and I am
afraid he did twist his head around sometimes to see
the effect on his audience, but the silent slumberer made
no siofn. Tliese thinfjs were of no concern to him nt)w
or forevermore.
When the wliite ring of the assembled jiri(\sts was
broken up around tlie grave after tlie wailing of the
Bencdidus, and of all assembled only the dead jiriest
an<l Fatlier Martin remained, the people closed around
the colhn. And then
" Til nil jii'ose a great wailing."
The men stood silently weeping; the women were
demonstrative in their outburst of sorrow. Some knelt
214 LUKE DELMEGE
and beat the coffin with their open palms ; some lifted
hands to heaven ; all cried : " (jod be with him that is
gone ! " And you conld hear strange stories narrated
of his goodness and self-sacrifice ; and his wisdom liad
passed into a proverb amongst a proverb-loving people.
" Many's the time he said to me : ' God is good ; and
He said He would.' "
" Ay, indeed, ' A stout heart for a long road,' he used
to say. And sure we wanted the pleasant word to keep
our s]Derits up."
" ' Darby,' he used to say, ' Darby, never let a fox
get on your shoulder to pluck the grapes. H you do.
Darby, believe me very few will drop into your
mouth.' "
" Wisha, what'll become of thim little orphans, I
wonder? Sure, they have no one now but the grate
God ! "
" Whisht, 'uman, they're down at Father Martin's."
" God bless him ! Sure he has the kind heart. But
poor Father Tim ! poor Father Tim ! The heavens be
his bed to-night ! "
There is no harm in feeling a sense of justifiable
pride when one makes a great discovery. Hence, we
congratulate ourselves on the unique distinction of hav-
ing found that the distinctive term of popular canoni-
zation in Ireland is that word "poor." The man who
is spoken of as poor is an admired and loved man.
" Poor Father Tim ! " " Poor St. Joseph ! " " The poor
Pope ! " Is it not significant that an impoverished race,
to whom poverty, often accentuated into famine, has
been the portion of their inheritance and their cup for
nigh on seven hundred years, should take that word as
the expression of their affection ? Happy is the priest
to whom it is applied ; he has a deep root in the people's
hearts.
It was never applied to the great Canon. Pie was
so lofty, and great, and dignified, that every one felt it
would be a misnomer. But we retain a lingering affec-
A LAST APHORISM 215
tion for him, for he was a most worthy man ; and this
time we shall oppose the popular verdict, or rather
svip})ly the popular omission.
The poor Canon was convalescent. He, too, had been
attacked by that most irreverent and undiscriminat-
ing- invader, the influenza. But he had a curate, and
Father Tim hadn't. That made all the difference in
the world. Father Tim went to heaven ; the Canon
remained in the valley of tears. And he was weak,
and languid, and depressed. He had heard of his neigh-
bour's demise.
"A good poor fellow," he said, ''but somewhat un-
formed. Quaint and almost — ha — medijeval, he could
hardly be styled — ha — a man of the world. But he
was a simple, unadorned priest."
This was said to Barbara, who had come down from
Dublin to nurse her uncle.
" I understood," said Barbara, in reply, her kind heart
always anxious to say the kind word, " that he was
guardian to Anna Bedford's little cliildren. Oh ! it
was so sad ! "
"Imprudent, my dear child ! " said the Canon. " Or,
rather a series of — ha — imprudences. Think of that
young lady, leaving the — ha — luxuries of her Dublin
home to live in such a remote and — lia — uncivilized
place. And this on one hundred pounds a year I And
then the imprudence of that — ha — excellent clerg3'man
in taking the grave and serious Dhligation of their — ha
— mainteuanre and education. We shall never learn
ordinary' — ha — prurience in Ireland."
" You have liad a letter from Louis, uncle ?" said Bar-
bara, anxious to change the subject.
" Yes I " said the uncle, whose many imprudt'iiees
there now flashed on his mind. He thought Barl)ara
was personal in her remarks.
"I want you, Barbara, for the — ha — future to re-
main here. I siiall give you up the keys of this — ha
— establishment — "
"I'm afraid, uncle, much as I should like to be your
216 LUKE DELMEGE
companion, and the quiet country life would have many-
attractions for me, I am called elsewhere."
" Mother can manage without you now, my dear
child," he said. " And suppose you were to form a re-
spectable — ha — alliance b}^ marriage, she would have
to dispense with your services."
" It is not mother that needs me, uncle," she said,
weeping softly, "but poor Louis."
" Then you have heard something to cause grave
apprehension ? " said the Canon. " I thought that
Louis was promising to have a most respectable — "
He did not finish the diplomatic phrase. It hurt liis
conscience.
" I don't know," said Barbara ; " but I have presenti-
ments, and I am anxious."
" You don't think he has any tendency now towards
— ha — well, evil companionship ? "
" I don't know," she murmured. " London is a dan-
gerous place."
" You would not suspect that he had any leaning
towards — ha — I can hardly express myself," said the
Canon, blandly, " towards — well — intoxicating drinks ? "
" I hardly dare think on the subject," she said.
" And, of course," said the Canon, with that consum-
mate diplomacy in which he considered himself past
master, " it never entered into your mind that — that
— ha — he might have — it is only a — supposititious
case, you know, — ha — contemplated self-destruction ? "
" Oh ! uncle ! uncle ! " cried Barbara, in a paroxysm
of grief, " why did you not tell me sooner ? Oh ! Louis,
Louis ! I shall never forgive myself."
The Canon was greatly troubled. He hated scenes.
They disturbed his equanimity, and left his nerves tin-
gling for hours after. And he felt now how unreason-
able it was of Barbara not to have accepted his diplomatic
suggestions in a diplomatic manner. Women are so
unreasonable ; their intuitions and instincts rush so far
ahead of reason.
" Now, Barbara, this is unreasonable, and not at all
A LAST APHORISM 217
— ha — what I expected from you. A young lady
brought up as you have been should have acquired —
ha — more composure of manner."
" But, uncle dear, if what you have hinted at were
only remotely possible it would be dreadful beyond en-
durance. Poor Louis ! we have not treated him well ! "
'' Now, now, Barbara, please let us not continue the
[)ainful subject. I am not well. I am depressed, and
— lia — these harrowing subjects are really — well: —
embarrassing."
" I'm sure I'm so sorry, uncle ; but when could I
" Well, dear," the Canon said, his natural benevolence
conquering, "■ 1 tliink you are right. Indeed, I must say
now that I suggested to your — ha — excellent mother
months ago that Louis — ha — needed a protecting
hand—"
"• Mother never told me — Oh ! dear ! — Oh ! dear ! "
sobbed Barbara, in her agony.
^ Well ! never mind, child ; there is no harm done.
You can make your preparations at once ; and leave for
London as soon as — ha — you are able."
'' Oh ! thanks, dear uncle," said Barbara ; " I shall
leave to-night, with your permission. And you mustn't
thiidv me cruel or ungrateful, dear uncle, to leave you
until you are quite beyond convalescence. But, you
know — "
'-'• Quite enough, F>arbara," he said. " I understand
you, my child. I shall give you money for your jour-
ney ; and there is a most estimable young — friend —
or — rather parishioner of mine in London — a young
priest — I think, by the way, you met him here at one
time."
" You mean Father Delmege, uncle," she exclaimed.
" C)h, yes ! he has l)een very kind to Louis — that is. I
mean, I think he has been — "
" Well, I shall give you a letter to that estimable
young clergyman, and ask him to help you in the — lia
— exceedingly arduous task you have undertaken."
218 LUKE DELMEGE
There was silence for a few minutes.
" And, Barbara ! " exclaimed the Canon.
"Yes, uncle dear."
" If you thought well of it, perhaps you might deem
it — ha — prudent to bring Louis back to Ireland — "
" Father and Louis do not seem to understand each
other," she said sadly.
The Canon paused, debating the prudence of what he
was going to say. For the Canon in his youth had been
a most unselfish, imprudent creature, given to all kinds
of generous, mad impulses (witness that girl in typhus
whom he had placed in the ambulance waggon, as he
would now call it), and therefore it behoved him to be
on his guard.
"I meant," he said, "that perhaps, — it is only a sug-
gestion, — that perhaps Louis and you might take up
your residence here until such a period as would insure
his thorough reform — I mean convalescence."
" Oh ! uncle, you are too good ; you are too good !
I will bring Louis back ; and oh I we shall be so hapj^y."
And Barbara, rash, daring little girl, actually took
the soft hand of her unresisting uncle and kissed it.
He did not withdraw his hand, nor was he offended.
And so a few days afterwards Louis Wilson stared
with wide, colourless eyes, in which the pupils were but
a pin-point, and out of a very glassy face at an appari-
tion that framed itself in the doorway of his room.
And some one, he dreamt, took up his shaking hand,
from which the finger-nails were mouldering, and kissed
him. And the good old housekeeper announced to the
other lodgers a few days later that " a hangel had come
hall the way from Hireland to the puir young gentle-
man ; " and that her honest conscience was at rest.
And Barbara was very happy, for tilings were not alto-
gether so bad as she had dreaded ; and she knew that
she had one great friend in London — the Rev. Luke
Delmege.
And the Canon had a letter from his Bishop to the
effect that his Lordship was promoting his curate, the
i A LAST APHORISM 219
Rev. Patrick Casey, to a parish in a far part of the dio-
cese ; and that he was sending him another curate.
Who will say that a Bishop cannot enjoy a joke? Well,
; half-way ! For Father Pat did not succeed to Gortna-
! goshel, as his good friend wished ; yet he got his in-
cumbency at last, and he owes his benefice to that stray
joke that found its way into the most absurd and
informal will that even a Lord Chancellor could devise.
CHAPTER XVIII
DISENCHANTMENT
Luke Delmege crossed over from Holyhead by the
night boat. He had called for a moment at his old
presbytery and seen the dear old Vicar and Father
Sheldon.
" More civilized," thought the Vicar, " but not quite
so attractive."
" Of course you'll run over to see the Wilsons," said
Father Sheldon. " They are now — "
"• I should like to do so very much indeed," said
Luke, "but really I have no time. The mail goes
about five or six o'clock, I think, and I have a few pur-
chases to make."
"Miss Wilson will be disappointed," said Father
Sheldon.
Luke shrugged his shoulders.
Next morning, sleepy and discontented, he wandered
around Dublin waiting for the down mail. If he had
had time, he would have run down to see his own Alma
Mater ; but there was no time. He thought Dublin —
the Dublin that had appeared to him in his student
days, now so long, so very long ago, a fairy city of
splendour — dingy and mean. He shrank into himself
as he saw coatless, grimy men actually treading the
pavements of Grafton Street. The 23yramid of human-
ity, that poverty piles around the O'Connell Statue and
Nelson's Pillar, seemed a revolting picture. He passed
into Stephen's Green. He rather liked the ponds, and
cascades, and the flowers ; but the people seemed so
shabbily dressed. And then he nearly stumbled over
220
DISENCHANTMENT 221
a few corpses — no I they were only tramps sleeping on
the grass of the Green. " How horrible ! " said Luke.
And this is the University College Chapel ! It
sounds well. The very words have a glamour and a
meaning all tlieir own. He went in to say his Office
and make a short visit. He was enraptured. The
architecture, the marble of walls and pillars, the dusk
in which the altar was hid, the pulpit wiiere Newman
had preached, all appealed to his newly formed fancies.
He went into the dim twilight of the side chapel, and
remembered having read that there on that altar, with
that same small circular window letting in sunlight, and
moonlight, and darkness, the great Oratorian used to
say Mass. He called up the scene, and behind that
scene, and above and around it, he saw what might have
been; and the ghosts rose up under the s])ell of imagi-
nation, the spectres of magniticeiit possibilities that never
had passed beyond ideas. He thought he heard the
bell ringing for Vespers — a sweet, soft, mournful bell,
that tolled out of the mists and shadows of dreandand.
There was a murmur of voices smhlenly hushed, and the
shuftling of feet, and one by one a vast concourse of
men filed into the church. They were dressed in aca-
demic fashion, their long gowns or togas falling loosely
around the ordinary dress, and tliey carried the well-
known square caps in their hands. A few had blue
hoods, falling down gracefully over their shoulders;
and one or two, quite distinguished fioni tlieir fellows,
wore red. But there was a gravity, a com})osure, a
sense of personal dignity and rev(u-ence about all, that
made Luke think he had seen nothing like it since the
day of his ordination at Maynoolli. Wluii all were
seated, a priest, clad in cope and accompanied by many
acolytes, came to the altar and intoned tlie Ih'iif< in arh'u-
torinm menm intendt'. The choir took up the ehant : the
organ pealed out, and then there was a glorious burst
of masculine voices, that echoed from side to side, as
strophe and antistrophe in a great Christian clun-us,
and seemed to beat around the walls and to be caught
222 LUKE DELMEGE
up to the ceiling ; and the pause at the antiphons be-
came painful, until they swelled out again into the
rhythmic thunder of a thousand voices. But all the
sweet, beautiful memories of his college came back to
Luke when the Magnificat was intoned, and the great
prophetic voice of the young Queen Mother swelled out
into the deep thrilling accents of her followers and
clients. Then again a painful pause ; and Luke heard
a voice, at first plaintive and feeble, and then firm and
resonant, and piercing like shafts of light into every
corner of the chapel and every recess of the human
hearts that were throbbing under the magic of mighty
words, and the strange overwhelming influence of a
great and exalted character. And there was no elo-
quence such as Luke then understood it ; no beautiful
rounded periods, emphasized by action ; but simple,
plain truths, and put in such a way as to admit of no
contradiction or question, for they carried conviction
even to the critical or sceptical, if such had found their
way into such a sympathetic circle. And it was all
about life and its issues ; its worthlessness in se ; its
tremendous importance relatively, and the sacred re-
sponsibilities that are intrusted to a race, feeble and
impotent and transient, but endowed with infinite possi-
bilities ; and powers for evil and good, that cannot be
measured in time, for time has only the transparent
tissue of a cloud, but mu.st be thrown upon the back-
ground of eternities for the revelation of their nature
and importance. But Luke drew all his faculties, now
expanded into admiration and enthusiasm, together
when the preacher went on to say that every one under-
stood how utterly insignificant was this world and man's
life, unless a light was thrown on both from eternity.
No man would care to work or suffer for a paltry and
perishable race. All the vast cycles of Imman history
are merely a point in time, just as our earth and the
visible universe are but grains of sand in infinity. All
the dreams of mortals, therefore, all the aspirations of
great idealists, all the music of poetry, all the high and
DISENCHANTMENT 223
lofty conjectures after human perfection, are tales with-
out meaning or moral, until you suppose man's immor-
tality. Religion, therefore, is an absolute necessity if
life is to have a meaning ; and hence, in every scheme
of liberal study, metaphysics must enter and become a
constituent, nay, the principal constituent, if it were
only to show the mere materialist that, even outside
and beyond religion, tliere are mysteries upon mysteries
ever waiting to be solved. And then the preacher
passed on to Ireland, its history, its martyrdom, its
mission ; and told these young souls that the last chap-
ter was not yet written, would not Ik; written for cen-
turies to come ; for that a race with a priceless history,
and a present unencumbered with material problems,
must have of necessity a rich and glorious future.
What that future was to be Luke could not hear, for
already his mind was busy with many problems evoked
by the preacher's words, and for tlie hundredth time
Luke was face to face with enigmas. Then the vision
vanished, and Luke was alone. He shook the dream
from liim to see two young girls staring at him cuii-
ously. lie took up his hat and passed down the aisle.
Under the gallery he paused to look around and wonder
where his beautiful dream had vanished. He saw only
the sacristan testing the l)rass looks on the money boxes
and looking suspiciously towards him.
At the very best, indeed, and under the most favour-
able circumstances of climate, the railway trip on the
Great Southern line is decidedly uninteresting. Ire-
land's l)cautv spots lie around her high coast-line, like
jewels around the lijjs of an enchased goblet. Hut the
gray shadow of an A})ril sky also hung down around
])rown bog and scraggy iield, and. though the promise
of May was in the air, bud and flower wrajijied tliem-
selves cosily in their cradles and would not venture
into the light. They " did not like this weeping nurse ;
they wanted their laughing mother."
And so Luke thouglit he had never seen anything so
melancholy and sad. There was a look of age and
224 LUKE DELMEGE
decay about everything. Here and there they swept
by the skeleton of some old ruined abbey and castle,
that was just kept from falling by the tender support
of the kind ivy. That was history. And here and
there, more frequently, he saw standing the bare brown
mud walls of an unroofed cabin, the holes, that once
were windows and doors, staring like the sockets of a
skull. There was the mark of the fire on the chimney-
wall. Where were they now, who had wept and laughed,
and sung and mourned, as they sat around that sacred
hearth ? Perhaps it is an etching on the memory of
some great capitalist in Omaha or Chicago ; perhaps for
him that ragged hawthorn before the door is the life-
tree Igdrasil, waving its mighty branches and intoning
in the night wind, though its roots are deep down among
the dead.
It was evening, cold and raw, when Luke stepped
from the railway carriage, and saw the quaint old side-
car and the rough, shaggy horse, that were to carry him
some miles to his home. He did not see the old servant
at first, until a voice, as from far-off spaces, said close
by : —
" Yerra, thin, Masther Luke, and sure it is I'm proud
to see you."
" Ho, Larry," said Luke, Avith an effort, and with an
effort shaking the rough hand of the old man, " and how
is Nancy ? But you're looking very old, Larry."
" The years are tellin', Masther Luke," said the old
man, who was somewhat chilled by the appearance
and grand manner of him whom he had known from
his childhood ; " 'tisn't young we're gettin', Masther
Luke ! "
'•' And the side-car looks so old and shabby," said
Luke; "why don't they get it upholstered?"
" Well, tliin," said Larry, somewhat offended, as it
seemed to imply a censure on himself, " 'twas only last
summer we got it done up ; but the winther and the
rain took a lot out of it, your reverence."
" And the poor old mare ! Why, when was she
DISENCHANTMENT 225
clipped, Larry? She doesn't reflect much credit on
your grooming."
" She was at the plough all tlie spring, your rever-
ence," said Larry, " and the weather was too cowld to
cli}:) her."
He thought his old " Masther Luke " was changed a
good deal. He dropped the familiar title.
As they drove along, the aspect of the landscape
seemed intolerably melancholy and dull. The gray
fields, that had not yet sprung into green, the thatched
cottages, the ruined walls, the broken hedges, the ragged
bushes, all seemed to Luke, fresh from the prim civili-
zation of Aylesburgh, unspeakably old and wretched.
Ruin and dilapidation were everywhere.
" It's a land of tombs and desolation," he thought.
As lie drove up the long, hawthorn-shaded avenue, that
led to liis father's liouse, the gloom deepened. During
his college course, when "home for the liolidays," how
his heart used to beat, until lie shouted with glee, as he
passed up along the quick and thorn hedges ! How he
used to jump on the car to gather a leafy branch to be
waved in his triumphal march towards home ; and how
his cheery hallo ! would bring out all the collies and
retrievers with their glad oratorios of yelping and bark-
ing ; and there in the background was the aged, stooped
figure of his good father, and the sweet face of his mother
under the crown of her beautiful snowy cap, and Lizzie
and Margery — well, but 'tis just the same scene now !
Alas, no ! the disenchantment has come ! The dogs are
barking, indeed, and there are the dear old figures, and
there is Lizzie alone, for IShirgery is pacing the garden
walks far away amongst the Good Shepherds at Lim-
erick. But it is not the same. Oh, no I nor ever shall
be again. He hath oaten of the tree of knowledge, and
the Eden of his childhood has vanished. They all no-
ticed the great change. Lizzie almost cried. Tlie father
said nothing. A reticent, silent race, these old Irish
fathers were. The mother, ever faithful, could only
feel pride in her glorious boy.
226 LUKE DELMEGE
" He was so grand and grave. Ah ! wisha ! what a
pity poor Father Pat wasn't here ! What a proud man
he'd be this day ! " she thought.
But the rest felt that a stranger had come to visit
them, and there was restraint and a little affected
formalism.
"Has the priest come ? " said Peggy, when Larry was
putting up the mare.
" He has," said Larry, crossly.
" How is he lookin' ? " said Peggy.
" Oh ! grand intirely," said Larry. " But we must
borry the Canon's coach for him. Begor, he'll be
wantin' me to put on brass buttons and a high cockade."
Peggy looked at him suspiciously.
" Keep yer jokes for some one else," she said.
"And so, Lizzie," said Luke at the tea-table (dear
me ! how plain this white-and-gold china looked after
the tea equipages at the salon), " you are going to be
married ? "
" Yes," said Lizzie, blushing, and with a little toss of
her head.
" Well, I'm sure I hope you have made a good seleC'
tion," said Luke.
"Well, thin, indeed he is," said the mother; "as
dacent a boy as there is from here to Cork, and that's a
big word. He hasn't all the money we expected ; but,
sure, he's a kind, graceful boy, and he comes of a dacent
family."
" And Margery has run away from you ? " said Luke.
" I didn't think her thoughts took that direction."
" Thim gay youngsters," said the mother, "are the
first to inter the convents. They pretind nothing but
coortin' and lafkin' ; and thin, all of a suddint, off they
go and laugh at us all. But you're not atin'. Father
Luke."
" Oh ! yes, thank you, Pm doing very well," said
Luke. "And Father Casey has gone?"
" He has ; and God be wid him, and may his journey
DISENCHANTMENT 227
thry with liim ! Sure, maniiy's the wan will miss him-
and the place is lonesome widout him."
" And the Canon, how is he ? " said Luke.
" Grand intirely ; but this sickness — the hinfluenzy
they call it — took a shake out of him. He hasn't the
ould spring in his walk, and he's stooped a little. But
God will spare him to his people manny a day yet ! "
" And who has succeeded Father Pat ? " asked Luke.
" Oh ! thin, a man that will make us mind our P's
and Q's, I tell you. Glory be to God ! he'd rise the
roof off your head if you hard him on Sunday morn-
ing-"
" He's a black, determined man," said Mike Delmege.
" He api)ears to mane what he says."
" I'm doubtful if he and the Canon will pull together,"
said Mrs. Delmege. But this was heresy to Mike Del-
mege, who could not conceive anything of liis priests
less than absolute perfection.
" Lave 'em alone I lave 'em alone ! " he said. " They
understan' tlieirselves better than we do."
"Well, sure, I'm only sayin' what everybody says,"
apologized Mrs. Delmege. '' But, P\ither Luke, wliat
about yerself ? Sure, v/e saw your name on the pa[)er ;
and didn't me heart swell when Father Pat brought it
up and pointed to it. 'There,' he said, — God be wid
him, my poor, dear man I — ' there's your son for you !
He'll never come ])ack to tliis misfortunate counthry
again I They'll make him a bishop over there ! ' Poor
Father Pat ! Poor Fatlier Pat ! "
" Well," Luke said, " we're getting on pretty well.
A good deal of work; and work must be done over
there, I tell you ! It isn't like the old country ! " It
was Luke's first criticism, but by no means his last, on
his native land.
'' But, father," he said, " why don't you touch up the
old })lace ? I'm sure it looks very shabby and — old."
"'• We Avere thinkin' of that same, indeed," said his
father ; " but we were puttin' it off from day to day ;
and, indeed, we could do it aisily," he continued, "for
228 LUKE DELMEGE
we have made by the butther this year alone the rint
and over it. Since the Canon, God bless him, showed
us what to do, and how to make a pinny of money with
the eggs, and the butther, and the chickens, we were
never better off, thank God ! and every family in the
parish can say the same."
"The new curate doesn't like it," said Mrs. Delmege.
" He says 'twill all come toppling down some day like a
house of cards. He believes in the Lague ! "
"The League?" said Luke, half angrily. " It seems
to me that you'll never be done fighting in this unhappy
country. It's always agitation, agitation ! Now, it
seems to me that the Canon is not only the superior in
station and ability to any of your priests, but he alone
appears to have struck the one thing that was necessary
to make the country a happy Arcadia."
" Ah, yes ! He's the good man, God spare him long
to rule over his parish ! "
" And when is Lizzie to be married ? " said Luke.
He was already impatient of home, and anxious to be
back in Aylesburgh.
" On Thursday, wid God's blessin' ! " said the mother.
" And I hope now," said Luke, " that there shall be
no scenes of rioting and revelling, but that everything
shall be conducted in a Christian, civilized manner."
"Oh! of course," said the mother. "We'll only
have a few of the neighbours ; and, I suppose, the little
boy will be bringin' a handful of friends wid him.
We'll have a bit of dinner in the barn ; and, perhaps,
the boys and girls would want a little dance — that's
all."
It was the portrait in miniature of what was really
before the good mother's mind ; but she was afraid that
the dignity and grandeur of her distinguished son
would be ruffled at the reality.
Next da}' Luke called on the Canon. It was evening,
and it was deepening into twilight, as he walked up the
well-known gravelled path, and knocked, no longer
timidly, but with an air of assurance, almost of con-
DISENCHANTMENT 229
temjit. He was shown into the drawing-room, as of old.
Tliere everything was the same as he had ever known
it ; but there was a vast change somewhere. Where ?
In himself. He looked now with critical disdain on
the Ce7ici portrait, and he thought the Madonna com-
monplace. And that glass case of artificial birds !
Olivette Lefevril would liave given it away to a tramp.
And here, not quite three years ago, lie had sat. a timid,
nervous, frightened young priest, and there had leaned
against the mantelpiece that wretched young rotie, who
actually had the effrontery to argue with him. Yes, in-
deed, there loas a change. The gentle, timid young
Levite had departed ; and here, in his stead, has come
the self-reliant, collected, independent man of experi-
ence and — of the world. The birds shook their wings,
as of old, and chirped. The gong tolled musically, and
here is the Canon.
" How do you do, Mr. Delmege? " as of old.
" Well, thank you," said Luke, with a pronounced
accent. The Canon collapsed. Luke was merciful.
"1 hope I see you well, sir," said Luke. "I was
rather sorry to hear from my father tluit you were still
suffering from the effects of this most unhappy epi-
demic."
'-'• Yes, indeed ! " said the Canon. " T cannot say that
I have — ha — yet quite recovered from the effects of
the disease." The Canon was watching Luke narrowly.
He hoped to see some faltering, some weakness. No !
Cool, calm, self-possessed, Luke sat bolt ui)right in his
chair, and held his hat and gloves witliout nervous
awkwardness. Tliose three years in England had made
a change.
"And you have lost your curate?" said Luke.
" Yes ! " said the Canon, blandly ; " at last ! at last I
the Bishop took compassion on his gray hairs, and —
ha — as the vulgar saying is, he threw a iwrish at
mm.
"And Fatlier Tim gone also?"
" Yes, poor fellow I Kind and good, but inexperi-
230 LUKE DELMEGE
enced. Really," said the Canon, looking at his visitor
keenly, " our clergymen seem to want a good deal of
that — ha — mannerism and — ha — polish, and — ha —
knowledge of life which — ha — intercourse with other
nations seems to create or develop."
"I'm hardly prepared," said Luke, who swallowed
the compliment as a morsel of sweet savour, " to offer an
opinion ; but I certainly do think that there are a good
many customs and habits at home that probably would
be permitted to fall into desuetude if we had larger
experience. I have already said to my good people at
home, and you will permit me to say so to you, sir, that
nowhere have I seen such rational efforts to promote
the welfare of the people as in your parish, and at your
suggestion, and under your supervision."
" I thank you, sir," said the Canon ; " and yet there
are some who not only do not share that opinion, but
who actually strive to — ha — embarrass me in my efforts
at — ha — ameliorating the condition of my people. But
let us dismiss the subject. You are — ha — thrown a
good deal in contact with the better classes — the aris-
tocracy in England ? "
" The better classes ? yes ! The aristocracy of talent ?
yes ! The aristocracy of birth ? no ! My mission is
in a cathedral town, and there is a good deal of select
society, both amongst Anglicans and Catholics."
" And I should — say, a total absence of distinction,
not to say bigotry ? "
" Such a distinction is utterly unknown," said Luke.
" There is even more deference paid to a Catholic priest
than to an Anglican. In fact, I have said more than
once that between the races, Irish and English, and be-
tween the different forms of religion, there is but a
sheet of semi-transparent paper ; but demagogues have
daubed it all over with hideous caricatures on one side
and the other."
" I most cordially agree with you, my — ha — dear
young friend," said the Canon, quite delighted. " I'm
very pleased, indeed, to see that your — ha — experience
DISENCHANTMENT 231
of our brethren coincides absolutely with the — ha —
convictions I had formed, purely, indeed, I may say, by
calm reasoning on a vexed question."
"By the way," said the Canon, after a pause, "have
you met my nephew, Louis, in London ? "
For the first time Luke showed signs of embarrass-
ment. He shifted uneasily on the chair, and stam-
mered.
"1 have met him," he said, "but under circumstances
rather unfavourable to — to — a — to our further inti-
macy. But you know I no longer live in London. I
have been transferred for some months to Avlesburcrh."
"Oh! indeed!" said the Canon. " jM}' niece has
gone over to act as — ha — superintendent of Louis'
little menage ; I am sure that, if I am to judge from his
letters, he is mixing in excellent society, and is quite —
well, respectable."
" I did pay him a formal visit," said Lidce, " but, un-
fortunately, he was absent, probably at the hospital."
" Very probably," said the Canon. " Indeed, 1 might
say certainly. He is rather too devoted to his profes-
Ton."
There was a pause. Luke found it hard to continue
tne conversation and maintain his resj)ect for truth.
" You have come over for your — ha — sister's mar-
riage?" said the' Canon at length.
" Yes," said Luke. "She wishes tliat 1 should marry
them."
"By all means! my dear young friend," said t!ie
Canon. " liy all means. I understand that tiiis —
voung — fiance is an extremely respectable vonng
fellow."" ■
"I have heard so," said Luke, rising. "I should like
that my father and mother should be made comfortable
in their old age."
" Of course, you will dine with nic on Sunday," said
the Canon. " Shall we say live o'clock ? "
" Many thanks, sir," said Luke, thinking, as he passed
down the gravelled walk : There are changes here too ;
232 LUKE DELMEGE
the Canon Las grown to be very, very old — everything
is old ! And he no longer dines at seven, but at five !
What a change backwards ! Retrogression everywhere !
I would have preferred a seven o'clock dinner ! I hope
Father Pat and Father Tim won't ask me. What am
I thinking of ? They are gone I
Was Luke sorry for his dear old friends ? He ought
to have been, and he knew it. But then, what can a
man do who has been obliged to adopt new ideas of
life ? You must adapt yourself to your environments
— that is a cardinal principle. You must go with the
tide — that's another. Yet he was not quite sure. He
looked out over the mysterious sea. It was cold, chill,
irresponsive. There was no voice. Or was it that the
inner sense of the man was stifled, and that Nature,
failing the human sympathy, refused to send back its
echo ?
CHAPTER XIX
THE STRANGER AND HIS GODS
Luke Delmege was disgusted, utterly and painfully
disgusted. He was able, by an effort, to reconcile him-
self to the solemnities of the marriage service, especially
as the great Canon was only in a subordinate jjlace : but
the after-events chafed his nerves and did violence to
his conceptions of the proprieties. For at an Irish wed-
ding all the barriers of caste, wealtli, and position are
taken down and tliere is a delightful open-heartedness,
which sometimes, it must be confessed, has a tendency
to become riotous and orgic. Hence the loud, clamorous
benedictions of the blind, the halt, and the lame, gathered
in from all the neighbouring parishes, liurt the nerves of
Luke Delmege, and offended his sense of siglit and hear-
ing, and did violence to his theological principles. It
was liardly a month since he had declared amongst the
esoterics his passionate desire to see a real, live, Scrip-
tural beggar — a very Lazarus of sores and rags; and
lo ! here they are, qualilied every one to sit by the pool
of Bethesda, or wasli in the pool of Siloe. And now he
heard, for the iirst time, of the "seventeen angels who
hould up the ])ill:irs of licaven," and the '' specnd bless-
ing of Miehael, the Archangel," and the '' sowls in i'ur-
gatory who would be relieved that day," and many
other strange and mystic sayings, too sacred even to be
witten. And yet Luke was not enthusiastic. Then
there was the glorious musical duet, that Crashaw
might have immortalized, between the famous blind
tiddler from Aughado\vn and the equally famous piper
233
234 LUKE DELMEGE
from Monavourleigh. Nothing in the Homeric ballads
could equal it.
"Now, your sowl, Thade, give it to him."
" Gi' me that rosin, Kate." And Kate would hand
the rosin to her blind husband, a splendid, stalwart
Tipperary man, but '' wisdom at one entrance quite
shut out." And then, as the fine fury rose, and the
spirit of music and of rivalry possessed him, the sight-
less orbs would roll in their sockets, as if demanding
liofht ! lio-ht ! and his face would whiten and his feet
tremble under the diviiie intoxication. And such
music ! Weird, and tragic, and melancholy, till the
merry audience were hushed into solemnity and tears ;
and the divine chords would wail out into an attenu-
ated echo, and the musician would lean down and
hearken, as if he were not quite sure whether he held
the strings or was only dreaming that the soul of his
violin was sobbing itself away into sleep and silence.
For this big Tipperary man was a horrible bigamist !
He had two wives : the one at liis side, who ministered
to his temporal wants, and the other, the sweet spirit
who woke to music from his instrument. And there
was jealousy ; but what could the poor woman do, when
it was that destestable rival that earned the daily bread ?
So now she affected pride, pride in her husband's power,
as she gazed on tlie entranced audience. But hark !
here are all the fairies in Munster, with Cleena at their
head ! Such a mad revel of musical sounds, crowd-
ing on one another, and jostling one another aside,
and running along in mad, tumultuous riot, until
the spirit seized the multitude, and every pair of feet
was going pit-a-pat to the contagious and imj)erious
merriment.
" Begor, Den, you'll never bate that. That's the
grandest chune wos ever liard. Hould up, man I Here,
have a sup to rouse you I "
No ! Den, the piper, could not disturb the fine har-
monies of his brain with that dangerous liquor. The
occasion was too critical. His honour depended on his
THE STRANGER AND HIS GODS 235
interpretation of his thoughts on the magic keys.
Bate ? No, no ! Wait till ye see !
" Will ye have the ' iVIodliereen-na-Sidhe,' or the ' Fox-
Hunt,' byes ? " he said, with an affectation of forced
calmness.
" The ' Fox-Hunt,' the ' Fox-Hunt,' " shouted all.
Well they knew it was his masterpiece, the ultimate of
perfection on reeds and stops. Then, if you shut your
eyes, you heard the soft patter of the horses' hoofs at
the meet, and the move tOAvards the covert, and the
occasional crack of a whip, and the faint bugle-call.
Then the awful silence as the hounds are put in, and
then the deep, solemn bay and the mighty chorus of a
hundred dogs as the quarry was found, and the harka-
way ! shouted ])y the huntsman. And you needed no
interpreter. Every man in the audience made himself
one.
" Good, Den, yer sowl to glory ! Give it to 'em,
man ! "
" They've found him ! they've found him ! "
" There, they are aff ! Tally-ho ! "
" Whisht, ye divil, there they are, acrass the ploughed
field ! "
" Gor, wouldn't you tliink you saw 'em ! "
"There ! he's run down at last. Listen ! listen !
how the dogs yelp I "
And the bellows and the chanter went puffing along,
as the music interpreted the minds and moods of men,
until, at last, it died away into a soft moan or echo of
pain.
" He's dead, begor ! Listen to him crying ! Who's
got the brush ? "
Dear me ! and people talk about " Parsifal " and
" Lohengrin," I l)elieve, in some far-away places yet.
Some day they'll find that the germ and soul of all art
and music is still haunting the enchanted shores of
Ireland.
But Luke was disgusted ; and still more so when the
sounds of merriment arose, and jokes and laughter
236 LUKE DELMEGE
passed around the mighty table in the barn, and all the
rude chivalry of one sex, and all the primitive coquetry
of the other, accompanied the loud laugh and the scraps
of song that rippled around the mighty gathering.
" Mother, how long is this going to last ? " whispered
Luke. Mother was wiping her eyes with delight and
pride. That wedding at Lisnalee would be the talk of
the country for the next twenty years.
" The fun is only beginnin'," she said ; " God bless
the good neighbours ; sure we never thought we'd have
sich a crowd. Many a good match will be made to-day.
God be wid the time when Mike and me — "
" I think I shall slip away," he said ; " they won't
mind, I suppose ? "
'^ Wisha ! no, indeed. Plase yerself. And there's
the Canon risin'."
There was a hush of respect and attention, and the
whole assembly rose as the Canon said good-bye. Where
in the world is there such tender, reverential courtesy to
the priest as is shown by their loving flocks in Ireland ?
Luke had said good-day to the Canon, and did not
know what to do. He was engaged to dine at Father
Martin's at five, and it was yet but midday. He strolled
down the fields to the sea, and entered the fisherman's
cottage. There was no one there but Mona. The
child had grown, and was passing over the borderland
into self-consciousness. He said: —
" How de do ? "
The frightened child courtesied and blushed; he got
a little ashamed of himself, and said kindly: —
'' Is this my little Mona ? Dear me, how tall you are
grown ! Where are they all?"
'^Up at the wedding, sir," she said demurely; ''but
I'll call father." She was glad to go.
She went to the door, and gave a view-hallo, wliich
was answered far down the beach. Meanwhile, Luke,
not knowing what to say, began to examine the rocks
and shingle, and tried to recall old times. But the old
THE STRANGER AND HIS GODS 237
times were sliy of the stranger and refused to come
l)ack. At last, the fisherman came, struggling and
panting ; and, after a few salutations, the old pet boat
was again on the deep. There was a faded sunshine,
like dull gold, on sea and land, and Luke pulled through
the sunlit waves without seeing them. Then, a mile or
so from land, he shipped the oars in the old way, and
lay back in the stern. No use, Luke, no use ! Land
and sea are the same; but not the same. There is the
same inextinguishable loveliness on sky and wave.
Tiiere are the brown cliffs and the purple heather ;
there are the sheep and the young lambs of spring ; but
oh, how desolate, how lonely !
'-'■ What has come over the country ? " asked Luke.
" I could not believe in such a change in such a short
time. It is a land of desolation and death."
Ay, indeed, for Nature, jealous mother, has turned a
cold, icy stare on her recreant son ! He has abandoned
her, and, like a woman as she is, she must have her
revenge. And here it is ! She has disrobed and dis-
limned herself. She has taken all the colour out of her
face, out of her seas and cloutls, and she shows the blank,
white visage and the irresponsive stare of a corpse. She
can never be the same again to him. He lias abandoned
her for other loves — for the trim and ])ainte(l and artifi-
cial beauty of Lngland, and she hates him. He put down
his hand into the sea Avith the old gesture, but drew it
back in pain. He thought the cold wave had bit him.
He pidled back dreamily to the shore. The old fisher-
man met him to take up tlie boat.
" Where is Mona ? " he said.
But Mona, the sunny-haired child, was nowhere to be
seen.
Only four sat down to dinner in the neat, tastefid
parlour at Seaview Cottage. Father Martin introduced
Luke to Father Meade, the successor at Gortnagoshel
to dead Father Tim. Fatlier Cussen, the Canon's new
curate, he had met at the wedding. A cloud hung over
238 LUKE DELMECtE
the party. The " Inseparables " were separated. Death
and the Bishop had done it, and Father Martin was
sad.
" A change since you were here, Luke," he said.
" Dear me ! do you remember how we coached you for
the Canon's dinner?"
"Yes," said Luke; "there's nothing but change
here, and for the worse. The country appears to
me to have sunk into a condition of hopeless men-
dicancy."
" Do you perceive so great a change in three years?"
said Father Cussen.
" Yes," said Luke. " I cannot tell you how the pite-
ous whining of those beggars shocked me this morning.
This indiscriminate charity, which means universal
mendicancy, appears to be unreasonable and uneco-
nomic."
" You did not say ' unchristian ' ? " gasped Father
Meade.
" N-no ! " said Luke.
" Because it isn't," said Father Meade. " There now
for you, my young man ! Because it isn't ! "
" Perhaps not," said Luke, who was not in his argu-
mentative mood ; and, indeed, he thought the poor old
man quite an unworthy antagonist.
" Because it isn't ! " said Father Meade again, aggres-
sively. " Whatever you say about your political econ-
omy, which, I suppose, you have picked up in England,
where every poor man is a criminal, we love the poor
in Ireland, and will always keep 'em with us!"
" Pretty safe prophecy. Father," said Luke, who
rather disdained arguing on such a subject. " Never-
theless, I totally object to indiscriminate alms-giving
as calculated to miss its object, and degenerate into
culpable sanction of the vicious and dishonest."
" Fine language, fine language, me young friend ;
but suppose you turned away a saint from your door,
or, say, our Divine Lord Himself, how would yoa
feel?"
THE STRANGER AND HIS GODS 239
"Uncomfortable," said Luke; "but I never heard of
such a thing as possible."
" Well, I did, and what is more, I was the guilty one
meself, may God forgive me ! "
This was delightful. Luke hardly expected such a
pleasure as to meet the supernatural so closely, face to
face. He flicked away tlie crumbs from his coat and
settled himself to listen.
" You'd like to hear it ? "
" Certainly," said Luke, smiling.
" Well," said the old man, his face kindling, and his
whole manner assuming a tone of deep reverence, " it
happened to me twice ; the third time, if I am forget-
ful of God's warning, will be my last. A few years
ago I was sitting at dinner, when the door-bell was
rung violently. I had had a busy day and I was fairly
bothered from beggars. I resolved that, come what
would, nothing should tempt me to give another penny
that day. I watched the tongue of the bell wagging,
and I said to meself : ' That'll do, me bo}' ! ' Just
then came a second pull, and I thought the bell was
down. I jumped up angrily and went to the door.
It was almost dusk. There was a tall, gray figure in
the porch. He had no head-covering, but he had a red
muffler round his neck and a kind of belt or cord around
his waist. He handed me a letter , 1 didn't look at it,
but handed it back without a word. Without a word
the figure bowed and passed down the walk into the
road. I went back to my dinner. No ! I couldn't
touch a bit. The figure haunted me. I put on my hat
and rushed out. There wasn't a sign of him to be seen.
I could see the road from my wicket for a mile or so
in each direction. 1 looked up and down. 'J'here was
no one visible. I strolled up to the police barrack.
They are alwa3's on the lookout. No ; no one of that
description had passed. I went in the opposite direc-
tion to the forge. No ; the boys liad seen no one. I
came back, uneasy enough in my mind, I can tell ye ! "
" Whom do you suppose it to have been ? " asked Luke.
240 LUKE DELMEGE
" St. Francis himself," said the old man. " Within
a week I was down with the worst fit of sickness I ever
had."
" And the — a — second apparition ? " said Luke,
humouring the old man.
'' The second was in Dublin," said the old man,
solemnly. " I was returning from the summer holi-
days, and had little money left. I was strolling along
the quay from the Four Courts to the Bridge, and,
with a young lay friend, had been examining the pile
of books outside a second-hand bookshop. Just before
we came to where a side-lane opened on the quay, a tail,
dark man accosted me. He Avas white as death, and
had a look of untold suffering in his face. Again, like
my former visitor, he said nothing, but mutely held
out his hand. I shook my head and passed on ; but in
a moment I recollected myself, and wheeled round.
There was the long quay, stretcliing as far as the eye
could reach. Not a trace of him ! I hurried back and
spoke to the book-dealer, whom I had left standing at
his stall. He had not seen him. I said no more ; but
at dinner I interrogated my young friend.
" ' Did you notice a man that stopped us on the quay ■'''
"'Yes,' he said ; ' I did.'
" ' Did you think now that he appeared to be in
pain ? '
" ' I never saw such a face of suffering before,' he
said.
" ' Did he — now,' I tried to say, unconsciously, ' did
he remind you of any one in particular?' 'Well,' the
young man replied, ' if I may say it, he reminded me
awfully of our Lord ! ' In three days I was on the flat
of my back again, and no one thought I could ever
recover. The third time — "
"Well, the third time ?" queried Luke, smiling in-
credulously at the old priest.
" The third time Avon't come if the Lord leaves me
my senses," said the old man.
It was really delightful to Luke to be brought into
THE STRANGER AND HIS GODS 241
sucli immediate contact with medifiBvalism. What a
splendid story for the salon ! He would make the
" Master's " hair stand on end. And perhaj^s Olivette
would make her Franciscan pilo'rimage to Ireland
instead of Assisi. Who knows?
There was no further discussion. The two guests
went away early. Luke and Father Martin were alone.
" I make,' said the former, " the most frantic resolu-
tions not to be tempted into discussion in Ireland ;
because, altliough 1 have subdued our national tendency
to hysterics, I cannot be always sure that my oj)ponent
has acquired the same self-command,''
"■ You did very well," said Fatlier Martin, dryly.
" Yes, indeed ! but I was afraid the old gentleman
might prove aggressive, he took such a tone at first.'*
'■'■ It was fortunate that we did not stray into further
discussion, particularly on the relativity of races. We
should have had a most magnificent blow-up from
Father Gussen, who declares that everything evil comes
from Fngland."
"• Of course : he hasn't been yet out of his country,"
said Luke. " You must see England close at liand and
Ireland in perspective to understand the vast and radi-
cal difference."
"•'He has only just returned from England," said
Father Martin.
" A flying visit ? "
"No ; a holiday lasting over seven years."
" It is incomprehensible," said Luke. "■ Why, his
accent — "
" He lias retained his native Doric, and it sits well on
as eloquent a tongue as ever you heard."
"Tlien lie cannot have had experience of the better
side of English life," said Luke. " I'm sure it is onlv
since my pro — removal to Aylesburgh that I have come
to see tlie many and very beautiful traits of the English
character. It seems to me we have such a lot to learn."
" For example ? " said Father Martin, mildly.
" Well, lake Ohureh matters. You, here, have no
1. n.
242 LUKE DELMEGE
public services worth naming — no great celebrations,
no processions, no benedictions, no great ceremonial tu
enliven the faith by striking the fancy of the people — "
"You mean we don't put every benediction in the
newspaper, and every presentation of a gold watch or a
purse of money ? "
" Well, no ; perhaps that's overdone. But now I've
learned so much from contact with Anglicans. I have
learned, first of all, to esteem my college career as so
much wasted time — "
" I thought you were First of First '? " interposed
Father Martin, wickedly.
" Quite so," said Luke, wincing ; " but, my dear
Father, who cares over there for our insular distinc-
tions ? Then I have learned that our theological course
is about as wise as a course in theosophy and occultism ;
nay, less wise, because tliese subjects are discussed some-
times ; theology, as we understand it, never ! No one
ever dreams to-day in England of making a frontal at-
tack on our recognized positions. They simply ignore
us. Look at all the trouble we had in those two trea-
tises on the Trinity and the Incarnation ! It was labour
wasted ; water flung on the sands — "
" I have read somewhere lately," interrupted Father
Martin, " that five or six Anglican bishops, and a very
large percentage of the clergy, are Unitarians."
" Well ? "
"I should say your Trinity and Incarnation would
come in well there."
"You don't quite understand," said Luke, loftily.
" These — well — painful subjects are never alluded to
in polite society. They are gently tabooed. Conver-
sation turns on the higher levels of humanitarianism
and positivism, instead of raging in endless vortices of
controversy."
" And the sum total of this new dogma is ? "
" Seek the God in man ; not man in God ! " said Luke,
grandly. " Work, toil, suffer in the great cause — the
elevation and perfection of the race."
THE STRANGER AND HIS GODS 243
"You saw that cloud, passing there across the Wack
hill ? " said Father Martin.
" Yes," said Luke.
" That is your humanity, its history and its im-
portance."
"But the Divine immanence in man — the spirit of
genius, the elation of duty, the rapture of righteousness
— all the signs of what the Jewish prophet called
' the Lord's controversy ' — are these nothing in the
eternities ? "
" That's all foolish jargon," said Father INIartin. " I
have been there, and I know it all. But if you want
to make your gods out of a few wretched bipeds, who
eat carrion, and drink Oriental drugs to keep the
wretched life in them, and clothe themselves in unlovely
garments by night and snore unto the stars, Fm not
with you. Fd prefer the gods of Greece."
" But you don't see," said Luke, impatiently. " The
race is evolving through possibly the last cycle of
human evolution towards the Divine. Shall we not
lend a hand here ? Is it not clearly England's destiny
to bring all humanity, even the most degraded, into the
happy circle of civilization, and evoke from Afglian and
Ashantee the glory of the slumbering godhead ? "
" Good heavens I why didn't you say all that an hour
ago? Fd give up my next holiday at Lisdoonvarna to
hear you say that before Cussen."
"I shouldn't mind," said Luke, grandly.
"And you really think England has got a Divine
mission ? I never think of England but as in that
dream of Piranesi — vast Gothic halls, machinery, pul-
leys, and all moving the mighty, rolling mechanism
that is crushing into a dead monotony all the beauty
and picturesqueness of the world."
" That is, bringing it up to a level of civilization and
culture," said J>uke.
"And why did the Almighty create the Afghan and
the Ashantee, to be turned, in course of time, into a
breeched and bloated Briton? If England's civilization
244 ' LUKE DELMEGE
was that of Catholicism, I can understand you. But
even if it conserved, raised up, illuminated fallen races,
as the Spaniards did, and the Portuguese, it might be
yet doubtful if there was a Divine mission to break up
noble traditions for the sake of a little more refinement,
where England's mission is to destroy and corrupt every-
thing she touches — "
" Now, now, Father Martin, this is all congenital and
educational prejudice. Look at your own country and
see how backward it is."
" What you call congenital prejudice," said Father
Martin, gravely, " I call faith. It is our faith that
makes us hate and revolt from English methods. To
the mind of every true Irishman, England is simply a
Frankenstein monster, that for over seven hundred
years has been coveting an immortal soul. He has had
his way everywhere but in Ireland ; therefore he hates
us."
" No use," said Luke, who had hoped for sympathy
at least from the grave and learned man. " No use !
Did you ever read the Atta Troll f "
" Never ! "
" Nor any of Heine's ? "
" One or two trifles," said Father Martin indifferently.
" Very little light or music came out of the Matratzen-
grufC'
"• Did you read the Laches ? We have had it for dis-
cussion lately. The ' Master of Balliol ' was down, and
threw extraordinary light on the philosophy of Plato.
Why isn't Plato read in our colleges ? "
"There is no time for such amusement amongst more
serious matters. Plato is a huge bundle of sophisms,
without a grain or scintilla of solid wisdom."
" Dear me ! Father Martin, I really didn't expect all
this from you. I thought that you, at least, would
sympathize with every effort towards the higher light."
"The higher light? My poor boy, you are dazzled
with a little display of green and yellow fireworks.
You don't see the calm, patient, eternal stars beyond."
THE STFvANGEE AND HIS GODS 245
Luke went home moody and perplexed. He had been
positively certain that he was on the right track ; that
the world was to be conquered by the world's weapons —
learning, knowledge, light, science, literature, seized
by the Church, and used with deadly effect against the
world. This he had been taught everywhere — by the
Catbolic press, by men of " light and leading " in the
Cliurch, by liis own convictions. But clearly, opinion
on the subject was not quite unanimous. But then this
is Ireland — quaint, arcliaic, conservative, mediseval.
" I wish I were home," said Luke. Home was Ayles-
burgh.
'^ My young friend has just taken his first false step,"
said Father Martin to his books ; and, strange to say, it
was before a huge, thirteen-volurae Bekker's Plato lie
soliloquized. " Yes ! " he said, as if in defiance to the
mighty ghost, "yes! the first false step — tlie irpoirov
'^evSo'i, my most learned friend. And he has taken
Father Tim's advice with a vengeance. He holds his
head very high."
Luke entered the farmyard. The sounds of mighty
revelling came from the lighted barn; the swift music
of the violin, the pattering of many feet, the loud laugh.
Over in a corner, two farmers, a little balmy, were pro-
fessing unbounded and everlasting friendship, wliilst
debating about a few shillings of the marriage money
in a prospective match. Here and there a few cou[)les
strayed around, enjoying the beautiful night, and pos-
sibly speculating about their own futures. From a
neighbouring liedge sang Philomel ! — no, that's not it !
From a neighbouring haystack came a mighty chorus
sacred to the groves and Bacchus : —
Ohe ! Ohe !
Evoij ! Evoe 1
lacche 1 lacche I
Luke knew it well, and its accompaniment : —
'' Poetic for Bacchus, ye d — d young numskulls.
246 LUKE DELMEGE
Believe it on the authority of a Trinity College man,
banished for his sins to Bffiotia."
It was the bugle-call from play, uttered by the old
Kerry hedge schoolmaster. Luke almost felt the swish
of the rattan. It was also the vesper song of the same,
after he had worshipped his god and his steps were
unsteady.
" There is no use, mother, in my thinking of sleeping
here to-night," said Luke.
" Indeed I "' said the mother ; " there is a little music
in the barn — "
" There are two fellows stupidly drunk there in the
yard," he said, " and, I suppose, several more around
the grounds."
" Wisha ! I suppose they took a little taste too much,
and it overcome them ; but there was never such a wed-
din' in the barony before — "
" ril go down to the Canon and ask a bed."
" Do, alanna ! do. Indeed you wouldn't get much
sleep to-night here."
And mother leaned over on the settle to finish her
Rosary.
Luke and the Canon — or should it be the Canon and
Luke ? — dined in solitary state on Sunday. It was a
little lonely, but dignified. Luke and his host had now
many ideas in common about things in general, and
especially about the very vexed question of which seven
centuries of the united wisdom of statesmen, legislators,
political economists, etc., have failed to find a solution.
The Canon had found it. He had turned his parish
into a happy Arcady. His houses were neat and trim;
his people comfortable; no poverty, no distress. "All
these unhappy mendicants at your — ha — sister's M'ed-
ding were imported. There's not even one — ha — pro-
fessional mendicant in my parish."
" I hope," said Luke, " that, now that you have estab-
lished this happy condition of things, the intellectual
progress of the people will keep pace with their material
prosperity."
THE STRANGER AND HIS GODS 247
" I hope so," said the Canon, blandly ; " in fact, I have
only to suggest it — and — "
Turn! turn! ! turn!!! Turn! turn 1 1 turn! 1 1 crashed
out the big drum beneath the windows, the shrill fifes
squeaked, and the scaffold song of the Manchester
martyrs, attuned to the marching song of American bat-
talions, broke on the ear, whilst a vast multitude surged
and thronged along the road that swept by the Canon's
grounds. The windows rattled under the reverberation,
and continued rattling, for the band had stopped oppo-
site the rectory to serenade its occupant, and charitably
infuse a little patriotism into liim. He was stricken
dumb with surprise and indignation. For ten minutes
the thunderous music w^ent on, punctuated now and again
with cheei'ing, and then the ci-owd moved away. Not
far, however. They had taken possession of the national
school-liouse, and were holding a Sunday meeting.
It took some time for the Canon to recover his equa-
nimity. He was quite pale with annoyance. He tapped
the mahogany gently with his polished nails, and said
in a pitiful way to Luke : —
" Isn't that very sad ? Isn't it pitiable ? What an
— ha — object-lesson for you, my dear young friend,
about the condition of this distracted country ! "
Luke could say nothing but stare at tlie fire, where
the logs were blazing, for the Avinter lingered yet.
There tiiey sat silent, while now and again a burst of
cheering came up from the school-room, where Father
Cussen was haranguing the mighty audience.
" Just think of the grave impropriety involved in
this," said the Canon. '^ There is the — ha — desecra-
tion of the peaceful Sabbath evening ; the exciting of
— ha — dangerous passions, and that young clergyman
has been so forgetful of the duties of his sacred ollice
as to usurp my — ha — legitimate authority, and take
possession of mi/ schools without the least reference to
me."
" Whatever be thought of the political aspect of the
question," said Luke, " I think he should have liad your
248 LUKE DELMEGE
permission about the schools. I dare say there's some
explanation. But are these people the beneficiaries of
your kindly exertions in their behalf?"
"• Some. Not all. This young clergyman's theory is
that the condition of the people is insecure, notwith-
standing my exertions, and, I am privileged to say, my
influence with the landlords. Why, no landlord or
agent would dare interfere with my people. I need
only lift my hand and they would retire."
"The whole thing is very sad," said Luke; "I wish
I were back in England."
Next day, his good mother showed him with pride
and gratification the numberless presents that had been
showered upon Lizzie. Lizzie helped. For a quiet
young lady, as she was, no one would have expected a
deep and dreadful cut.
" This is from Father Pat," she said.
" God bless him," said her mother.
" And this from the Canon."
"I wouldn't doubt him," said Mike Delmege.
" And Father Martin sent this beautiful set of break-
fast ware ; and Father Meade, whom we hardly know,
this biscuitaire ; and the nuns of the Good Shepherd
these lovely books ; and our new curate. Father Cussen,
this History of Ireland — "
Very true, Lizzie ; very true ; Father Luke Del-
mege's valuable present to his sister is conspicuous by
its absence.
" You'll be able to tell Margery all about the wed-
din'," said the good mother.
"I'm afraid I shall have hardly time to call," said
Luke ; "I've overstayed my leave of absence already."
CHAPTER XX
ECLECTIC CATHOLICISM
It is quite certain tliat Luke Delmege regarded these
four years at Aylesburgh as by far the happiest of his
life. Here he had everything that a fine intellect and
rather refined taste could require. He had leisure for
thought in the intervals of almost unintermitting work ;
or, rather, this ceaseless work supplied material for
thought, which again interacted and created its own
outcome in ceaseless work. He gave himself a day's
recreation every Monday, after the great Sunday ser-
mon. At least, he took out Pio, the great brown re-
triever, and spent the day in the country. One of the
relics of this time is before the writer in the shape of
a bamboo cane, notched and indented by Pio's teeth,
where he dragged it from the river. But on these ex-
cursions by the lonely river, the ever active mind was
at work — now on the subject of the next sermon, now
on the conversation the last night at tlie salon ; again,
on the many, very many societies; for tlie general amel-
ioration of the race, of wliicli he was eitlier an active
or an honorary member. Tliese included a society for
the rescue of discharged prisoners, a socit'ty for the sup-
pression of public vice, a society for the liousing of the
poor, a society for the purification of tlie stage, etc.,
etc.
" I don't see your name. Father Delmege,'* said the
dry old rector, "on the committee for making states-
men truthful, and introducing the Seventh Command-
ment on the Stock Exchange."
249
250 LUKE DELMEGE
Luke concluded that the old man was jealous. The
old man had a good deal of temptation to become so.
He was nobody. Luke overshadowed him utterly.
" You'll preach at Vespers on Sunday evening, of
course, Father Delmege ? "
" I should be most happy indeed ; but it is Dr. Drys-
dale's turn on Sunday evening."
" Oh ! how unfortunate ! And the Lefevrils are com-
ing. Could you not effect an exchange? "
"I should most gladly do so; but^ you know, the
rector would hardly like the suggestion."
"Do try, Father. It's really more important than
you imagine or I can explain. I'm sure, if you knew
how very important it is — "
"I fear it is quite impossible, Mrs. Bluett — "
" Oh dear ! The doctor is such a dear old soul, but
he is dry. There, I've made a horrid pun; but, dear
me, he is so tedious, and I shouldn't care, but of all
evenings — "
No wonder Luke worked at his sermons ! He sat at
his desk at ten o'clock on Tuesday morning, and worked
steadily to midday. By Friday evening he had written
fifteen pages of a sermon. On Saturday he committed
it to memory, and, without the omission or alteration
of a word, he delivered it on Sunday morning, at the
Gospel of the MUsa Cantata, or at Vespers in the even-
ing. And during these four years he never ventured
to speak publicly without having made this careful and
elaborate preparation. In after years he often wondered
at himself, but admitted that he dared not do otherwise.
He never knew who might be listening to him in this
strange land, where every one is so interested in reli-
gion, because every man is his own pope ; and so unin-
terested, because he cares so little what all the other
popes, even the Archbishop of Canterbury, may hold or
teach. But the discipline was good for Luke. It gave
him a facility in speaking which lasted through life.
Now, Dr. Drysdale was not jealous. He was too old,
or wise, or holy, to be aught but amused, ay, indeed,
ECLECTIC CATHOLICISM 251
and anxious, about his young confrere. Amused he
was, and very much amused, at the Celtic impetuosity
with which Luke flung himself into every kind of work.
His strenuous manner, generous, self-sacrificing, was
such a contrast to his own placidity that it was quite
interesting" in the be<?innint''. Then it became a matter
of grave concern to the gentle old priest.
" That is a valual)le and interesting book," he would
say, pushing over a volume by some great Catholic author
to Luke, for lie was a member of St. Anselm's Society,
and this was one of the societies of which Luke was not
a member. " Take it to your room and read it at your
leisure."
Luke would take it; but Mill and Heine and Emer-
son had got hold of him just now, and he would bring
it back uncut after a few days, with a remark that was
meant to be pregnant and suggestive : —
"All the poetry of the world is in the Catholic
Church ; and all the literature of the world outside
it."
Or : " It seems to me that the whole of our philoso-
phy consists of junks of indigestible propositions, gar-
nished with syllogisms of froth."
The rector would rub his chin and say, "Humph !"
which is eloquent, too.
On Sunday afternoon the rector would say, " Spare
me half an hour, Father Delmege, and help me at tlie
altar ! "
The "Altar" was a privileged one in this sense, that
no one, not even the prfsi(U'nt (»f the Altar Society, was
allowed to touch it for any purpose wliatsoever. The
arrangements of tlie cloths, the vases and their flowers
— all were the rector's exclusive province, where no
one dared interfere. But he took es])ecial [)ride in the
decoration of the high-altar for Smidny evening Bene-
diction. It was a labour of love that extended over
three hours of the Sunday afternoon. There were
sometimes from one Inmdred and twenty to a hundred
and fifty candles to be placed ready for lighting ; and
252 LUKE DELMEGE
the vicar had a fancy that there should be a special
design for each Benediction. Then, as a final touch,
he tipped the wick of each candle with a preparation of
melted wax and paraffin — a chemical compound in
which he took great pride, and he had serious thoughts
of patenting it. That chemical and its jam-pot was a
perpetual source of wonder to Luke. I fear the won-
der was slightly contemptuous. To see this excellent
old man. Doctor of Divinity, Dublin Reviewer, corre-
spondent with French and Italian philosophers, studi-
ously mixing that oil and wax, and then standing on a
ladder, as he put up, and took down, and rearranged
candles and flowers, was a something far beyond Luke's
comprehension. In after years, when his eyes were
widely opened, Luke dropped some bitter tears over
that jam-pot and — liimself.
" Impossible, sir ! " he would explain, in reply to his
vicar's invitation. "I really have something serious to
do. Can't you let the ladies or the sacristan attend to
these things ? "
The old man would not reply, except to his unseen
Master.
But Luke was happy, and his great happiness was
in his dealino^s with converts. Here he had a broad
field for learning, tact, and sympathy. To lift these
trembling souls over the quagmires and shaking bogs
of unbelief ; to enlighten, cheer, support under all the
awful intellectual and spiritual trials of incipient doubt,
until he had planted them safely at his feet on the firm
ground of Catholic faith and practice ; to witness their
almost exultant happiness, when, the final step being
taken, with closed eyes and gasping breath, they at
length found themselves in the home of serene security ;
to open up to their wondering vision all the splen-
dours and beauties that they had hitherto seen under
distorting and bewildering lights ; to share in their
happiness and gratitude, — ah me ! this is ecstasy, and
Luke felt : Yes ! here is my vocation ; here I have
found my life-work ! And if ever a doubt crossed his
ECLECTIC CATHOLICISM 253
mind about his studies at this time, he hushed the com-
plaining voice with the dogmatic assurance : —
'•' The first step towards conquering the enemy is to
enter the enemy's arsenals and handle his weapons."
There were some drawbacks, indeed. Now and
again some giddy girl, or some conceited Scripture-
reader, would go through the form of conversion, and
then "revert." One day a lady wished to see him.
She was closely veiled. She insisted on being received
into the Church then and there. Luke demurred. He
took her down to the Convent of the Faithful Com-
panions, and placed her for instruction under Reverend
Mother's care. iJ^ felt quite proud. This was evi-
dently a lady of distinction. A few days later he
strolled down leisurely to ask after his convert. Rev-
erend Mother met him with a smile.
" No ; the lady had not returned. She was a lunatic,
who had slipped from her mother's carriage whilst her
mother was shopping ; and the bellman had been ring-
ing the city for her since."
Luke got into a newspaper controversy. There was
a very, very High-Church rector in the neighbourho(Kl.
He had far more candles than the mere Romans, and
his vestments cost twice as much as theirs. He re-
served the Precious Blood (so he thought, poor man !),
and had a special lunette made for tlie phial at Bene-
diction. He gave awful penances, in imitation of the
primitive Cliurch, and always, once or twice a year, he
refreshed his superlative orthodoxy by a furious attack
on the unoffending Romanists. Some of his congrega-
tion were edified and strciigtliened by these violent
philippics, especially a few whose relatives had passed
over to Catholicity and made them " suspect " ; a good
many were disgusted, for, even in Ritualism, the Eng-
lishman asserts his individual freedom of thought ; but
most of the congi'cgation were amused.
" He doth protest too much," they averred. " It is
all on account of that dog, Pio, who has the good taste
to come to our Church on Sundays."
254 LUKE DELMEGE
Yes ; but not to worship. Pio had the amiable habit,
acquired in some mysterious manner, of trotting down
to the Ritualistic church every Sunday morning, and
there, posted at the gate, of scrutinizing carefully every
face and figure that passed in to service.
" The Roman priests sent him," said the vicar, " to
see if any of their stray sheep had wandered into the
true fold."
But the vicar was mad. And the Ayleshurgh Post
was just the vehicle for his insanity. Such scorn, such
hatred, such cool, undiluted contempt for " his " parish-
ioners, "these Romish priests," were only equalled by
the mighty organs of the sect elsewhere ; and the fierce
philippic was generally followed by an angry demand
for dues or tithes from "his parishioners." The rector
read the paper with a smile and put the letter in the
fire. Not so Luke. Luke wore a good, broad seam of
white along the fine red carpet in his room, and a good,
broad path along the tiny square of grass in front. Luke
was deep in thought, and Luke's thoughts found issue
in words. The excellent editor of the Ayleshurgh Post
had never received such a document before, even from
the High-Church vicar. Deep, cutting sarcasm, quota-
tions from Anglican divines that would make a statue
blush, refutations that were irrefutable, and logical
sequences that were undenial)le — and all couched in
language that seemed to set the paper in a blaze ! The
editor read with a smile, and dropped the paper into
the waStepaper basket, then looked to see if there were
danger of a conflagration.
Luke went around with his burning secret for twenty-
four hours. He expected to cause a sensation in the
city, probably a large secession from Ritualism, — at
least, a long, fierce, angry controversy, in which he, call-
ing on all his vast resources, would infallibly come out
as victor. The second day was a day of fever and un-
rest. The third morning came. There was a second
saircastic letter from the High-Churchman, and just a
little editorial note : —
ECLECTIC CATHOLICISM 255
"We have also received a commuiiicatiou from L. D. on this
interesting subject. The gentleman knows well how to use hi^
pen. Ed. A. P."
As on a former occasion, Luke played Rugby football
around his room, much to the amusement of his rector,
who read that footnote with intelligent and compre-
hensive pleasure, and Luke broke forth into a hysteri-
cal soliloquy : —
" Fair play ! British fair play ! They're the greatest
humbugs and hypocrites on the face of the earth ! Here
is an ojien attack, uncalled for, without pretence of rea-
son or exciting cause. Here is a reply, fair, temperate,
judicious, and lo ! it is suppressed. It is the old, old
story. They talk of truth when they lie ! They talk
of religion when they blaspheme ! They talk of hu-
manity when they rob, and plunder, and kill ! They
talk of fair play when they are tying your hands to
smite you ! " AVhich sliows that Luke's exuberant ad-
miration of everything English did sometimes suffer a
pretty severe frost-nipping. He never spoke to his
good rector on the matter. He disburdened his con-
science elsewhere.
"Nothing reminds me so much of what we read about
the calm constancy and fortitude of the early Chris-
tians," said the great ''Master" one of these evenings,
" as the peace that seems to come down and hover over
the souls of recent converts to Catholicism."
"Ah, yes, to be sure," said Amiel Lefevril ; " tlie
wliole motive and genesis of Catholicism seems to be
found in seeking pleasure in pain. 1 consider our re-
ligion higher and deeper, for that we seek pain in
pleasure."
The Master smiled. His pupils were advancing in
Platonism.
" This is one reason," she continued, " why I cannot
embrace Roman Catholicism, attractive as it otherwise
is. It seems to be founded on selfishness. Its charity
is forever seeking a guerdon, either in *.he esteem of
256 LUKE DELMEGE
others or in the exquisite sense of self-exaltation, or in
the final reward of a heaven. Is it not higher and
nobler and loftier to act and think for the abstract Idea
of benefiting humanity ? So with prayer. I can under-
stand prayer as an ecstasy of thought of the Infinite ;
an uplifting of soul to the spheres ; a conscious merg-
ing of the Ego in the All. But your everlasting whin-
ings for mercy, your prayers against the laws of Nature,
are unintelligible. And as for penance, what is it but
the delight of pain — the subtle, emotional suffering
that bathes the self-conscious flagellant in an ecstasy
of bliss?"
" You seem, Miss Lefevril," said Luke, timidly, " to
overlook what lies at the bottom of all ascetic practices
and prayers — the essential dogmas or truths of reli-
gion."
" Oh," said Miss Amiel, " truth ? There is no such
thing, except as an abstraction. Hence I always hold
that we are all — that is, all good people are — practi-
cally the same. And each soul is at liberty to select its
own beliefs and form an aggregate for itself."
Luke looked wonderingly at the Master, who appeared
to be highly pleased with his pupil. He ventured how-
ever to protest.
" I cannot really follow you, Miss Lefevril," he said ;
" it seems to me a logical sequence from no truth to no
principle."
" I spoke of beliefs," said Miss Amiel. " There is a
natural and logical sequence between belief and princi-
ple."
" And how can there be faith without an object — and
that object, Truth ? " said Luke.
" Dear me I how shall I explain ? " said Miss Amiel.
"You know, of course, — indeed, I think I have heard
you say so, — that mathematical proofs are the most
perfect?"
Luke assented.
" That there is nothing so certain as that two straight
lines cannot inclose a space ? "
ECLECTIC CATHOLICISM 257
Luke nodded.
" And that every point in the circumference of a cir-
cle is equidistant from the centre ? "
" Quite so ! "
"But these things do not and cannot exist, except as
abstractions of the mind. Tliere is no objective truth
there, because there is no object at all. The same witli
all trutli, for all truth is immaterial and purely subjec-
tive."'
" Then you don't believe in God ? " said Luke,
bluntly.
"■ Oil dear, yes. I believe in my own concept of
God, as do you ! "
"Or in hell, or in a future life?" gasped Luke.
" Dear me ! yes, yes, I believe in hell — the hell we
create for ourselves by misdoing ; and the immortality
of myself, my soul, passing down through the endless
ages in the immortality of my race ! "
" I regret to say, Miss Lefevril, you can never become
a Catholic with such ideas ! "
" But I am a Catholic. We are all Catholics. We
all have the same spirit. Mr. Halleck is a Catholic,
yet not the same as you — "
" I beg pardon. Mr. Halleck is a communicant at
our church and has made profession of our faith."
"Of course he has. But Mr. Halleck's subjectivity
is not yours, or Mr. Drysdale's, or Mrs. Bluett's, or
mine. Each soul dips into the sea and takes what it
can contain. Surely, you cannot say that these poor
people, who live in Primrose Lane and fre(]uent your
church, and the learned j\h-. Halleck, hold the same
9
subjective belief
"So much the worse for my friend Halleck, it tliat
be true I " Luke had enough nerve to say.
"Not at all I He simjily is an eclectic Catholic, as
we all are — the jNIaster, the Dean, Canon Merritt. even
Mr. ," mentioning the name of his High-Church
friend.
Luke started back in horror.
258 LUKE DELMEGE
" How can you associate the names of Mr. Halleck,
the Dean, Mr. Merritt, with that — that vulgar man ? "
"• But, my dear Mr. Dehnege, we are not now speak-
ing of vulgarity and refinement, but of opinions —
thoughts — beliefs — "
" And the whole of your beliefs is pure scepticism,"
said Luke.
"Not at all," smiled Miss Amiel ; "you do not under-
stand. You really must read Plato on Ideas, until you
grasp the meaning of Subjective Idealism, or what I
have called eclectic Catholicism."
Luke began to feel that his rector was right, and that
he would be more at home with old John Godfrey and
his pipe. But the toils were around him, and, whilst
his faith was perfect, the grace of illumination was as
yet far away. He was groping in the dark vaults of
what he was pleased to call "the enemy's arsenals."
Hence, too, issued a wonderful sermon which Luke
preached one Sunday evening about this time. He
was liardly to blame ; for an idea had sprung up about
this time in England that heresy was to be conquered
by affecting not only a knowledge of its mysteries, but
even its extravagances of language. And there was a
scarcely concealed desire to attenuate the doctrines of
the Church so as to fit them nicely to the irregularities
of error. The idea, of course, was the exclusive prop-
erty of neologists, and was regarded, not only with
suspicion, but with condemnation, by older and wiser
heads, who preached in season and out of season that it
is not to mind and intellect that the Church looks, but
to conduct and character, that is, the soul. But it is
hard to convince young heads of this. So Luke had
been for some time introducing into his sermons strange
quotations, very like the Holy Scriptures, yet most un-
like, and they were a grievous puzzle to his good rec-
tor. This evening, for the special illumination of a
very large section of his audience, a number of com-
mercial young men, who were in the habit of flocking
to the Catholic church on Sunday evenings to hear this
ECLECTIC CATHOLICISM 259
brilliant young orator, he chose for his subject the
"Sacred Books." An excellent subject, excellently
illustrated. But unfortunately, in the inexperienced
hands of Luke, wlio was at this time probably pene-
trated by his growing love for Plato and his schools,
the side scenes became more attractive than the great
central picture, until at last the sermon began to de-
scend into a mere defence of naturalism. It was all
very nice and ilattering to human nature, and Luke
narrowly escaped an ovation when he wound up a brill-
iant sermon, after several quotations from the Book of
Thoth^ with this from another : —
With ease he maketh strong, with equal ease
The stroll^' :il)as(!th; tlie illustrious
He luinislK.'tli, ami him that is obscure
He raiseth up; yea more, even He, who wields
High thunders, and in mansions dwells above,
AVith ease makes straight tlie crookt, and blasts the proud.
Hear, and l)eliol(l, and heed, and righteously
Make straight the way of oracles oi' God.
Clotilde declared the sermon magnificent.
Mary O'lieilly said to INIrs. Mulcahy : —
" Did ye ever hear the like o' that ? 'Tis like a
sthrame of honey comin' from his mout\ It takes the
ould countliry, after all, to projuce the prachers. Sure,
the poor Canon, (iod be good to him I with his hum-
min' and hawin', isn't a patch on him. 1 suppose they
won't lave him to us ! "
The Canon took a different stand. He prayed
e<U'nestly, during Benediction, for light. Then, after
tea, with slight nervousness, and most careful to select
his words judiciously, he opened up the subject : —
"Was that sermon, l-'atlici- Delmege, might I ask,
prepared, or was it ex tempore .- "
Luke, who was expecting a compliment, said
promptly : —
"Prepared, of course. I never speak in that pulpit
without committing every word of a manuscript to
memory."
260 LUKE DELMEGE
" I am sorry to hear it," said the old man, with some
hesitation. " I was hoping that, perhaps, its indiscre-
tions were attributable to haste and nervousness. I
cannot conceive how a Catholic priest could sit down
calmly and write such irrelevant and injudicious
things."
Jealousy again ! thought Luke. He said : —
" Perhaps, sir, you would kindly explain. I am
quite unconscious of having said anything indiscreet or
liable to disedify."
" it is quite possible that you have not disedified,"
said the rector ; " I'm sure I hope so. Because our
own people are pretty indifferent to these very learned
subjects. But do you consider the fatal effect your
words might have in retarding or altogether destroying
the incipient operations of grace in the souls of others ? "
" You may not be aware, sir," said Luke, playing his
trump card, " that these lectures are the main attraction
to a rather important section of our separated brethren,
who come to our church on certain evenings to hear and
be instructed."
" How long have you been here. Father Delmege ? "
said the rector.
" Very close upon four years," said Luke.
" How many converts have you had under instruc-
tion ? "
"I cannot count them," said Luke.
" How many have you received into the Church ? "
asked the rector.
Luke found he could easily count them on his fingers.
He was abashed.
" And of these, how many have persevered ? " said
the old man, driving his investigations home.
Luke had to admit that nearly half had 'verted again.
" Yes ! " said the old man ; " and if you ask the
cause, you will find it to be your too great liberalism,
which to me seems to be — pardon the expression — a
half apology for heathenism."
Luke was hurt.
ECLECTIC CATHOLICISM 261
" I'm sure," he said, " I do not know exactly where
I'm standing. Our leading men glorify the learning,
the research, the fairmindedness of these very men I
have quoted to-night ; and the very books I drew from
have been favourably reviewed and warmly recommended
by our leading journals. Do you want me to go back
to the Catechism and to explain ' Who made the
world ' ? "
" You might do worse," said the rector. " But, to be
very serious. Father Delmege, I think the sooner you
give up the company of these liberals and free-thinkers
the better. I have often blamed myself for not speak-
ing to you plainly on the matter."
^ It w\as Mrs. Bluett introduced me to that circle,"
apologized Luke ; "and Catholics frequent it. Halleck
is always there."
" Halleck is a good fellow," said the rector ; "• but he
has brought into the Church a little of the English-
man's indefeasible right of private judgment. If I
were you, I'd give up these literary seances and look
more closely after your own poor people."
"• Very well, sir," said Luke. He said to his look-
ing-glass, very soon after : —
" The old story. These Englishmen want the aristoc-
racy all to themselves."
CHAPTER XXI
THE SUBMERGED TENTH
We must not do Luke Delmege the injustice of sup-
posing, even from his good rector's allusion, that he
was altogether careless about the primary obligation of
a Catholic priest — the care of the poor. Indeed, he
rather prided himself on being able to pass, with equal
zeal, from the drawing-room to the kitchen, and from
the castle to the cabin. His figure was a familiar one
to the denizens of Primrose Lane. For here congre-
gated a small colony of exiles from Ireland and Italy ;
and here, into the dread monotony of English life, were
introduced the picturesqueness and dramatic variety
which appear to be the heritage of the Catholic races.
Sometimes, indeed, Luke, with his admiration of Eng-
lish habits and ways, was not a little shocked at irreg-
ularities which are anathematized by the English
religion. The great pagan virtues of cleanliness and
thrift were steadily ignored. In their place came faith
and piety, enthusiasm and idealism, that were utterly
unintelligible to the prosaic neighbours around.
'•'• A family of Hirish peddlers, sa, and a family of
Hitalian horgan-grinders," was the answer of a portly
dame to one of Luke's inquiries. "They are very
huntidy, sa, in their 'abits."
^ Thim English, yer reverence, they're haythens.
They don't go to church. Mass, or meeting. They
think of nothing but what they ate and drink."
Which sums up neatly the controversies between the
races, with which economists have filled not only vol-
umes, but libraries.
262
THE SUBMERGED TENTH 263
Luke at this time was quite flattered at being con-
sidered an Englishman ; and when his country was
decried, instead of flaring up in the okl passionate way,
he politely assented. And yet, he really loved his own
people, would take a pinch of snuff from Mrs. Mulcahy,
and say the Banacht Dia — the beautiful prayer for the
Holy Souls, that is never omitted on such an occasion
in Ireland. And he loved his little Italians — their
strange, grotesque gestures, their beautiful liquid
tongue ; and he went so far as to nurse and fondle the
bambinos, and to be interested even in the intricacies
of the "horgan." And he did shudder a little occa-
sionally when he had to pass through a crowd of English
girls, with their white, pale faces, and when he had to
undergo a bold scrutiny from the irreverent gaze of
some English labourers. In the beginning, too, he had
to submit to an occasional sneer — "I confess," or
" Hour Father," as a gang of young Britishers passed
by ; but by degrees he became known, and these insults
ceased. But it was in the county prison that he be-
came most closely acquainted with the " submerged
tenth," and here he had some novel experiences.
A quick pull at the jangling bell, a courteous salute
from the officer, a jingling of keys, the monastic silence
of the vast hall, laced with the intricacies of iron fret-
work in the staircases tliat led to the galleries, from
which again opened up and shut the gates of the tombs
of the living — nerves shrink at the thought until nerves
become accustomed to the ordeal. Then, an uncere-
monious unlocking of cells and a drawing of bolts — an
equally unceremonious slapping to of the heavy iron
door, and Luke is alone with a prisoner. He is clad in
brown serge, with just a loose linen muffler around his
neck. His name ?
" Casabianca. Is as innocent as ze babe unborned.
Was in ze French navee. Quartur-nuistere. Yes. Saw
some foreign serveece. Has a vife. (Weeps sadly.)
And leetle childrens. (Weeps loudlv.) Ees a Cato-
lique. Knows his releegion vhell. Ees starved.
264 LUKE DELMEGE
Eferyting is so tirty. Did noting. Vhas arresteed,
he know not vhy ; but he has six monz to serve."
Later on Luke found he was not quite so innocent.
He gave Luke several lessons in prison life ; showed
him how to take out the stopcock when the water was
shut ojEf in the pipes, and through the empty pipes to
establish telephonic communication with his neighbours ;
showed him a new telegraphic system by knocking with
the knuckles on the wall ; showed him divers ways of
hiding away forbidden material.
Allons ! The bell rings and he is ushered into
another cell. Here is a stalwart Irishman, awaiting
trial for having, in a fit of drunkenness, abstracted a
pair of boots that were hanging outside a draper's shop.
" You'll get three months ! " said Luke.
" I hope so, sir. I may get seven years' penal servi-
tude. It's my second offence ; and if they find I'm an
Irishman, I shall be certainly sent to penal servitude."
"• Impossible ! nonsense ! " said Luke.
The prisoner got seven years. His little wife from
Kerry fainted.
Here, too, were sailors from Glasgow, and Paisley,
and Liverpool, in for refusing to go to sea in water-
logged vessels, and who purchased their lives with
three months' starvation.
Luke was very indignant. The perfect mechanism
of English methods was beginning to pall on him. It
was so silent, so smooth, so deadly, so indifferent. He
had a row with his rector over the matter. And at the
Lefevrils he said : —
" I know it is civilization ; but there's something
wanting. What is it?"
He expressed in emphatic language his difficulties to
John Godfrey. John, usually so phlegmatic, flared up.
" The people must be protected, and what is to pro-
tect the people but the law ? "
"But seven years' penal servitude for a freak in a fit
of drink I Do you understand it ? Can you imagine
the horror, the desolation, the misery, the despair, of
these seven years of hell ? "
THE SUBMERGED TENTH 265
" That's all right. But the law — the law ! "
The law was the fetich. You dare not whisper a
syllable against it. Not the law of God, but of man.
" You, Irish," said the rector, " are by nature opposed
to law and order You sympathize with crime — "
" I beg pardon," said Luke. " We convict criminals,
we condemn crime."
" Then why commit crime ? " said the rector.
" Commit crime V Ireland is the most crimeless coun-
try in the world," said Luke.
" Tell that to the marines I " said the rector. Luke
didn't. He knew that on certain subjects the British
mind has one of the symptoms of incurable insanity —
the idee jixee of Charcot.
He thought it would be a nice subject for the salon.
Such social problems were often debated there, and
there was as much theorizing as in Parliament. Pie
broached the matter delicately — the dreadful ine-
quality of punishments under the English law. They
gnashed their teeth. He had blasphemed their god.
" Your countrymen are curiously sympathetic with
crime."
" There is more crime committed in one day, one
hour, in Englajid than would be committed in Ireland
in a century," said Luke, repeating the usual formula.
"Ah ! yes, perhaps so ; but they are a lawless race."
" They don't break God's laws," said Luke.
"God," said Amiel, "is another name for order —
^osmoft, as Satan is disorder — Chaos. It is the univer-
sal order of Nature that any deflection from its rules
must inexorably meet its punishment. The English
^■iw is the interpreter of Nature, that is — (iod I "
Luke bowed ; but he thought he heard the snarl of
a wild beast somewhere. He said diihdently: —
" It seems to me that Carlyle, not Christ, is the
prophet of the English [)eoj)le."
" Christ interi)^ted by Carlyle," said Amiel.
" I never met His Name in Carlyle's twenty- two vol-
umes," said Luke.
266 LUKE DELMEGE
But ever after, as he watched curiously the little,
shy, half-suppressed indications of affection in the fami-
lies to which he was welcomed, and which revealed
their inner secrets to him, he could not shake aside the
thought that had fastened on his fancy of the lioness
and her cubs —
Mouthing her young in her first fierce kiss.
But this awful, unbending, retributive justice — this
appeal to the brutality of nature — made him shudder,
whilst it fascinated him. It was the dread grinding
of the blind mechanism that was always haunting him
— the voice of a soulless creation.
Luke was asked, the following Sunday, to oiftciate at
Seathorpe, a fashionable watering-place, just then spring-
ing into eminence on the south coast. He had to travel
forty miles by train, and he reached the village at dusk.
He was directed to a lonely house down by a sheltered
quay, and called Aboukir Mansion. Here he was met
by the ubiquitous Irishman and his wife, and it was a
warm greeting from hands that had dug in the silver
mines at Nevada, and had held a musket in the trenches
before Sebastopol. And he needed it, for it was a large,
roomy mansion, bare of furniture, except such as was
absolutely necessary — just the kind of place where
Dickens would locate a mysterious murder and make
the walls tell of it. Next morning, at ten o'clock, he
faced his congregation. It consisted of six servants,
the lord of the manor, and a magnificent St. Bernard
dog. The two latter were located within the sanctuary,
as became their dignity. The others were without.
The chapel was the old dining-room ; but the altar had
been once in the place of honour in a famous Capuchin
convent on the Adriatic coast. Luke was about to
commence Mass, when a certain figure, clothed in cleri-
cal costume, arrested his arm and said aloud, with a
strong nasal accent : —
'•'• Come, let us ado7'e 1 "
THE SUBMERGED TENTH 267
Luke was about to resent the interruption when the
figure knelt and gravely intoned : —
" Come^ let us exult in the Lord, let us rejoice in God
our Helper ; let us come before His presence ivitli thanks-
giving, and inalce a joyful noise to Him zvith psalms."
And the congregation muttered : —
" The King to whom all things live ; come, let us
adored
So the superb psalm went on to the end. But Luke
was nowhere. He inquired afterwards who the inter-
loper was. A village tailor, who had been received
into the Church a few weeks before.
Then came the Missa Cantata, sung by the choir ;
and at the Gospel Luke preached for thirty minutes.
The old man slept ; but he congratulated Luke warmly
afterwards. The Irishman was in ecstasies.
" Why, you are akchally an orator, yer reverence ! "
Luke admitted the impeachment.
He was to dine at the manor at eight o'clock. He
held an afternoon service at five. This time there was
a crowd, a curious, gaping crowd of villagers, who gath-
ered in fear and trembling to see what the Papists were
doinor. Amonsrst them Luke noticed two ladies in
black.
" The}'" have been attending the church for ten years,"
said the sacristan.
'• Then they are Catholics ? " asked Luke.
'' No ! nor ever will be," was the answer.
Luke was received in the drawing-room with frigid
politeness. The old man sat in his arm-chair, his dog
beside him. There was a clergyman in the room and
his four daughters. He was the old man's no])lieAv and
expectant heir. For the old man had married his L'ish
cook, who had converted him. Then she went to heaven
to receive her reward. The estate was entailed.
Dinner was announced. The old man looked at Luke.
Luke returned the gaze calmly. The old man was tlis-
appointed. It was the duty of the chaphun to wheel
him in to dinner. Luke had failed to understand, and
268 LUKE DELMEGE
the nephew dutifully took his place, wheeled the old
man out of the drawing-room, into the corridor, right to
the head of the table, the huge mastiff walking gravely
by his side. Luke was allowed to say grace. In the
course of the dinner the nephew touched the decanter
and looked at his uncle. He was a clergyman, and in
his fiftieth year.
" Might I have one, sir ? "
" Yes, owg," said the old man.
It was a beautiful act of reverence to old age, or was
it — mammon ?
When the ladies had retired, the three gentlemen sat
around the fire. There was solemn silence. Luke was
uneasy. His nervous temperament was not yet wholly
subdued, although he had acquired the art of being
silent for ten minutes ; but a quarter of an hour was
too great a strain. He addressed the old man : —
" I dare say a good many yachts run in here in the
summer and autumn months?"
The old man was asleep.
"• Did you see Stanley's latest ? " Luke said to the
nephew.
"Stanley? Stanley?" coughed the clergyman. "Never
heard of him."
" He has just returned from his tour through Egypt
and the Holy Land. He accompanied the Prince of
Wales."
" He must have had a jolly time. Franked all the
way, I suppose ? "
Luke saw the trend of his thoughts, pooi- fellow !
" I like Stanley," he said, "although he's as hard on
celibate clergy as Kingsley — "
"The awful fool ! " muttered the clergyman.
" But then he had his five or six thousand a year, and
no children."
Tlie poor man groaned.
" Now," continued Luke, " I always pray for two
persons — the Pope that invented celibacy, and the Chi-
naman that invented tea."
THE SUBMERGED TENTH 269
" So do I ! So do I ! " said his neighbour. "That is,
I don't know about that Chinaman ; but I like that
Pope. God bless him ! "
Luke watched the fire.
"Look here," the other whispered, "'tis all rot I "
"I beg your pardon," said Luke.
" I say, 'tis all rot," repeated his companion. " 'Tis
all L.S.D."
"I can't quite catch the subject," said Luke, "though
I understand the predicate."
" All this rubbish about religion. Why, any man
can be religious on a thousand a year. Any man can
be holy on two thousand a year. Any man can be
a saint on five thousand a year. It's all this way. To
be a saint you must be at peace with all the world.
Very good. But with five thousand a year, where's the
trouble? Wliy, man, you can't have an enemy. Who'd
say boo to a fellow with five thousand a year, a palace,
and a carriage ? Phew ! "
" I hope your excellent uncle has twice five thousand
a year ! " said Luke, consolingly.
But there came such a look of terror on the poor
fellow's face that Luke changed the subject imme-
diately.
" That's a magnificent St. Bernard ! "
"A true blood ! The monks gave him to my uncle ! "
"That was kind."
"I suppose they thought St. Bernard Mould like it.
He liked the English, you know ! "
"I did not know. I'm deeply interested."
"I don't know much about these tilings ; but I heard
a clever fellow of ours say tliat St. Bernard gave the
Pope of his day a rap over the knuckles, and that he
opposed the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception."
" Indeed ! That must be a clever fellow," said Luke,
sarcastically.
" Oh, yes ! And, therefore, St. Bernard must be one
of us, you know."
" I see. Any one that protests ? "
270 LUKE DELMEGE
" Exactly. Any man that makes a row against things
as they are — "
" Eh ? eh ? " said the old man, opening his eyes.
The nephew was paralyzed. But the old man dropped
asleep again.
" You were saying ? — " said Luke.
"Sh ! No, sir, I was not saying."
" Well, you implied that you gather everything clean
and unclean into the capacious sheets of heresy. I have
noticed that. I remarked the other day to one of your
canons that it was a singular fact that in the Revised
Version of the New Testament, whereas every rational-
ist and free-thinker is quoted, there's not a single Catho-
lic writer even mentioned."
" Of course not ; of course not," said the nephew, who
was watching his uncle anxiously.
" 'Tis the tradition of your Church," said Luke, " and
when the old men die — "
" Eh ? eh ? Who said I was dying ? " exclaimed the
old man, and dropped asleep again.
"• For God's sake stop and look at the fire," said the
alarmed nephew. " If he hears anything again 'tis all
up."
" All right," said Luke.
So they watched the fire until the old man became
restless again.
" What's his weak point ? " whispered Luke.
"The view," whispered the nephew, in an alarmed
way.
Luke got up and went to the window. It was a
something to be proud of. As one looked down from
the almost dizzy height, over the roofs of detached villas,
each nestling in its own dark-green foliage, and out
across the quiet village to where the sea slept, stretch-
ing its vast peacef ulness to the horizon, the words leaped
to the lips : —
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
THE SUBMERGED TENTH 271
But it was the peace, the Sabbath peace of a Sabbath
evening in Enghmd, that stole on the senses, and
wrapped them out of the bare, bald present into the
music and magic of the past. And, irresistibly, TJsna-
lee and all its loveliness rose up before the mind of
Luke. It was now an infrequent and faint picture.
Luke had blotted it from his everyday memory. He
had said good-bye to his own land forever. After his
last visit, when everything looked so old and melan-
choly, and every white cottage was a sepulchre, he had
tacitly made up his mind that his vocation was unques-
tionably to remain in England, work there and die
there, and he only awaited the expiration of his seven
years' apprenticeship to demand an exeat from his own
Bishop and affiliation to his adopted diocese.
"Yes," he said to himself, "everytlhng points that
way. I have found my metier. I must not throw it
aside. I have no business in Ireland. I should be
lost there, and we must not bury our talents in a
napkin."
But somehow, standing in this broad bay-window,
this long, summer twilight, Lisnalee would project its
bareness and sadness across the calm beauty and the
snug prosperity of this English village. He tried to
blot it out. No ; there it was, floating above the real
huulscape, as a mist floats its transparency over a sleep-
ing lake. And he remembered that herce argument he
had with his own conscience, as he rocked on the boat
the afternoon of the great day when he said his first
Mass.
"I was right," he said ; "if I had remained at home,
what -should I be now? A poor, half-distracted pro-
fessor in a seminary, or a poor, ill-dressed, ill-iioust'd
curate on the mountain, and see wliat I am I '"
And Luke lifted his wateh-ohain and tliought of his
greatness.
"Eh? eh?" said the old man, waking up tlnally.
" What did you say ? "
" I say," said Luke, promptly, " that tliere is not in
272 LUKE DELMEGE
the world, except perhaps at Sorrento or Sebenico, a
view to equal that."
" Ha ! did ye hear that, George ? " chuckled the old
man ; " did ye hear that ? "
" Yes, sir," said George ; " Mr. Delmege has been
raving about it the whole evening."
" Mr. Delmege has excellent taste," said the old man;
"here, George, the ladies await tea."
He took occasion to whisper to Luke : —
" I wish the Bishop would send you here. I have en-
dowed the mission — a hundred a year. And you should
dine with me every day. Eh ? "
"It would be delightful," said Luke. And as he
walked slowly, step by step with the yawning mastiff
after the arm-chair of the host, he pictured to himself a
home in this delightful village, with books and pen and
paper, crowds of converts, a quarterly article in the Liib-
lin, select society, an occasional run to the city or to
Aylesburgh to preach a great sermon, correspondence
with the world's literati^ then ecclesiastical honours, and
beautiful, dignified age. Alas I and his Master's mind
was weaving far other destinies for him ; and swiftly
and suddenly this vision of the priestly Sybarite vanished.
Next day the old man broached the subject again.
He had set his heart on having a resident priest at Sea-
thorpe. Luke referred him to the Bishop ; but he more
than hinted that the project would be exceedingly agree-
able to himself.
^ Dear me ! " he said, as he returned to Aylesburgh
by the morning train, "• how swiftly we pass to extremes.
It's a seesaw between the 'upper ten ' and the 'lower
five.' Which do I prefer? Hardly a fair question. But
if I had not the prospect of that horrid prison before the
mental landscape, and Primrose Lane, would life be the
brighter? Who knows?"
He drew the subject around deftly that evening after
tea. The good Canon was anxious to enter into, and
guide rightly, the strange, emotional nature that was
thrown into his hands. But he confessed himself at
THE SUBMERGED TENTH 273
fault. He had studied every phase of Luke's character,
watched every mood, and reluctantlj^ had come to the
conclusion that the fine spirit would never go far wrong,
yet never reach any great height. The very instinct
that forbade the former would debar the latter. And
the Canon thought the time had come for a change.
Luke had made some vigorous efforts to escape the
thraldom of too intellectual society ; but the toils were
around him, and an evening at home or at one of the
quiet Catholic houses was intolerably dull. Where would
all this end? The Canon often asked himself the ques-
tion ; and asked the same question of the flowers he
placed and replaced around his jNIaster's throne ; and
asked it of the white flames that sprang up around the
altar ; and sometimes paused in his walk, and held his
Breviary open without reading it, and stumbled at cer-
tain verses : —
'''-Homo, cum in Jionore esset^ non intellexit.'''
" Does that apply to mv young friend ? "
'•'- Decident a cogitationihus suis ; secundum mnltitu-
dinem impietatum eorum, expelle eos ; quoniam irritave-
runt te, Domlne.''''
" Dear me ! dear me ! God forbid ! "
" How did you like Seathorpe ? " he said to Luke at
supper.
" Very much indeed! What a quaint old place the
mansion is ; and what a (piaint old fellow the proi)rie-
tor!"
" Yes! the Church is not making much headway there,"
said the old Canon.
"It needs a resident priest," said Luke, "one who
would give all time and attention to the possibilities
of the place."
"Yes! It wonhl be a nice mission for a young man of
energv wlio oonhl keep his head."
" t don't think there's much to tenq)t a man to insane
things there," said Luke.
" Except the worst danger — loneliness and the taedium
vitae.^''
274 LUKE DELMEGE
" Yes ; but if a man has his books, and his pen, and
his work cut out for him — "
" Quite so, if he is a strong man. But if he be a weak
man, it is certain danger."
*•' Solitude has always been the mother-country of the
strong and the elect."
" Just what I have been saying," said the Canon.
" A mother-country to the strong ; a howling and dan-
gerous desert to the weak."
Luke thought that there was an undercurrent of
meaning in the Canon's words ; but there was nothing
to catch hold of or resent.
" I shouldn't object to a mission there," he said bluntly.
"Ah! I see you're tired of us here. Well, Avho knows?
Meanwhile, you would do well to visit the prison to-
morrow. Tuesday is your day, I believe."
" Yes," said Luke. " Nothing has turned up there ? "
" Nothing unusual," said the Canon, quietly. "There
is a soldier, a countryman of yours, up for shooting his
officer through the heart on the barrack-square at
Dover."
Luke studied the gas-jet for a long time when the
Canon had gone to his room.
CHAPTER XXII
EUTHAXASIA
Sir Athelstan Wilson had got all he coveted in
this life, and all he desired in eternity, which he re-
garded as a vague, ill-defined, and unscientific quantity.
He had snatched out of the melee of life and from
under the teeth of Orange mastiiTs a dainty morsel.
They gnashed their teeth in rage ; and he — well, he
was not satisfied. Who is ? Well, where's the use in
tearing a moral to tatters? But tliere were two tilings
that spoiled his pleasure. That agile and most modest
microbe still declined his solicitations, and there was a
blank in his life besides. For he missed, in the morning
and the evening, the face and figure of liis child ; the
little caresses tliat smoothed out, at least in fancy, tlie
furrows and lissures of Time and Care. And then lie
did not understand why she should be sacrificed. He
always thought Antigone a fool to trouble so much
about a corpse.
*" Why don't these clergymen mind their own busi-
ness?" he said to his good wife. ""They are forever
intermeddling in family matters. Barbara would be
here at home but for that excellent brother of yours."
" Fm sure the Canon is not to blame," she whis])cred;
" Louis could not l)e left alone, and you know this house
would be no asylum foi- liini."*
" I never intended it should," said the doctor. ''That
young gentleman must reap his wild oats where he
sowed them. lUit if your charitable brother is so de-
voted to Louis, has he not a room at his presbytery to
give him ? "
276
276 LUKE DELMEGE
" He has already offered his hospitality to Louis and
Barbara," said the mother, with a little of the old spirit.
" When they return from this brief trip they will stay
with their uncle until Louis' health is completely
restored."
" 'Twill be a protracted visit," said the doctor.
" It will be a pleasant one," retorted Lady Wilson.
" Thank God, my children have found in their priests
their best and kindest friends."
Which shows that Lady Wilson had a little both of
mother love and mother wit.
Luke Delmege did not visit the prison on Tuesday.
He came up to town to make definite and final arrange-
ments with the Bishop to affiliate to his adopted diocese.
He had already written home to demand his exeat from
his native diocese; and, as Seathorpe had blotted out
Lisnalee from the map of his future, he thought he
might as well make assurance doubly sure by taking
out his affiliation at once. The Bishop was from home,
and Luke asked Father Sheldon for a walk, in which he
might unbosom himself to his friend. The latter did
persuade him to call on the Wilsons ; but they were
out for a short visit, said the old housekeeper.
So the two good friends, Celt and Saxon as they
were, once more found themselves amongst soldiers and
babies on the well-trodden banks of the Serpentine,
where Father Sheldon some years back had tried to
extract that ailing tooth, and had failed egregiously.
" I need hardly tell you, Sheldon," said Luke, bluntly,
" that I have come to town with a purpose. My seven
years' probation is up, and I am about to affiliate, once
and forever, to this diocese."
Father Sheldon walked along slowly and in silence.
" I've made up my mind," said Luke, continuing,
" that my work lies here in England. Ever^^thing points
to it. So far, I have been fairly successful ; and I have
no doubt but that a still wider and more — well, useful
career lies before me."
" You liave given the matter a good deal of considera-
tion?" said Father Sheldon.
EUTHANASIA 277
" Yes. In fact, I have made up my mind on the
subject since my hist visit home."
" H'm. rd advise you to return to Irehand ! "
" What ? " said Luke, stopping and looking angrily
at his friend.
''I'd advise you to return home as soon as you are
free to do so," said Father Sheldon, quietly. " You
will do better there than here."
"I don't understand you, Sheldon," said Luke. "Do
you mean that I've been a failure here?"
"N-no," said Father Sheldon, languidly. "But I
think that eventually you would make better strides
with your feet upon your native heather."
" You speak as one not knowing," said Luke. " Why,
man, if 1 were to return now, I should have to com-
mence all over again."
" How is that ? " asked his friend.
" You see, everything in L-eland is fixed in a cast-
iron mould. Tliey don't understand change, which is
progress. Everything is judged by age. You buy a
bottle of wine — the first question is: How old is it?
You buy a horse: How old? Everything is old, and
feeble, and decrepit ; and no matter liow distinguished
a man may be in England or in America, you sink
down to a cipher the moment you touch the Irish
shore ; and a Newman or a Lacordaire takes his place
at the end of the queue. No one asks : What can you
do ? or. What have you done? But, How old are you?
How long have you been on the mission ? Result :
After a few spasmodic efforts, which become convulsive,
you sink into a lethargy, from which there is no awak-
ening. You become aged, not by years, l)ut by despair."
" That is sad. But you have work, nevertheless, liave
you not ? "
" Of course, but uncongenial. Every round man is
in a square hole, and every square man in a round li(»U\
There's a great friend of mine (you must come over to
see liim) — "
"No, thank you," said Father Sheldon. "I don't
I
278 LUKE DELMEGE
value life too highly, but I don't care to throw it away
in curiosity."
" You're joking. They'll pray for you in the Cathe-
dral while you're in the proximate danger of death ;
but I was saying that distinguished man, a graduate of
Heidelberg, a good German scholar, is banished to a
strip of sand down by the sea, which he calls a parish.
I assure you he would do honour to any diocese or
church in England."
" Pretty bad. Have you approached the Bishop
here?"
" No, not yet. But that's all right. I don't want
much. I'm not ambitious. But there's a little place
down there in Sussex, where a resident priest is badly
wanting. I shall propose to the Bishop to allow me to
open a mission there. Of course, the income is miser-
able, but I can eke out a subsistence with my pen."
" Have you tried as yet that expeditious way of
making ends meet ? "
" Well, no. But I know that Dr. Drysdale man-
ages to make a clean hundred a year with his pen."
" Oh ! AVell," said Father Sheldon, shrugging his
shoulders, " I suppose you must only await the Bishop's
decision. By tlie way, do you know Halleck ? "
" Yes, well. A clever fellow. Indeed, the only one
in my congregation that I fear on Sundays."
"Indeed? You needn't fear him much longer, I
think."
" How ? Is he going abroad ? "
" No. But he has started a religion of his own, like
all good Englishmen. He calls himself an 'eclectic' "
" By Jove ! I didn't hear that. Now that I remem-
ber, Drysdale was speculating lately what he would do
with certain people who were what he called latitudi-
narian."
" Well. And what did he decide ? "
" He would not admit them to Sacraments. Rather
hard, I thought. I didn't know he meant Halleck.
Where did Halleck split ? "
EUTHANASIA 279
"Nowhere in particular. Slipped his anchors and
went aground."
"• That's horrible. I must look him up, poor fellow,
and bring him back. I always told Drysdale that these
friffid sermons of his would do mischief. He couldn't
understand that we must keep pace with the age and
read up all that it has to say. You couldn't expect a man
like Halleck to sit still under first, secondly, thirdly,
fourthly, fifthly, sixthly of the old-fashioned prones.
But it is so hard to convince old fossils of these things
that seem axiomatic."
" Quite so. But Halleck went further. It was an
article in the Athencenm that revealed him. Something
about the Book of Thoth.'"
Luke turned white and crimson alternately. It was
a dread shock to a soul that, if anything, was faithful
beyond mciisure to Ins old principles and beliefs. The
thought that lie, Luke Delmege, through false notions
of culture, s[)rung from human vanit}-, should actually
be instrumental in wrecking the faith of an able and
distinguished convert, was too horrible. He could con-
ceive no more dire calamity. He knew well what Fatlier
Sheldon meant ; and the old text about '' the lying
prophets" smote on his memory. He foresaw the con-
sequences to himself. But he was too generous to heed
them. He only tliought tliat he had been instrumental
in imperilling, if not altogetlier ruining, the salvation
of a soul. The two friends walked up and down in
silence for a time. Then Luke moaned aloud ; but,
choking down his emotion, he said humbly : —
" Let us return. I must catch the evening train to
Avlesburirli."
It was a ver}^ gentle, conscience-stricken man tlmt
entered the county prison next morning. In cell -1.
on the first corridoi-, he found his prisoner.
" Pretty Ijad business, sir,"* said the warder. It was
the old, old story. The proud and effeminate imperial-
ist, fresh from the voluptuousness of the capital, and the
strong-thewed gladiator from Scythia, grimed from the
280 LUKE DELMEGE
soot of battle, and hardened from the baptisms of fire.
And it was all for England, and England did not know
it. How could she ? And how could that imbecile
understand the awful death he was summoning from a
smitten soul, when he walked around that clean, brave
man, and called him, " a dirty Irish pig."
" Wance more," said the pig, '' and he's in hell."
" Keep quiet, ye ruffian," said his comrade, " and let
the divil and his piper pass."
Too late. For the piper piped : —
" One step to the rear, you, sir, till I examine your
kit."
Then the cartridge was slipped quietly into its deadly
cradle.
"■ And thin," said the prisoner, " he kem in front av
me, and laughed. An' somethin' snapped in me head,
and my finger tetched the thrigger ; an' he was lying in
a heap on the ground. That's all ! "
"• There's no defence possible here," thought Luke.
None. And in a few weeks the sentence went forth.
Death for death.
" I've wan request to make, my Lord," said the pris-
oner. " Gi' me the priest, and let me be hanged in half
an hour."
Monstrous ! That would be contrary to all precedent.
It would be abominable cruelty. Four weeks at least
should intervene. Four weeks of fiendish torture —
the torture of seeing a cruel and inevitable horror creep-
ing hour by hour and minute by minute before one's
eyes, without a hope of escape or mitigation. Four
weeks of slow death, to which the brutalities of the Sioux
and the Comanche were mercy. For there, whilst the
knives quivered in the victim's flesh, and the tomahawks
sang over his head, his blood was on fire with, anger and
pride ; and, as in the heat of ])attle men will not feel
the sting and smart of wounds, so under physical tor-
ture men heed neither pain nor death. But lo ! that
awakening in the morning from dreams of childhood —
from daisied meadows and laughing streams and brill-
EUTHANASIA 281
iant sunshine to the whitewash of the condemned cell,
and the dread spectre of the fatal morning one day
nearer ; and Oh ! the long hours of consciousness,
unbroken by one single moment's distraction from the
tense horror that haunts him ; and Oh ! the presence
of these silent warders, watching, watching, lest the
wretched victim should escape the vengeance of the
law ; and the very luxury of the food that is proffered
and sent away uneaten, as if food could quench the
burning wheels of a brain on fire with dread foreboding ;
and the cold, calculated sympathy, whilst the meshes
are tightening around the doomed one ; and finally, the
hideous drama on the fatal morning, to which the hor-
rors of the Roman arena were but stage representations,
so cold, and callous, and inexorable does the hand of
man choke out the immortal soul ; and then the un-
speakable mockery of calling this hideous and hidden
tragedy a " painless death '" ; Oh ! 'tis all too dreadful
evett for this polished and cultured generation, that
knows notliing and cares less for the charity of Christ.
It was a happy distraction for Luke that his sympa-
thies were engaged in sootliing the last days of this
unhappy man ; for his own supreme folly would other-
wise have driven him half-mad. Yes ! Halleck had
apostatized ; and the fine eclecticism of Amiel Lefevril
could not mitigate the shame or the horror. The posi-
tive, divine truth of tlie Catliolic truth never struck
Luke Dehnege so forcibly as when he realized that
playing with the ineffable mysteries of faith was a dan-
gerous game. Doctrines to be proved ; objections to
be met ; jirinciplcs to l)e defended — all tliis souikUhI
commonplace to a dialectician, and scarce!}' affecteil liis
sense of responsibility. But '' a soul lost by your mis-
direction ! " The thoucrht was too dreadful. The sad
work of ])reparing a criminal for death came as a relief.
l>ut how Luke was tortured duriufr that month of Ldoom
his diary testifies.
" A uffust 18. — Said Mass for Halleck. Poor fellow gone abroad.
No trace. Visited Donnelly. Bearing up well, he says, but in the
282 LUKE DELMEGE
morning when he wakes and the dread horror strikes him ! Is very
repentant, poor fellow. Discussion with Canon about capital pun-
ishment, on theological principles. Where and when was society
invested with the supreme attribute of taking human life? He
could only say, in the old formula, ' Coinmencez, Messieurs les
assassins ! '
''August 20. — Letter from Sheldon. Wilsons going abroad.
Letter "from Father Martin. Great annoyance at home at the
thought of my leaving my native diocese. Saw poor Donnelly.
The good nuns spent two hours with him to-day. Very muchcon-
soled. ' Father, if I could get my blood up, 'twould be all right.
Would it be any harm to pick a quarrel with these poor fellows
and have a friendly fight? If they'd take me out wanst a day and
scourge me, 'twould make me mad, an' I'd have somethin' to think
about besides the drop.' Paid a short visit to the Lefevrils. Rarely
go there now. They cannot understand my awful trouble about
Halleck. ' He's made no change,' they say ; ' he's as he always
was.' The devil himself cannot knock this notion of private judg-
ment out of the minds of these people. Why should he, indeed ?
'Tis his trump card.
'' August 21. — Sunday. Mass at convent. Preached at Missa
Cantata. The Canon very kind about Halleck's affair. He actually,
for the first time, said a kind word about my sermon, which 1 con-
sidered commonplace. Why are the old so economical aboufkind
words to the young? They are cheap; and God only knows what
a splendid tonic is a kind word. I cannot get poor Donnelly out
of iny head. His face haunts me. The drawn look on the cheeks,
the staring eyes, the cold, clammy perspiration on his forehead and
in his hands. What a mercy if they had hanged him a fortniglit
ago ! Yet another fortnight — twenty thousand minutes of anguish,
and each minute a hell ! I cannot sleep these nights. Donnelly
and Halleck haunt me. Which is worse — the dead soul or the
strangled body?
''August 22. — The Canon and I have a bad falling-out about
this poor fellow. I put it bluntly to him last night after tea : what
right has society, if it has the right to destroy human life at all,
which I emphatically deny, to heap up torture of this kind on a
condemned man, and then plunge him into a fearful and appalling
death ? Why does not she — 1 suppose it is she — use the more
merciful form, the Socratic hemlock or chloroform? Who gave
society the right to torture as well as to kill ?
" Letter from Bishop. Rather ambiguous. A great many ifs
and but's. Who knows? Perhaps, after all, I shall return to Ire-
land. Infandum !
" August 2i. — Reading up St. Thomas to-day. Ugh ! It's like
eating sawdust after Mill and Stewart. Why — well, there I am
again, always questioning, always puzzled. A letter from the old
gentleman at Seathorpe, asking whether I had considered his
EUTHANASIA 283
proposal. Certainly, my dear old friend, but others have to con-
sider too. Wrot^e to-day to Donnelly's P.P. in Ireland. ' Av I had
took his advice 1 wouldn't be here the day.' Sic damnatus!
" August 25. — Letter from Olivette Lefevril, inclosing one from
Ilalleck and detailing- his future plans. Evidently uneasy in his
horrible a[)Ostasy and tiinginy all the blame on me ! ! ! ' Quite clear,'
he says, ' that a good many Roman Catholic clergymen are of my
way of thinking. Indeed, it was the sermons of our good friend,
^Ir. Delmege, that gave this fresh bias to my thoughts ! ' A\'liat a
beastly lie ! The fellow was always a free-thinker and hardly con-
cealed it. I defy any one to quote a single passage from my
sermons that is not orthodox !
"Auf/ust 27. — Looked up all my sermons yesterday again.
There's not a word that could be construed, even by the foulest
imagination, into an apology, or the faintest shadow of excuse, for
heresy in any shape or form. Why, 'tis the very thing I liave
always hated and loathed. But these hypocrites are foi'ever seek-
ing to fling over the blame of their apostasies on others. Even the
good Cardinal : ' England did not abandon the faith ; she was
robbed of it.' Bosh ! Poor Donnelly calmer, except in the morning.
Yes ; one gets used to everything in this wctrld !
^^ Auf/ust 29. — Nothing would do this old gentleman but to
drag up this infernal question again. He seems to gloat over the
hon-ible approaching death of poor Donnelly. I wonder was
Christianity ever preached in this country? 'Coming near the
end, sir ! ' said the old governor to-day, rubbing his hands, as if he
were after playing a game of whist. ' Bearing up well, poor chap ! '
Casablanca complaining and whining that his nerves are disturbed
by the sounds of the carpenters at the scaffold! Ugh! Isn't it
horril)le ? I suppose I'll never sleep again. I was alone, after
Benediction to-night in the church, trying to say a prayer for poor
DouupIIv. Alone with Ilni! Then a sudden horror seized me,
and I lii'd.
" Auf/uxt 30. — ' A couple of days more, yer reverence, and 'twill
be all over. Yer reverence, wouldn't ye say a little word to rouse
me and make me forget meself? Whin the nuns come here I'm
all riglit for hours after.' I wonder what does the jioor fellow
mean? The Canon opened up the matter again to-night. Society
has to use the law as a deterrent and a punishment, as well as a
jirotectiou. This I denied in tola. Society has a right to protect
itself — no more. Can it be protected by locking up ciiniinals?
If so, then it has no right to murder. If it has a right to take life,
then that shoulil be done in the easiest and decentest manner.
' But this is a painless death ! ' No use in talking. Tlie English
have no imagination. A painless death ! \ death into which all tiie
iiorrorsof hell are concentrated; a death to which all the alleged tor-
tures of the Middle Ages were the sweetest ecstasies. I wonder will I
keep my reason the fatal morning? I have been thinking of asking
284 LUKE DELMEGE
Drysdale to take my place. But poor Donnelly won't have it. Oh !
if I could but sleep. And Halleck attending Mass and going to
Communion in Chalons, so the j^apers say.
'■'■September 1. — The Canon hints broadly that I'm not wanted
in the diocese. He hien ! The world is all before me, where to
choose. But have I cut the ground from under my feet at home?
Let me suppose that the Bishop sent over my exeat, as I re-
quested, where am I ? Nobody's child. Donnelly, I fear, will lose
liis reason, and so shall I. There's a look as of a maniac in his eye.
The nuns soothe him wonderfully with the stoi'y of the Passion of
our Lord. ' Spake to me of that,' he says, ' an' I'm all right.' I
try to console him with the assurance that we are all moving in the
same direction as himself. 'Spake to me of that,' he says. Poor
fellow! And he had looked into the black nioutli of the cannon
without fear, in the mutiny, when the Sepoys had actually touched
the powder with the fuse.
" September 2. — Said Mass for poor Donnelly. Looked up all my
past sermons again. I offered to submit them to the Canon last
night, and let him say was there anything objectionable in them.
' No, thank you ! ' was his rejjly. Letter from my clerical friend
at Seathorpe, asking me to use my great influence with his uncle to
secure an advance of a few pounds ; or, if I preferred, to advance
the money myself. Donnelly in a bad state. Eyes staring; hands
trembling ; no food. Something will snap in his head again, I
fear. He told me this morning he had had a sunstroke in India.
This accounts for a good deal.
^^ September 'i. — Visited Donnelly. Strange to say, he's cooler
and quieter than he has been since his sentence. Poor fellow!
He made me sole legatee. Medals, Lucknow, Oude, a cane wreathed
with serpents, an idol stolen from a Burmese pagoda, and a stone
— topaz, I think — which, he says, seen under a peculiar light,
breaks into flames, etc. "What a strange history ! The history of
a vagrant and ubiquitous race, that hate their country when they
are in it, and yearn for it when they are absent. I wonder shall I
sleep to-night. . . . Broke down in resolution this afternoon, and
asked the Canon to accompany poor Donnelly to death. I can
never face it. 'No, thank you!' was his reply. I wonder what
strange chemical did the Lord mix with the clay from which He
fashioned these good English?"
Here the diary breaks off and is not resumed for
many a day. It would appear that Luke, after a sleep-
less night, woke, sick and weary, to the dread dawn.
The excellent Canon was to say the convent Mass, and
Luke was to come straight from the prison, after the
execution, to celebrate the Holy Sacrifice for the poor
EUTHANASIA 285
dead soldier. That programme had to be altered.
Luke did brace himself for the frightful ordeal ; did go
to the prison, where a strange thing took place. For
the strange grace was given to the poor condemned of a
moment's distraction from his awful fate ; he saw the
horror in Luke's face worse than his own. He noticed
his trembling hands, his white, drawn face ; and, with
the sympathy of his race, he forgot himself in his
anxiety for his poor priest. " Bear up, yer reverence ! "
he said, as they pinioned his hands ; "'twill be all over
in a minit ; don't let thim Prodestans," he whispered,
'"say ye broke down." In vain. With horror, shudder-
ing through every limb, Luke stepped along, the poor,
condemned man reciting the Litanies, and, at the same
time, trying to console the priest. Stupefied and only
semi-conscious, he stood on the scaffold, shuddered
at the cool, calculated arrangements for destruction ;
watched, as in a dream, the stare of the warders, and
the doctor, with his watch in his hand, and the cruel
machinery. The ])riest dare not look on the face of the
doomed man, which at this supreme moment was tiglit-
ened, every nerve and muscle tense with agony. Then
there was a friglitful crash, a stifled moan of human
pain, and the swish of the body, as it plunged into the
gloom of the pit. Luke felt the rope tightening, as it
dragged the shrieking soul from the body ; then easily
vibrating, as a beast that holds its prey, it swung to and
fro within a foot from where he stood. Then, like a
drunken man, he staggered from the scaffold and made
liis wav to the corridor. He heard some one say, " Not
a hitch!"
The Governor followed liastily to proffer hospitality.
That must never be forgotten.
" It passed off well, sir I Quite a painless death !
You look pale! Have a glass — "
But Luke had fainted and fallen heavily on the tiled
pavement.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE RHINE FALLS
" Your young men shall see visions, and your old
men shall dream dreams." And Father Meade, suc-
cessor to Father Tim in the parish of Gortnagoshel, had
a dream. And although he had been teaching for forty
years that it was sinful to give credit to dreams, fortune-
telling, or to attach any importance to omens and acci-
dents, it is regrettable to have to record that Father
Meade believed in that dream. He thought he was
down by the sea, near Father Martin's, and it was a
wild, tempestuous night ; dark as Erebus, but for the
white flecks in the tumult of waves and the white
sheets that floated to his feet. He did not know what
brought him there ; but as he gazed out on the mid-
night desolation he heard a cry afar off ; and out from
the swirl of waters, and conquering the screams of the
storm, came clearly and distinctly to his ears the words :
Allua ! Allua ! ! Allua ! ! ! Then he thought Luke
Delmege rushed down from the cliffs and plunged into
the boiling waters, and — Father Meade awoke, and
when he had gathered together his scattered senses, he
asked himself angrily : What did I eat ? For he
prided himself on his constitutional habits, and had
arranged with his stomach and the Fates that he would
see a century at least. Then he decided it was '' corned
beef," a dish rather dangerous from its attractiveness.
"I should have taken a second tumbler," he mur-
mured, and dropped to sleep again.
But when morning dawned, and he sat meditatively
by his fire, for the frosts had come early this year, his
286
THE RHINE FALLS 287
dream recurred to him again and again ; and Allua
Allua ! rancf in his ears and floated across the lines of
the psalms in his Breviary. And somehow the syl-
lables were familiar, although memory refused to unlock
the secret for a long time. Then, ver}- suddenly, as is
the wont of memory, a scene flashed out upon his mind.
It was a convent school, there in the heart of the city ;
and there was an ''exhibition." That is, the children
were all in their Sunday dresses, and there were great
piles of currant-cake on tlie side tables, and very beau-
tiful singing of grand old Irish melodies, and an address
to himself. And then a dear little child stepped to the
front and, with inimitable self-possession, commenced
to recite Callanan's famous poem : —
There is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra.
But she tripped at the next line, for the Easter hymns
were in her ears, and she blundered into —
Where Alleluia of song rushes forth like an arrow.
And Allua became her nickname from that day forward.
Now, Father Meade, tlien a dashing young curate,
was enthusiastic ; and, in his deliglit and ecstasy, he
made a speech, and the speech contained a promise. It
was a rash one, as may be supposed.
'•Wherever," he said, "you, my little children, may
be scattered in after life — North, South, East, West,
America, England, Australia, New Zealand — you must
count upon me as your father and your friend, and ap-
peal to me, nay, conuuand me, to come to your assist-
ance should you ever requii'O it."
lie often thougiit of tliat prnmisc in after life, al-
though lie was seldom callcil upon to redeem it. For
somehow, there, in their humbh' lioines and by lonely
firesides, the hearts of these Irish priests are forever
stretching out and vearning after tlieir exiletl children,
_
and womlering what has become of the lads who served
their Masses in the mountain cabins, or held their horses'
288 LUKE DELMEGE
heads during a sick call ; or the little maids, who peeped
from their humble snoods, and wondered at the awful
might and dignity of the priest, or blushed at the faint-
est praise in the dingy school. But now, after a lapse
of thirty years, " Allua of song" has called to him to
keep his promise, and Allua is in trouble and wants
him. He was puzzled, and thought of consulting his
housekeeper. Then he dreaded her sarcasm. She was
always trying to make him practical, to keep him from
giving good shoes, "that 'ud bear to be soled agin," to
a tramp wliose toes were in evidence ; or stealing some
of her fine, home-cured bacon, that she was reserving
for a grand party. Then he tried to shake off that
dream and that memory. No use ! There it was, and
the voice of the dream in his ears. Then he thought of
consulting his neio^hbour. Father Cussen. The worfct
thing a jDarish priest could do is to consult a curate
about anything. He'll tell the world about it and crow
over you ever after. Father Meade finally decided to
go down and see the scene of the midnight horror, and
judge how far it was real and how far imaginary. It
was a good, brisk walk ; but Father Meade intended to
be a centenarian, and that was a long wa}^ oif as yet.
So he took his stand on the shelf of rock, just where he
had stood in his dream, and looked out over the mighty
waste. All along, over to where a faint dim line of
haze marked the eagle beak of Loop Head, the sea
stretched in almost provoking calmness. Not a ripple,
on this calm September day, fretted the polished sur-
face, 'save where, right in the centre of the vast estuary,
a very faint ruffling marked where the great leap of the
mighty river was challenged by the insweeping tide.
But there was neither wind nor wave ; and yet, as tli'j
old priest looked, he found it not difficult to imagino
that Allua ! Allua ! was borne to his ears across the
waste of waters. He turned homewards, puzzled and
anxious ; but as his road ran down by the shrubbery
that fringed the outer wall of Father Martin's garden,
he thought he might give a call. The result was that
THE RHINE FALLS 289
a few days later, when Luke had recovered from the
shock he had received and was able to open his corre-
spondence, he read : —
" My dear Father Delmege : — If you should come across, in
your travels through London or elsewhere, a little girl (but now, I
suppose, a young woman), answering to the name of Alhia, tell her
I have got her message, and will befriend her, if she is in trouble,
as I suspect. Faithfully yours,
" William Meade, T.P."
" That's an exact counterpart to the letter addressed :
' My son in America,' " said Luke ; and he thought no
more of it. Especially as the same mail had brought
him a letter from his Bishop, very kind and sympathetic,
warning him of the seriousness of the step he was medi-
tating, and assuring him of a mission at home if he
could only make up his mind to return.
" I think," his Lordship wrote, " as 3'ou were educated
for 3-()ur own diocese, you ought to serve in your own
diocese. But I shall not recall you against j-our own
wishes."
" Then the ground is not quite cut from under my
feet," said Luke ; and he wrote promptly to say that he
would return for the 1st of October, after a brief trip
on the Continent, whither he had been ordered by his
physician.
He ran up to the city to explain his intentions. He
remained for dinner. He was seated next a miglity
travelliM- — a kind of latter-day Al)be Hue, wlio was
intinitt'ly polite and rondescending, asked J^uke many
questions, and gave him valuable information as to his
route to Switzerland. Luke was vi'ry happy in thinking
that his own amiability pr()m[)tly si.M-ured friends in all
directions. There was not a word about Ilalleek, or
the slightest allusion to Canon Drysdale or Aylesburgh.
His seven years' apprenticeship was unnotii-eil. Nor
Avas there a syllable of regret that he was no longer to
labour and live amongst tliem.
Two nights after, Lidvc stood on the platform of the
station at the frontier town of Herbesthal. His train
290 LUKE DELMEGE
was shunted to make way for the great continental
express. Luke walked up and down, having given his
valise to a porter, and he saw representatives of every
nation under heaven. At twelve o'clock the great
express rolled in, lighted from stem to stern ; and the
long corridor that ran from end to end of the train was
thronged with passengers, whose very presence indi-
cated that their lines had been cast in pleasant places
in this life, and that they were determined to make the
most of the opportunity. Luke was half afraid of these
elect of society ; for, although he had learned a good
deal during his apprenticeship, he was fortunate enough
as yet to have retained a little of liis idealism. He had
not yet reached that dread stage in life where every-
thing has become mean and commonplace under the
gray aspects of experience. But he ventured to look
at all these grand personages, and one figure and face
arrested him. The gentleman was dressed in a gray
travelling suit, and had a Scotch plaid shawl rolled
round his shoulders; but it is — no — it must be the
face of the Abbe Hue. The face was looking down
with calm indifference at Luke, with the unmistakable
expression : '■'■ I know you well , but I don't want to
improve tlie acquaintance." But Luke's Celtic impetu-
osity refused to accept the hint ; and half sure of him-
self, and yet afraid to commit a stupid blunder, he
approaclied, lifted his hat, and said : —
" Pardon, Monsieur : je suis un pretre Catholique — "
The traveller drew himself up proudly, and said
stiffly : —
"Et moi, je suis aussi un pretre Catholique."
Luke was dumbstricken. This was the man by whose
,side he had sat two nights ago, and who had been as
polite and solicitous as if he had known Luke for a life-
time. Luke drew back now, stung with the cold re-
fusal of acquaintanceship ; and the train moved on.
But tlie Abbe Hue watched him, watched him to the
end. Luke was learning a little of the world, and the
knowledge was creating a strange yearning for home.
THE RHINE FALLS 291
There was a pretty little episode just as his own train
was about to start. Like all good travellers, Luke was
determined to guard against imposition, but to be gen-
erous. And so when a gorgeous official approached
him and said something in German, of which Luke
understood but the one word, commissionaire^ Luke
shook his head sadly. But when the porter came up
with liis valise, Luke was generous and even royal.
He handed the porter a coin, which he thought amply
rewarded him for his labour. The porter smiled, lifted
his hat, bowed, and departed, but returned in a moment
furious. lie leaped into the carriage, and gesticulated
Avildly, holding the wretched coin in his hand, and mut-
tering jt^/g^w/// .' j,rf(gw>r«V/ .' It would be difficult to say
by what process of reasoning Luke had persuaded him-
self that a pfennig was the German equivalent of a
franc ; but so it was ; and this accounted for his royal
gesture. But there was a difference of opinion clearly ;
and it emphasized itself in sundry gestures and objur-
o-ations, tlie magnificent commissionaire looking on
apprcningly.
" Un pfennig ! oui, oui ! c'est un franc ! " said Luke.
The porter stamped about the carriage and tore his
hair.
"• Cela suffit pour vous ! " said Luke, calml}-, and
determined not to be swindled.
The German appealed to the stars and angels. These
failing, he appealed to the connnissionaire. The latter
ri^lled out a string of decasvUables. l^uke was con-
vinced it Avas a conspiracy. He talked wcmdcrfnl
French. They talked wonderful German. At last the
train moved out slowly. The porter clung to the car-
riage door to the last. Then, bn-athing a parting male-
diction, he leaped down, panting and perspiring. Luke
leaned back in the carriage, as they plunged into the
night, and congratulated himself on his firmness.
And then through all the wonders of Cologne and
the Rhine ; and up, up, through the Black ^Mountains
of the Hartz, through the thirty-eight tunnels that
292 LUKE DELMEGE
gaped out of the corkscrew railway, swallowed the train
and disgorged it ; up, up, through pine forests and along
the crest of hills, in whose bosom nestled the loveliest
valleys, each with its church and spire and cemetery,
until at last they rested at Bingen. Then a plunge
downwards and they were at Schaffhausen, where the
mighty legendary river curvets and ricochets in child-
ish humour before assuming the majesty of its seaward
course.
Here Luke sojourned for two days — golden days
that ever shone pale but resplendent from the mists of
memory. That Sunday at the Schweizer-Hof was a
dream for a lifetime. He went down to early Mass at
the village, heard the beautiful Gregorian for the first
time since he left Maynooth ; heard, without under-
standing, the sermon in German that stretched through
three-quarters of an hour ; breakfasted at 11.30, and
lounged through the day under golden sunshine, the
great river fretting itself at his feet, and the horizon
serrated with the yellow crests of the mighty Alps. In
the afternoon he sauntered out for a walk and climbed
Hohen Fliih. After the narrow and limited and chok-
ing surroundings of the past seven years, the superb
panorama that opened to his eyes from the high sum-
mit of the hill fairly took away his breath. "Lord,"
he said, lifting his hat, " it is good for us to be here."
He felt free again. The clear air, the almost boundless
horizon, the vast infinity of the mountain barriers, clos-
ing the vista, yet opening the imagination to undreamed
sublimities, the long ribbon of the Rhine flowing amidst
its vinej^ards and orchards, the villages clustering under
red roofs here and there across the landscape, a hill,
crested with a crumbling castle, as if Nature were try-
ing her 'prentice hand before she attempted her eternal
masterpieces, and moving here and there, little groups
of peaceful Germans, enjoying the sweet Sabbath air — ■
Luke thought for a moment, as he sat and listened to
three German children, singing a Sunday hymn, there
amongst the pines, of the squalor and foetor, the smoke
THE RHINE FALLS 293
and sin, of the mighty mill called England. The noise
and the jar and the cold, deadly, soulless meclianism
were far away. "Ugh ! " said Luke. " Thank God I
am done with it and the ugly dream forever." He
turned round to descend the declivity and came face to
face witli Ilalleck.
Had they been two Celts they would have passed
each other with a scowl. One was a Briton, and he
said : —
" How do you do, Mr. Delmege ? This is a rare
pleasure."
" How do you do ? " said Luke, too surprised to say
more.
"I did not know that you had come abroad," con-
tinued Halleck. " Let me hope that you intend a long
sojourn in this delightful country."
" A long sojourn of twenty-four hours," replied Luke.
" I'm very sorry. I know no place that appeals so
strongly to one's sense of freedom. When you plunge
into those tunnels of the Alps, you feel choked, as if the
air were compressed into a solid mass by the weight of
snow and granite. Here you are free, with a bound-
less horizon and unlimited loveliness."
" Yes," said Luke, carried on by tlie stream ; " I often
heard that, to see the Alps to advantage, one must
approach them from Ital}'."
''Quite so," said Halleck. "And you must return ?
1 was hoping for the pleasure of your society and co-
operation here. I am reading in the library at St.
Gall's for a work I expect to issue soon from the press,
and you could be of much assistance."
" I regret that my assistance heretofore has been to
give your thoughts a wrong bias," said Luke, seizing the
opportunity.
"Indeed! A wrong bias. Pray, how?"
" I regretted to hear that it was some sermons of mine
drove you from the Cliurch."
"But 1 have not been driven from the Churi-h. Tiiat
is quite a mistake. Nay, more, I cannot be driven."
294 LUKE DELMEGE
I
1
" But pardon me for the harsh expression, the Church
has repudiated you, and you cannot approach the
Sacraments."
" Cannot ? Why, I do. I have been to Communion
this morning, down there at Schaffhausen."
" We regard such conduct as sacrilegious and dis-
honourable," said Luke, exasperated by Halleck's cool-
ness.
" Oh! and who cares what you regard ? Your opinion
is of no consequence to me whatsoever."
" I have not sought this interview, Mr. Halleck,"
said Luke, " and with your permission I shall terminate
it. But you have no right to utter a calumny ; and,
as a gentleman, you should promptly retract what you
Avrote to Miss Lefevril concerning my misdirection."
" But if it is true ? Your theology may allow it ; but
I, as an English gentleman, cannot tell a, falsehood."
"But your statement that our priests were — well —
liberal, and, indeed, rather free in their opinions ; and
that I especially shared that liberalism, is incorrect and,
pardon me — a lie. We hold firmly and unreservedly
the dogmatic teachings of the Church."
" Then you must take the alternative — that your
knowledge of the English language, which, indeed, like
everything English, does not lend itself to the restric-
tions of dogma, is extremely limited. You don't seem
to understand the vast responsibilities of words in sol-
emn places." I
" It may be so," said Luke, liumbly. "
They were silent for a few minutes. The three little
Swiss girls were still singing beneath them on a rustic
seat, under a clump of firs. At last Halleck spoke : —
" Let us not part in anger, Mr. Delmege. I am sorry
I have hurt you. But — the faithful Israelites would
do well, during their captivity, not to look too curiously
on the gods of Babylon."
Halleck raised his hat as he passed down the steep
steps to the road.
Had this taken place in London it would have given
J
THE RHINE FALLS 295
Luke a fit of depression for several clays. Here, in the
bright sunshine and crystal atmosphere, he flung the
moment's chagrin instantly aside. So, too, in tlie after-
noon, tlie discovery that a pfennig, instead of being
equivalent to a franc, was equivalent to the hundredth
part of a franc, sent the blood mounting to Luke's fore-
head, but only for a moment.
" That porter should liave assassinated me," he said,
and thought no more of it. Only there was a craving
in his heart, growing every minute, for the peace and
serenity, the security and happiness, of home.
" The crust of bread and the cruse of water are better
than the fleshpots of the Egyptians," he thought.
He left the vast dining-hall early that evening. The
splendours of society were beginning to pall on him.
He craved rest for thought from the glitter and sparkle
of fashion ; and long before the last dishes were brought
around, he had ensconced himself in the gas-lit veranda
at the farthest window. Here, with a small round table
by his side, and some coffee and rusks, he hid behind a
heavy curtain, and awaited the illumination of the
falls.
At half-past nine the entire body of visitors had
assembled in the veranda, and the lights were lowered
until the place had become quite dark. Darkness, too,
liung over the valley, and no one could dream that man
was there. l>ut a pearly glimmer, as of twilight, shone
where the eye was drawn by hearing, as the fall fretted
in the sliallows, or was torn into streamlets by tlie
granite rocks beneath. Then, as at light's lirst dawn-
ing, a faint pink, roseate in its heart, and fading into
purple, streamed across the valley, and the falls blushed
under the revelation, and seemed to answer louder to
the call of light. ^\nd so the pink dawn hovered o'er
the valley, until it })aused, hesitated, faded, and there
was darkness again, but for the voice that pierced it —
the voice of many waters in the night.
Luke turned around, and saw standing, quite close to
his chair, — for every seat was occupied, — a feeble old
296 LUKE DELMEGE
man and his daughter. He leaned heavily on her arm^ |
and his white Iniir made a light in the darkened room.
Instantly Luke arose and proffered his cliair. Tlie
young lady thanked him, as the old man sank wearily
into the arm-chair. She took her place near him, and
Luke went back into the shadows and sat on a rouo-h
bench that ran around the wall. The falls were ligfhted
again with green and then with blue lights, and the
waiters came and raised the gas-jets. Man's little play
with mighty nature was over.
As Luke rose to pass from the veranda, a voice said
to him : —
" I didn't know in the darkness that it was Father
Delinege we had to thank for his courtesy."
It was Barbara Wilson. Luke flushed with pleasure.
After all his neglect, it was comforting to know that
he had unconsciously done a small favour. And then
through lier lips his country and home spoke to him.
" Miss Wilson ! " he said. "• It is an unexpected
pleasure to meet you. I didn't know you were travel-
ling with your father."
•' It is not father," she said, her lips trembling ; " it
is Louis. You will scarce recognize him."
She led him over to where Louis was still sitting.
His face was turned outward towards the night, and it
was the face of death. His sad eyes saw but darkness,
and his trembling hands clutched at the air, as the
hands of a half-perished outcast spread for warmth be-
fore a fire. And his hair streamed down on his shoul-
ders, and it was white in the dreary gas-light, not with
the venerable silver of honoured age, but with the
ghastly lustre of blanched and bloodless youth. He
turned at his sister's voice and tried to rise, but fell
back helplessly.
'■'■ Yes, of course, Father Delmege," he said, not look-
ing upwards, but out into the night, his weak memory
trying to grip the slippery and evanescent shadows of
the past. " Yes, of course. Father — I beg pardon —
how do you do, sir ? I hope you are well."
THE RHINE FALLS 297
" Don't you remember, Louis dearest, don't you re-
member Lisnalee and uncle, and all our pleasant days ?
This is Father Delmege, who is always so kind."
" To be sure, to be sure. How do you do, sir ? I
hope I see you very well," said the poor invalid.
"Now, Louis dear, do rouse j^ourself. To-morrow we
shall go on to Lucerne, and you must pick up strength
for the journey. Were not the illuminations beautiful ?
It was Father Delmege who kindly gave us his place."
" To be sure, to be sure. How much do I owe you,
sir? I always pay promptly. But, Barbara, why did
you let them throw that horrid limelight on the stage ?
No artist would have done it. If Elfrida was to throw
herself from that bridge it would be in the darkness.
I saw her ; 'twas Avell done, I tell you. Madame Lerida
is an artist. Did you hear that scream ? Oh ! Oli I "
Barbara raised her head and looked pitifully at Luke.
" There," said Louis, still wandering, "there she goes
adown the stream, her long hair floating behind her, and
she tossed from side to side of the rapids. Hark ! there
'tis again ! Elfrida ! Elfrida ! "
This he shrieked aloud, so that the waiters paused as
they arranged the breakfast tables, and one or two timid
visitors hurriedly fled the ver-Mula.
"This won't do," said Luke, kindly; "we must get
him away."
"Come, dearest," said Barbara, her hand around
Louis' neck. " Come, "tis bedtime."
He rose wearily, seemingly anxious to follow his
dream throurjh the nio;lit and adown the river.
" It was a clever impersonation," he continued. " That
leap from the bridge was perfect. But to throw that
vile calcium on such an artiste at such a moment was
an outrage, sir, an outrage ! "
" Tliis is Father Delmege, Louis dear," said Barbara,
as Luke hel])ed the poor invalid forward. " You re-
member, don't you ? "
" Of course, of course. How do you do, sir ? I hope
I see you well."
298 LUKE DELMEGE
Luke helped along the corridor, and then stood still,
at the foot of the staircase, watching the two figures,
the white-haired imbecile, and the tall, lithe form of the
fair sister, toiling wearily step by step up to the second
corridor. Then he went out into the piazza. The full
moon was now rising, and just casting her beams down
the valley and across the chasm to the old castle that
held watch and ward over the turbulent youth of the
river. How paltry and mean are the feeble attempts of
men, contrasted with the enterprises of the Almighty !
The wretched illumination of an hour agfo — what a
sacrilege on the majesty of nature, now that nature it-
self was triumphant ! Luke gazed down the valley ;
but he saw — the two weary figures toiling up the long
stairs — strong, tender womanhood supporting a broken
and disjointed manhood. He saw a sister's love cov-
ering a brother's shame. He saw the old Greek sacri-
fice again — the sister imperilling her life and honour
to pay due, solemn rites to the dead. How paltry his
learned and aesthetic friends seem now ! How con-
temptible their dreary platitudes ! How empty and
hollow their fine theorizing about humanity and the
race ! " Seek the God in man ! " Was there ever such
blasphemy ? And himself — what had been his life for
seven years ? Compared with the noble self -surrender
of this young girl, how hollow and empty and pitiful
had been his fine sermons, his dignified platitudes, his
straining after effect, his misdirection. Conscience for
the first time whispered " Idiota," but too faintly to be
heeded.
A hand was laid on his arm, and Halleck, removing a
cigar from his mouth, said : —
" I would recommend you, Mr. Delmege, to get that
young friend of yours home as soon as possible. It will
be hardly pleasant for her to travel with a coffin."
He went to his room — a very beautiful room, with
its parquetted floor, polished and spotless — but he
could not sleep. He did not desire it. He coveted a
few hours of the luxury of thought. He had so much
THE RHINE FALLS 299
to think about, and so many thoughts and memories
fraught with the pain of pleasure, and so many with the
delight of pain. He opened his window, through which
the full moon was streaming, and stood on the balcony
that overhung the garden. The night view was limited,
for the garden sloped upwards to a little wood, where,
laced against the moonlight, the iron-work of a summer-
house was traced. He leaned over the balustrade and
gave himself up to thought. It was a turning-point in
his life. Just then the deep tones of the church-bell
tolling the midnight hour floated u[) the valley, and
Luke thought he heard voices in the garden beneath.
" Here come Lorenzo and Jessica," he said. " ' How
sweet the moonlight,' etc, I must go."
Ah, no ! Not moonlight lovers, wdth all the glamour
of affection and the poetry of life streaming around
them, but the wrecked life and the guardian angel again.
Slowly they came from the shadows into the moonlight,
and Luke was not ashamed to observe them. The poor
gray head lay heavily against the sister's shoulder, or
rather on her breast, as she twined her arm around his
neck and supported his failing steps. Clearly there
was no sleep for that fretted and irritated brain, or such
sleep only as makes the awakening, heaven. Slowly they
passed under tlie balcony, and here Luke heard the
prayers that Barljara whispered in her brother's ears —
whispered, because her gentle spirit feared for the
sleepers overliead. But Luke could hear the rattle of
tlie heads as tliey sli]iped througli her fingers, and could
see the flashing of the silver cross in the moonlight.
On, on they went slowly, as the gravel groaned beneath
the heavy steps of the invalid. And as they passed,
Luke saw tlie beautiful uplifted face and t lie ricli, black
hair caught liack from the pure white foreliead. And as
ho closed the window of his bedroom softly and brushed
his eyes, he said : —
"She is not mortal. She is a spirit and a symbol.
It is mv countrv's heroism and sorrow."
Next morning, without a moment's hesitation, he
300 LUKE DELMEGE
came over to the table where Barbara and Louis sat,
and said : —
" Miss Wilson, we must return immediately. I am
en route for Ireland, and you and Louis must come."
She gave a little glad cry of surprise and said : —
"■ Oh, thank God ! We have got our orders. The
landlord has demanded our rooms."
" Very good. Now, get ready."
" But, Father, we must not take you out of your way."
" Never mind," said Luke. " Our whole study now
must be to get Louis back to London."
" And Ireland. Oh, how happy we shall be with
dear uncle ! You know he has asked us to come to him
until Louis is quite restored."
" I am glad to hear it. Yes, your uncle is a good
man. Cheer up, there are glad days in store for us
all."
And so Luke Delmege, the optimist, argued, encour-
aged, cheered the lonely girl on that weary journey to
Lucerne, Geneva, Paris, London, and set them down at
No. 11 Albemarle Buildings, and felt that he had never
been happier under the sublime elation of a little self-
sacrifice.
It was late at night when he arrived from Switzer-
land, and, after he had left Barbara and her brother at
their lodgings, he made his way across the city and the
bridge to the Cathedral. He was thinking of many
things — Halleck, Dr. Drysdale, Barbara, Louis, Sea-
thorpe, Lisnalee, England, Ireland, the past, and his
future. He had cut through the city by a short pas-
sage through the slums, but he had no fear. He knew
the places Avell. The wretched pavements were silent
of the noise of human traffic, for midnight had not
come. He liad just emerged into a square well known
to him, for it had been in his district formerly, when
he saw a crowd gathering around a cab a little ahead
of him, and the portly English driver gesticulating vio-
lently. As he passed he heard the latter saying, in a
tone of anger and impatience, to the crowd : —
THE RHINE FALLS 301
" A rum hold Hirish passon. Wants to get down
'ere somewhere ; but Tm blessed if the hold bloke knows
where. But Fll make 'im pay; I will, I tell you."
Compassion for a countryman in distress, even though
he were a heretic, made Luke pause and approach.
As he did, he heard a deep voice from the dark re-
cess : —
" Did the Lord ever make such a stupid lot as these
English ? They don't know their own country. Come
here, honest woman, and direct me. Glory be to God,
and isn't that Luke Delmege ? Luke ! Luke ! come
here ! There's me dream out ! "
Luke came nearer, and recognized, with an effort, the
Rev. Father Meade, incumbent of Gortnagoshel.
" Wliat in the world ?" — he was about to say, when
Father Meade interrupted.
" You got my letter ? Of course you did. I knew
ye'd be looking out for me. But, I couldn't rest easy,
night or day, till I come. But, Lord, what a pack of
savages ! They don't know their own names. Tell that
ruffian on the box to drive us to Denliam Court."
" You're in Denham Court, Father Meade," said Luke,
"but what Avild-goose chase are you on now?"
" Wild-goose chase ? Faitli, it isn't, me boy I Now,
find out No. 25 S — whatever S is ! "
" I see," said Luke ; " drive 25 South, my good man,
just over there."
"Now, so far, so good. Allua is here," the old priest
whispered to Luke, "and Fm come for her."
He showed Luke a wretched sH]) of paper, in a still
more wretched envelope, sealed with soap, stampless,
ink-stained, and yellow : and surely enough — " Denham
Court, 25 S., London, S.W." was markt'd there.
" What next ? "" thought Luke. But he said : —
" You may not know. Father Meade, the character of
this place and its neighbourliood. This is a place where
a person must be careful — "
"1 neither know nor care," said the old priest; "all
I know is that Allua is here, that she is in trouble, and
302 LUKE DELMEGE
has called for me ; and here I am. Stay here, my good
man," he said to the driver. " If you stir from that
spot, I'll take the law of you."
" All right, sir," said the driver : " but you'll have to
pay for it."
" Come, Luke," said Father Meade, cavalierly, as he
walked coolly into the wretched hall and up the broken
stairs. " Ah, if I had that bosthoon in Ireland ! "
On the first landing he knocked at four doors in suc-
cession. There was some shuffling and pulling of chairs,
but no answer. Up the creaking stairs again, and again
he knocked, and no reply.
" They're all asleep, or dead," he said.
Higher still and higher, till they came to an attic.
Here was the sound of voices. They entered a wret:hed
room. A feeble light was burning in a tin sconce. And
by the faint illumination they saw a wretched pallet, on
which lay an invalid in the last stages of consumption.
She was gray and old, but her eyes were young as they
challenged the priest.
" You got my letter," she said faintly in an English
accent.
Father Meade hesitated. No one but the Father who
is in heaven could recognize in that poor wreck, the
child — the convent child of so many years ago. And
the accent entirely bothered Father Meade.
" Are you AUua ? " he said doubtingly.
" I am," she said faintly. " You're changed too,
Father ; but the Blessed Mother sent you. Take me
from this."
Father Meade hesitated. He always boasted that he
was "a man of the world"; and whenever, at a visita-
tion dinner, he had to propose his Bishop's health, he
always wound up the litany of praises by declaring that
his Lordship was, above all things else, " a man of the
world." So he was not going to be takeii in by a girl
with an Engflish accent.
" I came for you," he said, " but I want to make sure.
Say the lines again."
THE EHINE FALLS 303
The poor patient smiled at the absurdity. But she
gathered her strength and repeated : —
There is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,
Where Aliua of song rushes forth like an arrow.
" Good," said Father Meade. " And you said ? " he
cocked his ear.
" I said — ' Alleluia of song,' because the priests were
saying Alleluia all tliat week."
" Good," said Father Meade. " And I said ? "
" You said — ' My little children, wherever you are,
North, South, East, West, remember I am always your
father and your friend ; and whenever you are in
trouble call on me and I'll come to you.' "
" Never say another word," cried Father Meade.
" Come here, you whipsters, dress her at once, and be
quick about it," he cried to the two girls, who sank back
from the awful presence of the priests.
The two priests went downstairs, Luke bewildered,
Father Meade exultant.
"No use in talking," he said, "God beats us all.
Just when we think we are doing something of our-
selves. He steps in and shows His hand."
" Wliere are you going to take that poor girl ? " said
the practical Luke.
" Oh, I never thought of that," said Father IMeade.
" ril take her to some hotel, and off to Limerick in the
m(n-ning. Of course, she thinks I don't know any-
thing ; but 1 know all." And he winked at Luke.
In a few minutes tlie girls came downstairs, bearing
the invalid between them. The hope and its realization
had braced her up, and she looked almost vigorous as
she stepped from the dreadful place.
" You ain"t agoin' to take that there u'al in the cab '! "
said the driver.
"Aren't I ? Mind yer own business, me man, or FU
make you."
"Then you'll pay for it, 1 tell you," said the man in
his bewilderment.
304 LUKE DELMEGE
Gently and reverently they got the poor girl into the
cab, Luke standing by motionless. He was wonder-
ing what Amiel Lefevril would say to such divine altru-
ism as this. The two girls stood at the door. They
had said good-bye to their companion. Sorrow, hope-
lessness, despair were on their faces. And just as the
driver flicked his horse, and they were moving off, they
flung out their hands in a sudden gesture and sobbed: —
" Father, Father, don't leave us ! "
" Eh ? Eh ? What's that ? What's that ? Stop, you
ruffian, or I'll knock you down. Come here, me poor
girls. What do ye want ? "
" We want to go with you. Father, anywhere, any-
where. Oh ! for God's sake, Father, don't leave us ! "
What could he do ? It was most imprudent ; but he
had too much faith in God to hesitate.
" Come ! " he said, whilst the cabman growled furi-
ously, and Luke gazed in stupid amazement. " Come,
and let God do the rest ! "
Luke called to see the Wilsons next morning. He
found Louis actually revived. There had been a
reaction after the journey. Luke told them, with
laughter and horror, of the Quixotic drollery of Father
Meade.
"• He's taking them to Limerick," he said, " to the
Magdalen Asylum there. I have a sister in that con-
vent, you know. Miss Wilson. Some day I hope to
have the pleasure of making you acquainted with her.
We shall call some day when we shall have leisure."
He was surprised to see her start and put her hand
over her heart with a gesture of pain. The very sug-
gestion of fallen womanhood was such a shock and sur-
prise to such a pure soul. Magdalen ! Magdalen ! the
dearest of all the saints outside the charmed circle of
the Incarnation — how does it happen that there is a
sting of pain in all the honeyed sweetness of that dear
name ?
" She must have been told of Margery's unkind
remarks," thought Luke.
THE RHINE FALLS 305
" Now it is all settled," he said. " I shall be at Euston
to meet tlie 8.30 down mail on this day week. And you
shall both meet me there. Is tliat all settled ? "
Of course. Quite understood. Everything now was
moving smoothly.
CHAPTER XXIY
THE HALL OF EBLIS
Father Sheldon was sorry, downright sorry, for
his friend and confrere, Luke Delraege. As a good
Briton, he was bound not to manifest tliis regret in any
way. But he had pleaded with the Bishop, again and
again, not to allow this bright young genius to leave
the diocese, and be flung away on the tame and easy
work of an Irish mission. The old Vicar warmly sec-
onded his efforts, although neither knew of the other's
sympathetic cooperation. But the Bishop judged other-
wise ; and if he ever mistrusted his own judgment, the
opinion of Dr. Drysdale tended to confirm his belief
that the conversion of England must be accomplished
without the assistance of the Rev. Luke Delmege.
" I don't agree with Drysdale," said the Vicar, when
the Bishop had explained the many letters of the for-
mer. " He belongs to the old school — timid, fearsome,
conservative. We want the young, who despise con-
sequences, so long as the great object is attained."
No use. It was decided to let Luke go, and Father
Sheldon was very sad. It was one of the reasons Avhy
he leaned his head heavily on his hands, one of tliese
dark September evenings, just after Luke had returned
from his trip. He didn't care to light the gas. He sat
in the twilight and was sad. The hour was wearing
on to supper-time, when one of the housemaids knocked,
and told him a lady wished to see him.
He rose promptly, and went down to find Barbara
Wilson waiting for him. The gas-jet was burning ;
and he saw that she was crying and in terror.
300
THE HALL OF EBLIS 307
" Father," she said, " I'm in great trouble. Louis is
gone ! "
"Dead?" said Father Sheldon, slightly shocked.
" No, not dead ; but he has escaped ; gone I know
not where. I left him for a moment this evening to
see an old school friend, who had called ; and he has
vanished, and Oh ! Father, I fear such dreadful things."
" Have you no trace ? He was of remarkable appear-
ance."
" Not the least. I have spoken to all the police on
the beat ; but there's not a trace. Oh, dear ! it is the
river, the river, I dread."
The supper gong was ringing, but Father Sheldon
did not hear it.
" I must go with you," he said. He rushed into the
church and said a hasty prayer ; then, taking his hat
and cane, he went out on the wild chase. Whither ?
North, south, east, west, the wilderness of streets
stretched before him ; and, as he hesitated, the wild
tumult of the sweeping multitude almost took him off
his feet.
" Nothing but God can guide us ! " he said. " Let
us move on and pray. Have you the least suspicion ? "
" Only that he might have gone to a theatre, or Mrs.
Wenham's, or an opium-den. Oh ! dear, dear, and his
soul was just saved ! "
" It is not lost," said Father Sheldon, hurrying along ;
"and 3'ou alone can save it yet."
They took a cab, down to the Criterion, the Alham-
bra, the Gaiety, places that Louis used fre(pient in his
heyday. In all these the people were pouring in a
deep, wide stream. The police on guard saw no one
answering their description of Louis. The oiticials
were too ])usy to give more than a laconic No ! IJack
again throughout the crowded streets on their hopeless
quest for soul and body, Barbara weeping and softly
praying, her companion staring under gas-lamps to
catch a glimpse of a skull and a mass of whitened hair.
Was there ever such a hopeless effort, ever such a weary
308 LUKE DELMEGE
and despairful attempt ? Up and down, up and down
the dreadful streets of the City of Dreadful Night.
" I fear it is hopeless," said Father Sheldon. " Miss
Wilson, let me see you home, and I shall place the mat-
ter in the hands of a detective."
No, no. That will not do for a sister's love for a
brother's soul. She gratefully thanked the good priest,
but insisted that he should now return. The night quest
and the night sorrow should be her own.
"One more attempt," he said; "and then I shall
leave you to God. What is the name and address of
that — woman ? "
Back again through the dreary streets, in and out,
until they plunged into the quietness and solitude of
a fashionable square, drove past massive railings and
marble flights of steps, now in the glare from some
lighted drawing-room, now in the gloom of the shadow
of an unoccupied mansion. Yes, here it is, brilliantly
illuminated ; and Barbara, seeking a lost soul, stands
under the heavy gasalier in the vast hall. Servants in
scarlet livery swept by her, stared at her, passed away.
Doors opened and shut, and revealed the magnificence
of splendidly decorated rooms. There was a buzz of
conversation somewhere in the vicinity. And the pale,
beautiful girl stood like a statue in the hall — stood and
despaired. What could a stooped, and shattered, and
broken invalid be doing in a place like this ? She was
asked into a small parlour behind the drawing-room, and
in a few moments Mrs. Wenham entered, stared angrily,
advanced, and said, in a tone of icy contempt : —
" Well ? "
She was dressed for a ball, dressed with all the luxury
and taste and even splendour society demands from her
elect. She was quite as tall as Barbara, and wished she
was quite as beautiful. But no ! There was a grace
and sweetness in this young girl that threw all the
meretricious splendours of the other woman in the
shade. And the woman of the world saw it, and it did
not please her.
THE HALL OF EBLIS 309
" You remember me, Mrs. Wenliam," said Barbara,
faltering. " We met in Dublin some years ago, and
yon were so kind."
The cold face stared blankly at her. Barbara felt
there is no hope here.
" I understood that my brother Louis used sometimes
— sometimes — "
Mow could she put, poor child, in the world's lan-
guage her wild thoughts?
'• Your brother Louis used — sometimes — ? " repeated
Mrs. Wenham, slowly.
" Sometimes," wept Barbara, " used visit here, owing
to your great kindness. And he's lost — he's lost —
Oh ! dear Mrs. \Venham, he's lost ! He has gone out
to-night, and we know not wdiither. But Oh ! if you
could tell me — he's so unwell, so near death ; and Oh !
his soul, his soul ! He's not fit for the judgment."
The woman of the world turned pale. She had in-
tended to dismiss this girl haughtily, angrily, contem])-
tuously. But these words staggered her resolution.
Once before, and only once, and that was just after
leaving the company of this same young girl, she had
lieard similar words. Not since or before. These
hideous things were shiehled from her as carefully as
midnight draughts, or reeking drains, or the chance
pollution of fetid air. What had she to do with such
things — this spoiled and petted child? They were for
the poor and the vulgar — the housemaid and the but-
ler — not for her. They ^\ere for the proletariat — tlie
toilers, the labourers, as a just retribution for their mis-
deeds, and a proper perquisite for criminal poverty ;
but not for the scented and curled darlings of fortune.
And here this young girl, Avith the clear-cut, i)allid face,
the rounil, calm foreiiead, and the gracious eyes, pre-
sumes to introduce the horrid spectres. She dismissed
her.
" I know nothing of your brother, my good girl, and
I must bid you good-night I "
And she touched the bell. Barbara vanished iu the
310 LUKE DELMEGE
darkness, but the spectres remained. And, as the stately
lady swept around the ball-room, that most detestable
orchestra, particularly that deejD, solemn 'cello, would
keep wailing. Death ! Judgment ! Death ! Judgment !
It was a new waltz, just imported from the halls of
eternity.
" No use. Father, no use ! I must seek Louis alone
now."
" I shall not leave you here on the London streets,"
said Father Sheldon, decisively.
But she persisted. The cab rolled away, and left
Barbara standing transfixed on the pavement. She
looked around the dreary square — all the more dreary
because so brilliantly illuminated. All the splendour,
and comfort, and light, and beauty chilled her by the
contrast. Then she looked up to the stars, and —
" Whither now, O my God?"
It was horrible. It was a night-walk through Hell.
Black figures leaped out of the darkness, stared at her,
muttered some cabalistic words, and vanished. Rude
men whistled into her face, and said some things that
would be dreadful, but they were happily unintelligible.
Once and again a policeman flashed a lantern in her
face, and muttered something. And on, on she stum-
bled, for she was now growing weak, and she had to
lean against a gas-lamp for help from time to time.
Then on again, on through the darkness, into the circle
of light thrown by a side-lamp, and into the darkness
again. A few times she stopped to accost a stranger,
and ask did he see Louis ; but she was rudely answered
with an oath, and thenceforward desisted from asking
questions. And on, on, with a vague hope that Louis
was somewhere near, and that she would find him. But
nature was steadily conquering, and, at last, she had to
sit on the curbstone and rest. She was falling into a
fitful slumber when her name was called from out the
night. She listened and looked. She heard a mighty
river fretting its way into the darkness beneath her,
and on the lap of the river a dark form was tossed. It
THE HALL OF EBLIS 311
flung out its hands helplessly into the turbid waters,
and a great nimbus of white hair floated back upon the
wave. Once more she heard her name called from out
the night, and she woke, chill and stiff. She stood up
and stumbled forward. Her hands sought help. She
clutched the iron bars that ran around some large build-
ing, and groped her way onward from bar to bar. They
led her to a gate. It was open. And high against the
star-lit sky, the peaked gables of a church cut upwards.
She stumbled against a door and pushed it. It opened
inwards, and she was in the church. A faint smell of
incense half revived her. She groped along from bencli
to bench, until she stood beneath tlie red lamp. Tlien
she sat down and rested. Oh ! but not the rest that
she had known for so many years in that unspeakable
Presence ; not the calm, sweet languor that steeped her
innocent soul in such a bliss of peace there in tlie old
churcli in the far city, after a day amongst the leprous
and the poor. No ; this was a mighty crisis in her life ;
and the voice was pealing from out the night. She rose
up and went to the Lady Altar, and prayed for lier
brother's soul as she had never prayed before. And as
she prayed, a light struck her — an idea so terrible, so
api)alling, that she shrank from the dread inspiration.
She was called upon by the Unseen to make a sacrilice
for the beloved soul. And such a sacrifice, great God !
It was too dreadful. She shrank from it in terror.
I>ut the voice was callinir from out the niirht. A soul,
the soul of the beloved, was at stake I Again she
prayed. And again the Unseen spoke. And again the
poor soul protested. Anything else, anything else, l)ut
that! I)Ut the voice was calling importunately from
the night. There was no time for hesitation. She rose
u[) and dressetl for the sacrifice ; then stood before the
High Altar and its Tabernacle. Once, twice, she tried
to speak her vow, and failed. Once, twice, weak nature
protested against a divine inspiration and decree. Hut
now every moment was precious. And on a sudden
impulse of divine self-surrender, she flung out her arms,
312 LUKE DELMEGE
like the limbs of a cross, and uttered the mighty words
that spoke her doom and the redemption of her brother.
The mighty Thrones, that swung round and round the
altar, stopped in their adoring flight, poised themselves
on their wings, stared at each other, stared at the silent
Tabernacle, and looked down on the white, tearless face
of the victim. But no sound broke the stillness of the
sanctuary. Yet the Heart of Christ throbbed quicker
beneath the accidents of His great Sacrament — throbbed
quicker as at the grave of Lazarus, and at the voice of
Magdalen, and surely no such tremendous sacrificial vow
had ever passed human lips before.
Then a new, strange strength possessed her. She
drew on her gloves calmly, and without a tremor calmly
picked up her beads and umbrella, calmly genuflected,
with just a whisper of silent protest against the dread
exorbitance of God, and passed into the night again.
She stumbled against some person in the darkness and
begged pardon humbly.
" Yerra, ye needn't," said an unmistakable Hibernian
voice, "ye didn't hurt me much."
" Thanks be to God ! " said Barbara ; " surely you
are an Irishman."
"• I ought to be, for me father and mother afore me
were," said the voice. " But, begor, I'm beginning to
think that I'm a Tnixtum- gatherum of all the quare peo-
ple in the world ; and that's a big worrd."
" 'Twas God and the Blessed Virgin sent you," said
Barbara, realizing that this was the agent of the Most
High in the fulfilment of His part.
" 'Tis many a long daj' since I hard the worrd," said
the policeman, taking off his helmet. " What may be
yer throuble ? "
Simply and directly Barbara told her story, there in
the darkness outside the church.
It was so wonderful, so incredible, that his suspicions
became aroused. He had very large ambitions in the de-
tective line, and it would never do to be caught so easily.
" Come over here to the lamplight," he said, gently
THE HALL OF EBLIS 3L3
but firmly holding her by the arm. " Now, young
'uman, do you see a feather bed in me oi ? " he said,
lifting up his eyelids in a comical way.
But something in the gentle face smote him with
sorrow, and, dropping Barbara's arm hastily, he doffed
his helmet, and said humbly : —
" I beg yer pardon. Miss, a thousand times. I didn't
know ye were a lady."
'' Never mind," said Barbara. " But come, help me.
There is no time to lose, (iod has sent you."
He drew his whistle, and at the shrill summons an-
other constable instantly appeared. He whispered a
few words to his comrade, and then, turning to Bar-
bara, said : —
'' Come ! "
He led her from the main thoroughfare down a side
street that led to the river, for a cold draught of wind
swept up the street, and cooled gratefully the burning
forehead of Barbara. Then another turn, and they
passed into a police office. The inspector sat mutely at
a desk, poring over a pile of papers. One gas-jet,
shaded by an opal globe, flickered over his head. He
looked at the constable and said notliing. The latter
told his story as circumstantially as he could, and
wound up in a whisper, so tliat liarbara could not
hear : —
" Begor, 'tis like hunting for a needle in a bundle of
sthraw."
" Broderick, you're a fool," said the inspector to his
fellow-countryman, for he, too, was of that desperately
lawless race, who are the guardians of the law in all
the cities of the world. "(Jo into the kitchen and get
tlie lady some tea, and be quick about it."
When B>arbara came out from the day-room, refreshed
and strengthened, for now she felt sure that (it»d was
doing His part faithfully, althougli He had demanded
such a fearful price from her, the inspector was stand-
ing, gloved and hatted, and a cab was at the door. He
lifted Barbara in gently and followed.
314 LUKE DELMEGE
" Where are we going ?" asked Barbara.
" To the third of the three places your brother
liaunted," said the othcer. " Did you tell that fool it
was an opium-den ? "
" Yes, indeed," said Barbara, wondering that she had
not thought of the place before.
" And Albemarle Buildings, Victoria Street, was
your brother's address ? ''
"• Yes, yes," said Barbara, eagerly.
" Then he's not far from Albemarle Buildings," said
the officer. He said no more. Barbara took out her
beads, and prayed softly to herself.
They sped swiftly to the Victoria-Road Station,
passed down some narrow streets, and stopj)ed. The
officer alighted, and went into a large building, from
which he presently emerged with another officer.
They were consulting together. Barbara watched
them eagerly. Then there was a hast}' order to the
driver, and the cab sj^ed forward again. Then, after
one or two sharp turns, they stopped before a long, low
shed.
'"'• Your brother is probably here," said the inspector ;
'• but how shall I know him ? "
" I shall go with you," said Barbara.
" No, no ; this is no place for a lady," said the officer.
" Let me know his appearance, and some distinguish-
ing signs, and if he is there I shall certainly find
him."
But fearing some violence from one cause or another
to her beloved one, Barbara insisted. The officer offered
his arm to the door, a small, low, shabby door, that
seemed to open nowhere. He pushed it, and it yielded.
They groped through the darkness to a heavy curtain,
that screened the light, and pushed it aside. They were
in the Hall of Eblis. Readers of Beckford's wonder-
ful vision will remember the ghastly sight that met the
eyes of Vathek and Nouronihar, when their curiosity
was gratified, and they entered the fortress of Aherman
and the halls of Argenk. Even such was the dread
THE HALL OF EBLIS 315
spectacle that smote on the senses of Barbara and the
officer in this abode of the livinc^-dead. A heavy cloud, ,
charged with the dread vapours of opium, hung thick
and opaque on the ceiling; and its folds, too lieavy for
the atmosphere, curled down and curtained the floor.
Bleared lamps shone through it, and lighted its thick
volumes, and scarcely threw a dim sliadow on the floor,
where, piled against the walls, and stretched in every
hateful and abominable posture on filthy mattresses,
lay the stupefied victims of the deadly drug. Some
lay like dead logs ; some had sense enough left to lift
their weary eyes and stare, like senseless images, on
the intruders. Some were yet in the beginning of the
dread trance and were smoking leisurely. It was a
mass, a squirming yet senseless mass of degraded hu-
manity, and Barbara clung close to the officer, as they
passed down the hall, sometimes stepping over a pros-
trate form, and the eyes of the devoted girl almost
starting in fear and curiosity and the dread hope that
here at last her quest was ended.
They had come to the end of the hall and had turned
back to examine the dreamers on the other side, when
a figure, almost buried under the superincumbent forms
of others, turned lazily and helplessly and muttered
something. Bai-bara stopped, clutched the arm of the
officer, and pointed. The inspector pulled aside one
or two helpless figures ; and there, curled up in a state
of abject impotence, was Louis Wilson. Barbara was
on her knees in a moment beside her brother, fondling
him, caressing him, with one dread fear and hope —
would he live '!
" This is he," she said. " Now for the last mercy.
How shall we get him hence ? "
They raised the senseless form between them, and,
by a mighty struggle, drew it down the floor and to
the curtain. Here a figure stopped them.
" Hallo, I say, what's this ? "
But the officer flung the fellow aside : then followed
him, and, after a few words, the fellow came over and
316 LUKE DELMEGE
relieved Barbara of her burden. They huddled the
senseless figure into the cab, and sped homewards.
In the gray dawn of the morning, two anxious figures
stood by Louis Wilson's bed, watching, watching, for a
sign of returning consciousness. The doctor had ad-
ministered some powerful restorative, which, if it took
effect, would bring back the vacant mind once more to
partial self-knowledge. But the heart was hopelessly
diseased, and there was no chance of recovery. Bar-
bara was quite easy in her mind. She knew that the
Eternal should keep His contract. Not so Father
Sheldon. He knew nothing of the tremendous inter-
change that had taken place that night between tlie
young girl and lier God. He only saw with human
eyes, and judged by human reason. But he was a
priest, and this was a soul in peril. And so he knelt
and prayed, sat and walked, always watching, watch-
ing, for the one faint ray of light that would herald the
return of reason in that helpless form. He had done
all that the Church allowed to be done under such
awful circumstances ; but, partly for the sake of that
immortal soul, partly for the consolation it would im-
part to this devoted girl, he prayed and wished that,
at least, one act of sorrow or charity might be breathed
by the conscious intelligence before it was summoned
to final judgment. Tlie dawn grew to day ; sounds of
renewed traffic, suspended only for a couple of hours,
began to echo in the streets again ; now and again a
street-call was heard, as boys rushed here and there
with morning merchandise ; a company of soldiers
swept by to catch a morning train. Barbara had left
the room for a moment, when the patient woke — woke,
feebly and faintly, and stared at the window and at the
face bending over him.
" Barbara ! " he moaned in pain.
" Barbara is here," said Father Sheldon, " and will be
delighted to see you so revived."
" Why are you here ? " Louis asked.
" Because you are in danger, and I am a priest."
THE HALL OF EBLIS 317
" Oh ! I remember. I bad a dream. I tbougbt I
was away in Switzerland or somewbere ; and there was
a stage, and illuminations, and a tragedy. And we
came home, and you were so kind."
" Tell me, Dr. Wilson," said Father Sheldon, " have
you any objection to make your peace with God and to
receive the Sacraments of the Church ? "
" Not the slightest. But Barbara must be here. I
should like to make my confession to Barbara. I could
tell her everything."
That wasn't to be, however. He did the next best
thinsf. He confessed and was absolved. And when
Barbara returned, and saw the candles lighting, and the
purple stole around the priest's neck, and the light of
reason dawning in eyes that had, beretofore, stared into
abysses of ghastly phantoms, she flung herself on her
knees in mute thanksgiving to God for the mighty
grace. And then her woman's heart sank sadly as she
thought : Yes, clearly He demands the sacrifice, as He
has clearly wrought His miracle of love. Yea, Lord,
be it so ! Who am I to contravene the purpose of the
Most High ? "
And so the Rev. Luke Delmege was grievously dis-
appointed on arriving, with all liis heavy luggage of
books, etc., at Euston Station, and quite punctui^.ll}', to
meet the 8.30 down mail, when lie found himself alone.
He paced the platform impatiently and looked eagerly
at every one that alighted from cab or hansom. The
last bell rang. He had to take his place alone. For,
alas ! one of his expected fellow-travellers was sleeping
peacefully in Highgate Cemetery, and the other he was
to meet only after many years.
"There's no use," said Luke, "in trying to teach our
countrymen anything. Even the best fail hopelessly
to appreciate the necessity of punctuality."
BOOK lY
CHAPTER XXV
ALTRUISM
Dr. Wilson was in his study the following morning
when a visitor was announced.
" A priest ? "
Dr. Wilson shrugged his shoulders. " Show him up."
When Luke entered the room in a calm, independent
way, the foUowing interrogatories were jerked at him.
He was not asked to take a seat.
. " Name, please ? "
Luke gave it slowly and distinctly.
" Parish priest, or curate ? "
" Neither "
" Secular, or regular ? "
" I have not come to consult you professionally," said
Luke. "I have just come from Enghmd. If I needed
your services, I would pay for them, and decline to be
catechised."
" Oh, I beg your pardon," said the Doctor, shuftling
around. " 1 really didn't mean — won't you please take
a seat ? "
" I had some slight knowledge of Mr. Wilson and
his sister in England," said Luke. " We travelled from
vSwitzerland together; and we had arranged to leave
Euston yesterday together. They failed to keep the
a})pointment, and I just called to express a hope that
nothing of serious hnportance could have prevented
them.''
" Then you know nothing further ? " said the doctor,
eyeing Luke closely.
" Absolutely nothing," said Luke.
Y 321
1
322 LUKE DELMEGE
" I now remember that your name was frequently
mentioned in Barbara's letters, especially the latest.
Then, you do not know that my son is dead ? "
Luke was horrified, though he might have expected it.
" Yes," continued the Doctor, "he is dead. And his
sister has written to say that she too is dead to us and
the world — she lias entered some convent."
" You surprise me very much," said Luke. " I under-
stood that they were to return and remain with their
uncle. Canon Murray. And I presumed that, at least.
Miss Wilson would return — "
" Of course, sir. And, in the ordinary and proper
course of things she should have returned. And I tell
you, sir, it is this unnatural and improper severance of
family ties that is prejudicing so many peoj^le against
the Church."
" I am not the custodian of Miss Wilson's conscience,"
said Luke. " I presume she has excellent reasons for her
course of conduct. At least, she struck me as one of the
most gentle and self-sacrificing beings I ever saw."
" Quite so, sir. There's the sting of it. If she were
worthless, or likely to be troublesome, your convents
would have nothing to say to her."
" I cannot enter into that question," said Luke.
" There are many circumstances that tend to guide
young people in the direction of the religious life.
But, at what convent or in what Order has Miss Wil-
son entered ? "
" That I don't know. They won't allow her to tell
even her father. She simply writes to say, she is dead
to the world, and desires to be forgotten. That is all."
" That means she has joined the Poor Clares, or the
Carmelites. They are austere orders, and observe strict
seclusion from the world."
" I don't know. I dare sa}'' they have told her to
write thus. They dreaded my parental authority, lest
I should remove her. And, by heavens ! " cried the
Doctor, smiting the desk before him, " I will I "
Then the stronsr man broke down.
ALTRUISM 323
" I didn't care what might happen to that young —
well, he's dead — but my heart was in that girl. And
to think she should have turned her back upon me in
my old age — "
" It is the usual lot of families to be separated," said
Luke, kindly. '' Miss Wilson might have married, and
gone to India ; and you might never see her again."
" True ! true ! let us dismiss the subject. Will you
see Lady Wilson ? She will be anxi(jus to hear all
about that last journey from Switzerland."
Luke remained a long time in Lady Wilson's draw-
ing-room going over detail after detail to soothe the
motlier's feelings. But, ever and again, when he passed
into a euhjgium of the sister's virtues, the impatient
mother would bring him back from the digression.
Louis ! Louis ! it was of him she wanted to hear.
The delightful altruism of the Irish character broke
suddenl}- upon him at luncheon in the coffee-room of
the Montrouge Hotel. As he washed his hands in an
adjoining room he was accosted by a great, tall, bushy-
whiskered man, who, in his shirt-sleeves, was making
his ablutions rather demonstratively.
" Nice day, sir?"
" Yes. Rather cold for October."
" Oh ! I perceive you're from across the Channel. I
have the greatest esteem for the English charaeter, sir !
I always say we have a great deal to learn from our
neighbours. Coming to see Ireland, sir? You'll be
delighted and disappointed. Going south to Killarney,
of course ? "
" Yes. I am oroingf south," said Luke, on wlioni the
familiarity grated. " I am an Irish [)riest."
" Oh ! I beg your reverence's pardon," said the other,
dropping at once into the familiar bi'ogue. '* Begor,
now, we don't know our priests from the parsons. They
dress all alike."
" An Irishman always distinguishes," said Luke.
■^ To be sure ! to be sure ! Now, whenever I'm in
324 LUKE DELMEGE
England, I always go to Sandringham. I have a stand-
ing invitation from the Prince of Wales to stay with
him whenever I'm in England. ' Wire me, Fitzgerald,'
he said, ' and I shall have my carriage waiting for you.
No ceremony. One good turn deserves another.' Are
you lunching here, your reverence ? As good as you
can get in the city. But ask for the under cut of the
sirloin. Say Fitzgerald recommended it."
Luke had vanished. He was afraid the standing in-
vitation might be expected from himself.
" What can I have for luncheon ? " he asked the waiter.
The waiter jerked the napkin over his left shoulder,
placed his two hands on the table, and asked confiden-
tially : —
" Well, now, and what would yer reverence like ? I
suppose ye're thravelling for the good of yer health,
and ye want somethin' good ? "
" Quite so. Then let me have a cut of roast beef —
the under cut, you know ! "
" Begor, we're just out o' that. There was a party
of gintlemin come in a few minits ago ; and the divil a
bit but the bone they left."
" Well, let me see. Have you roast mutton, or
a fowl ? "
" Bedad, we had yesterday. But this is the day for
the roast beef."
" I see. Well, look here, Fm in a hurry to catch a
train. Let me have a chop."
" The very thing. While ye'd be sayin' thrapsticks.
Wan or two ? "
"Two. And some vegetables."
" And what will ye dhrink ? "
" Water ! "
The waiter straightened himself, rubbed his chin,
and stared at Luke meditatively. Then he went to the
kitchen.
" Can I have some second course ? " said Luke.
"To be sure, yer reverence. Anything ye like."
" Any stewed fruit ? '
ALTRUISM 325
"Any amount of it, yer reverence. But won't ye
take anything to dhrink ? It's a cowlcl day, and ye
have a long journey afore ye ? "
" I'll have a tiny cup of coffee after dinner. Is this
the fruit ? "
"'Tis, yer reverence. Just tossed out of the tin."
" What are they ? "
" Well, begor, yer reverence, I'm not quite sure
meself. I'll ask the cook."
" Oh, never mind. It's all right."
But the good waiter insisted, and came back in a
few minutes with a mighty pile of rice pudding.
" There, yer reverence," he cried ; " take that. Sure
I kem round the cook wid a bit of blarney. That's
good for ye. Let them things alone."
And he removed the stewed fruit contemptuously.
Luke handed him a sovereign. He almost fainted.
When he had recovered, he went over to the window,
Luke calmly watching him, and held the sovereign up
to the light. Then he glanced at Luke suspiciously.
A second time examined the coin, and then rang it on
the table. Then he bit it, and rang it again. Finally
he vanished into the kitchen.
" Vou seemed to have doubts about that sovereign ? "
said Luke, when he emerged witli the change.
'•'■ Is it me, yer reverence ? Divil a doubt. Doubt a
priest, indeed ! No, yer reverence, I'm a poor man,
but I knows me relisfion ! "
" Then whv did you ring it, and bite it, and examine
it ? "
"Is it me, yer reverence? Oh no, God forbid that
I should forget meself in the presence of a priest."
" But I saw you do it," said Luke, who was fully de-
termined to let no such insincerity pass unreproved.
'' Ah I sure tliat's a way I have," said the waiter.
"They thry to break me av it, but they can't. I got
it from me poor father, — may the Lord have mercy on
his sowl."
" Amen ! Go, get me a cab."
326 LUKE DELMEGE
Luke was hardly seated in a second-class carriage,
when a commercial traveller entered, fussed about,
arranged vast piles of luggage everywhere, sat down,
coiled a rug around him, and took out a newspaper.
In a few minutes he was staring over the edge of the
paper at Luke. The latter was busy with his own
thoughts — regrets after Aylesburgh, memories of little
kindnesses received, the regretful partings, the little
farewell presents. He lifted up the soft rug. It was
a present from the school children. Then he looked
out on the sombre landscape, and thought of his future.
Well ! At least the new life would have the interest of
novelty. And, then, he was not welcome in English
clerical circles.
" A fine evening, sir. Going south ? "
The poor fellow couldn't help it. He had tried to
attract Luke's attention in sundry little ways, but in
vain. He had to make a bold attempt. Nothing could
have annoyed Luke Delmege so surely. He wanted
time for thought about a hundred things ; he had been
used to silence. The brusquerie of that Dublin docto)
had irritated him ; so, too, had the waiter's prevarica-
tion. He had met nothing like it in England, where
everything was smooth, polished, mechanical ; and there
was no room for sudden and abrupt departures from
recognized rules.
He answered coldly. The traveller was offended,
drew his rug more tightly around him, and anathema-
tized priests iu general.
But, just then, that beautiful side of Irish altruism,,
which is not vanity and curiosity, was revealed. A
lady placed two children in the carriage ; and left them,.
on their long journey to the farthest extremes of Kerry,
to the care of the guard and the benevolence of the
public. The little girl, a child of five years, hugged
her doll, and beamed on her fellow-passengers. Her
brother curled himself up on the cushions, and fell
asleep.
" You don't mean to say," said Luke to the guards
I
i
ALTRUISM 327
" that these children's mother has left them thus unpro-
tected for such a journey ? "
" Oh ! yes, your reverence. They're as safe as in
their cradles. They're Prodestans," he whispered, as
a caution.
And Luke thouQ-ht of "the ladv with the brifjht orold
ring on the wand she bore," and her dazzling beauty,
lighted safely around the island of purit}" and chivalry.
And it was delightful — the little interludes at the
stations where the train stopped for a moment on its
rapid course southwards. At every stop the guard
thrust in his peaked cap and bearded face to look after
his pretty charge.
" Well, an' how're ye gettin' on ? "
"Very well, thank you,"' the child would lisp with
such a pretty accent, and such a winning smile.
" An', how'se the doll ? "
"Very well, thank you."
" What's tliat her name is? I'm always forgettin'."
" Bessie Louisa. This is my youngest doll, you
know."
" Of course, of course ! And ye're all right ? "
"All right, thank you."
"Good ! Tay at the Lim'rick Junction.'
Twenty minutes later, the same colloquy would take
place.
" Well, and how're ye gettin' on?"
"Very well, thank you."
"And how'se the doll?"
"Very well, thank you."
" .Mary Jane, isn't it ? "
"No, n(t I this is Bessie Louisa."
"Of course — liessie Louisa I Where are me brains
goin' to? And did she sleep?"
" Yes. She slept the whole wav."
" Good. An' ye're all right ? ""
"All right, thank you."
" Good again. We'll have tay at the Lim'rick Junc-
tion."
328 LUKE DELMEGE
But the benevolence was not limited to the guard.
Oh ! no. Every one in the carriage, now well filled,
became the self-constituted guardian of the children.
That boy must have been sick for a fortnight, after his
return home, so well filled he was with cake and fruit.
Even Luke thawed out from his frozen English habits,
and sat near the little girl. She told him wonderful
things about that little doll, showed him all her trous-
seau, including a lace skirt, which she said papa wore
in his baby-days ; told him the names of flowers by the
wayside, and gave strange names to the ponies that
scampered away from the onrushing train. He was
half jealous when the hirsute guard appeared, and the
child smiled at her friend. And then da capo : —
" An' how're ye gettin' on ? "
"Very well, thank you."
" And how'se the doll ? "
" Very well, thank you."
" Mary Anne Kate, isn't it ? "
'■'■ No, no, no, no ! Bessie Louisa."
" Of course, of course ! An' ye're all right ? "
"All right, thank you."
" Good ! We ordhered tay at the Junction."
That "tay at the Junction," was a wonderful cere-
mony. Every one — guard, porters, passengers — was
interested. And when the young waiter, in tight brown
uniform, and with a ribbon of bright brass buttons run-
ning from collar to boot, came bearing aloft the tray and
its steaming contents, there was almost a cheer. There
never was such a number of improvised, amateur, and
volunteer wait-ers in the chambers of the great. A land-
lord, who had a piece of flint in the place of a heart, a
military swashbuckler who had stabbed and sabred a
hundred Paythans in the Himalayas — even an attorney,
volunteered their services. Luke was selected by the
young empress ; but he shared the honours nobly, by
allowing the landlord to butter the bread and the attor-
ney to pour out the tea. He gave Bessie Louisa to the
bold sahreur. And on went the train merrily, the child
ALTRUISM 329
eating, laughing, smiling at these worshippers of her
unconscious attractions, until they came to the next
junction, wliere she dismissed them with royal bount}'.
Luke had to go further. His young charge almost
crowed with delight when he told her. And then, she
fell fast asleep. Half dreaming, half conscious, always
waking up to smile, she lay wrapped in the warm rug
that Luke had drawn around her, pillowing lier head
on his arm, and watching in the growing twilight the
shadows deepening on the smiling face. Once or twice
he tried to read his Office ; but in vain. He laid it aside.
" God won't blame me," he said. " It is the shadow
of His mighty wings that envelops us ; and He hath
given His angels charge over us to keep us in all our
ways."
And Luke, too, fell asleep, the child resting on his
arm. He reached home at night, and had an effusive
welcome. The following day he called on the Canon.
The good old man looked stooped and aged.
"Have you any news — of — ha — Barbara, Miss
Wilson? " he said.
" None," said Luke, " but what lier father told me —
that she had entered some convent."
" Quite so. I am quite sure that she will — ha —
rise to something responsible and — ha — respectable."
" I hope j\Iiss Wilson wrote to you, sir, explaining
her intentions," said Luke.
" Ahem ! yes. But she has not entered into details.
I dare say she Avill write again."
The Canon, too, was nettled. He could see no cause
for such great secrecy and such haste.
"I understand that — ha — in Knglaud a young lady,
well connected and talented, might rise to — a — very
dignilicd position? "
" Yes, indeed. Amongst the Carmelites at the old
convent at Lanherne, the Reverend Mother has the
dignity of a mitred Abbess. At least," said Luke,
hastily correcting himself, " she has the privilege of a
crosier, which ought to be equivalent to a mitre."
330 LUKE DELMEGE
" Then, believe me, sir," said the Canon, " the day
Barbara's virtues and talents are recognized, the — ah
— community will raise her to the most dignified and
respectable position in their power."
There was a few moments' silence.
"And you have returned to — ah — resume work in
your own diocese ? " said the Canon.
" Yes, sir. I was hoping, indeed, to be able to give
my services to the cause of religion in England; but
it was decided otherwise. I am just going to see the
Bishop about my future arrangements."
'' Quite so. You will kindly take a letter from me
to his Lordship. I would wish very much that I could
detain you — ah — here ; but you know it might estab-
lish a dangerous precedent — "
" I'm sure I'm extremely obliged to you, sir," said
Luke. " But I hope that I shall be placed, sooner or
later, somewhere near, that I might be able to see you
sometimes."
The Bishop was very kind, and would have wished
to place Luke in some leading position ; but all things
in Ireland, especially ecclesiastical, are governed by iron
rules, the hardest and most inexorable of which is cus-
tom. Luke got his appointment to a country mission.
" You will find the parish priest somewhat quaint,''
his Lordship said, " but a saint."
Luke called on Margery, now Sister Eulalie. She
looked to her brother's eyes lovelier than ever in that
most beautiful habit, specially designed by our Lord for
his favourite Order of the Good Shepherd. Margery
was enthusiastic about her dear brother.
" But, Luke, you're horribly changed. Where did you
get that grand accent ? And you are so stiff and solemn
and grave, I'm half afraid of you."
Yes. Luke was very solemn and grave, partly from
natural impulse, partly from his English training. Mar-
gery said she didn't like it. But she did, deep down in
her heart. And when one of the Sisters whispered to
her, " You ought to be proud of your brother " —
ALTRUISM 331
Margery was proud, very proud. And a little indig-
nant, too. What did the Bisliop mean by sending lier
glorious brother to a wretched country parish, all
moor and mountain; whilst here, in the city, so much
energy and eloquence and personal magnetism were
wanting?
" I don't know what's come over the Bishop." she
thought. "And he always spoke so highly of Luke."
" Luke dear," she said, " you mustn't mind. You are
sent there just for a time to save appearances, and to
prevent jealousy. Before twelve months, you'll be here
at the Cathedral. Now, say you don't mind, do you ? "
" Oh, not at all," said Luke, airily. " I have had no
reason to expect anything better. I made my bed, and
I must lie on it."
" Now, that's a note of discontent," said Margery, with
her quick intuition ; " never mind ! I suppose this old
parish priest is like dear old Father Meade ! "
"Oh ! by the way, has that visionary called?" said
Luke.
" Yes," said Margery. " He called. We were full.
But he would take no denial. ' (ilod sent them,' he
said, ' and take care you are not found fighting against
God.'"
" It was the wildest expedition a priest ever entered
on," said Luke. " Such utter contempt for prudence,
and even for the proprieties, was never seen before."
'"Those are the men that move mountains," said Mar-
gery. And Luke didn't like it.
' Then Margery- drew out of lier little treasury sundry
little gifts — a pyx-case, a little bundle of corporals and
purificators, an oil-stock cover, a number of Agnus Deis
for the poor. etc. ; and Luke took them with lialf a sigh,
thinking of the new life before him ; then he kissed his
little sister, and departed for his mission.
" We cannot stand you now, Eulalie," said one of the
Sisters. " A brother like that would turn any one's
liead."
But Sister Eulalie felt a little sinking of the heart
332 LUKE DELMEGE
somehow. There was something wanting in that grand,
stately character,
"• I wonder will the poor like him," she said.
Luke passed an uneasy night. Whether that quilt
was too heavy, so very unlike the soft down quilt at
Aylesburgh, or this feather bed was too soft, or these
blankets were too coarse or hard, or whether it was that
heavy odour around the room, as if the windows had not
been raised for a long time, — at any rate, he was rest-
less and troubled. And when in the gray dawn of the
October morning, he heard a sound of moaning in the
next room, occupied by his pastor, he rose up, and fear-
ing that the old man was ill, he knocked gently at his
door. In answer to " Come in ! " he entered. The old
man, fully dressed, was leaning over a chair, on which
was a large black crucifix, and there he was pouring out
his soul to God with sighs and tears.
" I was afraid, sir," stammered Luke, " that you had
been taken ill — "
" Go back to bed, boy, and stay there till I call you,'
said the old man.
Luke returned, wondering, and looked at his watch.
It was just five o'clock. Luke shivered. But when,
after breakfast, he strolled out to see the surroundings
of his future life, he groaned aloud : —
" Good heavens ! It is Siberia, and I am an exile
and a prisoner."
The morning was fine, and a gray mist hung down
over field and valley, and wet the withering leaves, and
made the red haws, that splashed the whole landscape,
as if with blood, glisten and shine. But the mist could
not conceal the gray, lonely fields, the cocks of hay, half
rotten, left out by some careless farmer to rain and
frost ; the brown, black mountains, seamed and torn in
yellow stripes by the everlasting torrents. Here and
there, across the desolation, were green nests, where
some comfortable farmer resided ; and here alone a few
scraggy trees broke the monotony of the landscape.
ALTRUISM 333
"It's aland of death and ruin," said Luke. He re-
turned. The old man was reading a paper.
" Have I anything to do, sir ? " said Luke.
" Oh, to be sure, to be sure," said the old man. "You
might look at the stables, and see how is that little
mare. That rutlian spares the elbow-grease, I promise
you. And see if he has got in them mangolds ; and if
the thatch is keeping right on that hay. And, in the
afternoon, you miglit drive over to see the school at
Dorrha. I'm afraid that teacher is pulling a cord with
the assistant, and the children are neglected."
" At what hour is luncheon ? " asked Luke.
"Wha-at?" said the pastor, in alarm.
" Luncheon, sir ? At what time is luncheon on the
table ? "
" Thei-e's no such thing here, young man," said the
pastor. " You'll get your dinner at three o'clock, and
your tea at eight, if you like. I never take it. That's
all."
"Oh I very good, sir," said Luke, reddening. "I
didn't know. I only wanted to be quite sure, and
punctual about the time."
" That needn't trouble you much," said the old man.
" If there's anything in this country we've enough of,
'tis time, and water."
Lukestrolk'd out. and looked. It was a dreary sight.
Tlie stone wall that surrounded the presbytery grounds
had fallen in several places, and the moss-grown stones
lay piled in hopeless confusion. A few scraggy haw-
thorn trees, now loaded with red liorrics, sprang uji here
and there. The yard was littered with dirty str;iw ;
geese, hens, and turkeys waddled around, picking the
fallen grain, and occasionally quarrelling ; the mare was
stamping in the stable ; and tlie boy was nowhere. Oh,
yes I he was. Leaning luxuriously against a hedge, the
dripping of whose bushes he did not heed, and smoking
leisurely a short clay pipe, was tlic boy. He tlid not
see Luke. He was in a reverie, it must have been a
pleasant one, for occasionally he removed the pipe from
334 LUKE DELMEGE
his mouth, and gave vent to a long, low chuckle. Some-
times he grew serious, and even angry, as he held the
pipe poised in one hand, and the otlier came down on
the unresisting air, hot and heavy. Then he resumed
his pipe with philosophical placidity. It was a pity to
disturb such dreams, but Luke was inexorable. He had
a mission, and that was to wean away the Irish charac-
ter from its picturesque irregularity, and to establish
in its stead the mechanical monotony of England. He
did not say so, because the grinding of the machinery
was still hateful to him. But he had a firm, deep-rooted
conviction that the one thing wanting in Ireland was
the implanting of English ideas, English habits — thrift,
punctuality, forethought, industry ; and that he was the
apostle of the new dispensation. Hence he broke the
dream of this hedge-side visionary ; and the pipe, at
the same time, fell from the mouth of the dreamer, and
was sliattered.
" You have nothing to do, I suppose, this morning ? "
" I have, your reverence," the boy answered sullenly.
" Then, why not do it ? " said Luke.
" I was waitin' for the min to turn up about thim
mangels," said the boy.
" And, whilst waiting, could you not get that grease
for the priest's horse ? "
"■ What grase, your reverence ? "
" The parish priest says the mare is ruined for want
of elbow-grease," said Luke.
The man looked at his interrogator keenly, looked
him all over, laughed deep down in his heart, as he had
never laughed before ; but said, with a face of preter-
natural solemnity : —
" Very well, your reverence ; I'll see to it."
The parish priest was very much surprised for sev-
eral days at the very unusual hilarity that prevailed in
the kitchen ; and sometimes Ellie, the under servant,
found it difficult to avoid tittering, when she brought
the dishes to tabic.
Luke visited the school at Dorrha. It was a poor,
ALTRUISM 335
little mountain school, witli about seventy pupils. A
few tattered maps, from which the sharp pointers had
long since worn away the political divisions of coun-
tries, hung around the walls ; a clock stared silentl}^ at
the ceiling ; and on a blackboard were certain hiero-
glyphics supposed to be geometrical. The teacher
made a profound bow to Luke. l^uke responded.
"Would his reverence take a class?"
"With pleasure."
" Which would his reverence please to examine ? "
" It made no difference. Say the sixth."
"They'll be afraid of your reverence," whispered the
teacher. " They have been reading all about you in
the paper ; and they know all about Maynooth."
Here was the First of Firsts buried in silence for
seven long years, trotted out again in dear, magnani-
mous Ireland.
The children did look frightened enough, especially
when Luke ordered them to keep their heels together
and liold up tlieir hea<ls. Alas I that is not so easy.
The weight of seven centuries of serfdom is upon them.
How can tliey stand straight, or look you in the face?
Then, Luke was too precise.
" If you want to read well," he explained, "you must
give full expression to every vowel and lean on every
consonant. There, now, what crime did that final <j
commit tiiat you elide it ? I don't see h in water.
Hold up your heads. Look me straight in the face,"
Luke thought the lesson quite al)surd. It was about
])olitical economy, and was very dismal and abstruse.
He flung the book aside. He woulil coiiuuence the
education df these children on new lines.
"Do you know anything of hygieiu\ (diihlrcn?"
No. They had never heard of the goddess Hygeia.
" I notice that your teeth are, for the most part,
deca3'ed, or in process of decay. Oo you know what
that proceeds from, or how it may l)e arrested?"
" Atin' sweets," the}- said in a chorus.
336
LUKE DELMEGE
" Perhaps that is the remote or secondary cause.
The immediate cause is want of phosphates in the
blood. Do you know what phosphates are ? "
" We do."
"Well. What are phosphates ? "
" Guano — manoor. "
" Not quite. You're confounding two things." And
Luke went on to explain the arterial supplies to the
teeth, and the reflex nervous action on the brain ; the
absolute necessity, therefore, of eschewing tea, and liv-
ing on phosphates, like oatmeal. He was a confirmed
tea-drinker himself.
Before the Angelus bell tolled that evening, it was
reported through the parish that a Protestant parson
from England had visited the school, and had recom-
mended the children to go back to the diet of the famine
years.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE SECRET OF THE KING
Father Tracey, ex-parish priest, chaplain to the City
Hospital, was rejoiced, humbled, elated, stupefied, one of
these days in early October. His conduct, indeed, gave
rise to not a little comment. When a man stands still
in the midst of a crowded street and stares at the
ground, and then drives his stick into it fiercely, and
walks away with his head in the air, people are apt to
be unkind in their conjectures. But, to have seen him
read his Office tliese days was a rare and portentous ex-
perience. For he kissed the ground, and abased him-
self a hundred times before his Maker ; and, then, at
the Laudates flung out his arms, like a cross, and sang
them into the ears of heaven. It was all about some-
thing that had happened at the death of Allua. For
Father Tracey was also chaplain to the penitents at the
Good Shepherd Convent. He had been offered the
chaplaincy to the nuns, but declined it with a shiver.
"• Who am I," said he, "to take tliese saints up the
steep ladder of perfection ? But, if your Lordship
would let me look after these poor penitents — "
He had his wish ; but never after si)oke of his charge
as "penitents*'; that im[)lied some harshness. The}'
were "his little children," or" his saints." Now he had
seen wonderful miracles wrought amongst his saints —
miracles of grace and mercy unimaginal)le — souls, vis-
ibly snatched from hell ; souls, lifted to the highest
empyrean of sanctity, and the holy old man wondered,
exulted, and was glad.
z 337
33b LUKE DELMEGE
" There isn't in the world," he said, " a happier ola
man than I. What did I do, that God should be so
good to me ? " And he plunged his stick into the
ground.
Well, Allua, little child of the convent-school, had
passed through the hell of London life, and had been
snatched from the deeper Hell by the merc}^ of her
Lord. And Allua was about to die. The poor child
had passed through terrific temptation, since she had
been safely housed beneath the sheltering arms of the
Good Shepherd — temptations from circumstances in
her former life, temptations from the unseen — lastly,
temptations to despair. Margery, who was privileged
to be near her, described these temptations as fearful in
the extreme.
" You can see everything that the Saints have told,"
she said ; "everything but the faces of the evil spirits."
Father Tracey was troubled during these eventful
days. He asked for redoubled prayers, for daily com-
munion. Then, in his great anxiety and humility, he
sent for Father Meade. And so, when the end had
come, the poor dying penitent saw bending over her
the two familiar faces of the priests who had saved her,
and then came a moment of supreme tranquillit3^
"'Tis all over now. Father. But oh ! it was terrible
whilst it lasted."
And then in profound peace and ecstasy the poor
trembling soul passed into the arms of the Good Shep-
herd. It was early morning, and Father Tracey went
straight to the altar and celebrated Mass. Margery
was privileged to bring him his humble breakfast ; for
Margery was a great favourite. It was very amusing
to see the young Sister putting little dainties into the
old priest's plate, and the old man as carefully putting
them aside. Sometimes Margery succeeded by clever
little strataGfems.
" Most people don't eat that. Father. They say it
isn't nice. / wouldn't eat it."
" Indeed ? " the good old man would reply, as he
THE SECRET OF THE KING 339
gobl)le(l up the dainty. And then he would gravely
shake his head.
"Why don't you brush your hat, Father? There,
I've done it now. Can't you send up that old coat,
and we'll have it dyed here ? There now, you're hor
rid this morning. You came out unshaved."
And Father Tracey would blush, like a girl, and
apologize for his negligence.
"You want to make me like that grand brother of
yours, who'll be our Bishop some day, I suppose. Ah
me ! Tliose clever young men I Those clever young-
men ! "
And Margery, with her hands folded beneath her
scapulary, would silently pray that her grand l)rother
might some day be even as this poor, despised old
priest.
But this morning there was great colloguing. They
had heard or seen something supernatural, there in
that Inlirmary; and Father Tracey was crying with
joy and ecstasy, and Margery was crying to keep him
company.
"I can't believe it," said Father Tracey, trying to
gulp down his tea. "It's too grand — or, God forgive
me, why should I say, 'anything too grand' for the
Father of all miracles and mercies ? "
" It's quite true, then," said Margery. " I didn't
notice it myself, until you called for players for jtoor
AUua in her agony. Then, I went straight to Mother
Provincial, and tohl her. She warned me tliat 1 was
not to speak of it to any one but you. And, I supjjose,
you'll never keep the secret. Men never can, you
know."
" I wish," said the old man in his ecstasy, "thai I
could shout it from the house tops and the mountains,
and call all men to pray and glorify God. But, my
dear, to tell the trutli, I was surprised that our prayers
were heard so soon. God does not give way so easily,
always. I see it all now."
He paused for a moment.
340 LUKE DELMEGE
" And you positively tell me — ? "
" Positively. Do you doubt me, again ? '*
"No. But — "
" 1 tell you 'tis true. And our good Mother knew it
all the time ; but not a word. She is very prudent.
And I saw her once or twice, when she thought no one
was looking, going down on her knees, and kissing the
ground ! "
" God bless her ! " said the old priest. He went
back to the Infirmary. The frail, shattered form lay,
oh ! so peaceful and calm, in the glorious transfigura-
tion of death. She still wore the penitent's habit ; her
beads were wreathed around her fingers, which clasped
a crucifix ; and a few flowers were pinned here and
there to her dress. But the face — once more the face
of a little child, had been sculptured into unearthly
beauty by the chisel of Death, who stood by and
waited, for he worked only in solitude, and seemed to
say : " Mark ! how I can beautify before I destroy. So
too shall the reincarnation come after destruction."
Father Meade came up, too, after Mass and break-
fast. He knew nothing of the great secret.
" It's a beautiful sight, William," said Father Tracey,
" God will bless you for this beautiful soul, redeemed
to Him."
But Father Meade only stooped down, and blessed
the forehead of his little child, and whispered : —
" Good-bye, Allua ! "
And when Margery accompanied the old chaplain to
the gate, and had made sundry comments, on his green
coat, and his brown hat, and frayed and fringed habili-
ments, he seemed not to mind, but now and again
would stop and plunge his stick into the ground, and
ask, as if he had never heard it before : —
" God bless me ! you don't tell me ? "
" But I do ; Father dear, what an unbeliever you
are ! "
"And I mustn't pretend, you know, to know any-
thing, I suppose ? "
THE SECRET OF THE KING 341
" No. You're to go on, as if you saw nothing, and
shut your eyes, and moutli ! "
" God bless me ! that will be hard. And, you really
tell me? And Reverend Mother knew it all the time? "
"There, now ! Good-bye ! If you show by sign or
token that you know anything, you'll be expelled ; and
then, wliiit will your saints do ? "
"(jiod bless me ! you don't say so? Very well, you
won't see me as much as wink one eye."
But he was hardly an adept at deception. Every one
of his many acquaintances knew that something was up.
And some wise people, watching his ecstatic features,
said amongst themselves : —
" He has seen something. Could it be the Blessed
Virgin?"
Margery walked back from the gate very thought-
fully, and readied her cell. Not the following Sunday,
but some Sundays later, she penned a letter to her great
brother. He, too, was passing through strange and
novel experiences.
" I can see tlie quaintness, but I cannot see the sanc-
tity of this old gentleman," tliought Luke, as they sat
after dinner, and chatted. The old man, following
a time-honoured custom of thirty years, had made two
tumblers of punch, and pushed one towards his curate.
'^ You'll only get one, young man," he remarked,
"but 'tis a decent one."
" I never touch the like," said Luke, with a con-
temptuous sniff.
" Gh !" said the old man; an<l it was a rather pro-
longeil exclamation.
" Here, Jer," said the housekeeper, wlien thv ghisses
were removed. Jer was the nuMlilative hoy wlio was
always ft)und in the vicinity of tlir l^ilclien about din-
ner time. '• 'Tis your luck; though, faitli. you don't
desarve it."
"Ellie, will you have a little sup?" said Jerry, gen-
erously. Ikit Ellie gave him a look of withering
contempt.
342 LUKE DELMEGE
'' Here's 3^our health, ma'am," said Jerry, adding in
his heart : " May the Lord help our young priesht to
keep his pledge faithfully all the days of his life."
This went on for three evenings. The fourth evening
a strange thing happened. The prodigy caused much
perturbation in the kitchen, and afforded Jerry abun-
dant food for anxious reflection as he sat under his
favourite hawthorn. What was the explanation ? Had
the young priest forsworn his pledge and gone the way
of his fathers? Impossible. Had the parish priest
swallowed both ? Equally impossible. Then, the fol-
lowing evening, but one tumbler came out of the parlour ;
and henceforth, but one — and the vast perspective of
tumblers, reeking hot, and extending to eternity, van-
ished, like a pleasant dream.
What had happened was this. The good old pastor,
a slave to habit, not heeding Luke's refusal the first
evening, continued concocting the second tumbler on
the succeeding nights.
" May I have a cup of coffee, sir ? " said Luke.
"Coffee? No, j^oung man, you may not. There is
no such thing ever made in this house. You can have
tea for breakfast, and tea for tea, and a glass of good
punch at your dinner. That's all ! "
" Thank you ! " said Luke, curtly.
The fourth evening the old man brewed the two tum-
blers as he had done for thirty years ; and pushed one
towards Luke. Luke thought it was intended as an
insult. He took up the steaming tumbler, and going
over, he raised the window, and flung the liquid into
the grass. Then he put down the window, and bring-
ing back the empty glass, resumed his seat. The old
man said not a word.
Each of these lonely winter evenings, precisely at
eight o'clock, the household assembled for the Rosary ;
then, all lights were put out. Luke used retire to his
bedroom, with what thoughts and memories may be con-
jectured. The remembrance of the past with all its
intellectual pleasures haunted him ; the future with all
THE SECRET OF THE KING 343
its dread possibilities frightened him. Was this to be
liis life ? Dreary days, spent in idleness and unprofit-
able attempts to raise a helpless and dispirited people ;
and dreadful evenings, when he could not escape from
himself, but had to face the companionship of thoughts
that verged on despair. Yet, he made gallant attempts.
Youtli and hope were on his side ; and there was no
retreat. He had burned his ships. And, after all, why
could he not do what the Canon had done in and around
Lisnalee ? That was Arcadia ; this Siberia ! Well, the
brave soul is that which bends undauntedly to the hope-
less task. He would try.
" Now, I don't want to hurt your feelings, Conor,"
he would say to a parishioner ; " but don't you know
that that festering heap of compost is a nest of typhus
and di[)htheria ? The horrible miasma pollutes the entire
atmosphere, and fills the house with disease ? "
" I suppose so, your reverence ; but, begor, no one
died in this house for the past three ginerations, except
of ould age."
" That is exceptional," Luke would reply ; " but,
apart from the question of sanitation, don't you think
that a few flower beds would look better than that dis-
mal swamp?"
" Of course, yer reverence, but we'd have to pay dear
for them."
"Not at all. A few wallflowers in spring, and a few
tufts of primroses — there are thousands of them in the
springtime in the hedgerows, — and a few simple ge-
raniums in the summer, would not cost you one lialf-
crown. Now, Lizzie, don't you agree with me?"
" I do. Father," Lizzie would say.
" So do I, yer reverence ; but it isn't the cost of the
flowers I'm tliinkin' of, but the risin' of the rint. Every
primrose would cost me a shillin' ; and — "
"I thought that was all past and gone forever?" said
Luke.
The poor man would shake his head.
" 1 daren't, yer reverence. Next year, I'm goin' into
344 LUKE DELMEGE
the Land Courts agin ; and, begor, the valuators and
commissioners would put it on, hot and heav}^ if they
saw a sign of improvement about the place."
" Good heavens ! " Luke would say. " Then 'tis
your interest to drag everything back to prairie con-
ditions instead of improving house and land and gar-
dens ? "
" You've said it, yer reverence," said Conor.
This horror opjaressed Luke keenly. In the begin-
ning he used flare up in anger when a poor peasant
would come to him on a sick-call or other business.
" Put on your hat. Don't you see 'tis raining ? "
" Yes, yer 'anner."
" Stop that infernal word. Call your priest ' Father.' "
" Yes, yer 'anner."
" Look here, my poor man. Hold up your head, look
me straight in the face, and call me 'Father.'"
" Yes, yer 'anner."
Then Luke would fume and foam, and preach lessons
on independence and manliness, and that God should
be feared, not men ; and he quoted the example of our
Lord, and His firm, respectful, dignified bearing before
Herod and Pilate. Then, after a while he desisted.
It was no use. And in the cold, raw winter, as he
rolled along on his side-car, and saw the poor farmers
with down-bent heads, and faces burnt by the bitter
wind, driving the heavy ploughs into the hard, unyield-
ing earth, he thought with intense bitterness that that
poor toiler was labouring, not for his own little family
over there in that wretched cabin — that meant only
bread and potatoes, — but for the agent, that he might
have his brandy and cigars ; and for two old ladies in
a Dublin Square, that they might give steaks to their
lap-dogs ; and for a solicitor again above them, that he
might pay for his son in Trinity ; and, on the highest
pinnacle of the infamous system, for the lord, that he
might have a racer at the Derby and St. Cloud, and a
set of brilliants for Sadie at the Opera Comique. And
he thought with a shudder, that he heard, here in the
i
THE SECRET OF THE KING 345
peaceful Irish valley, the grinding and jarring of the
dread engine of English law. Can it be, he said, that
the horrid thing has stretched out its tentacles and grinds
and grasps with its inexorable unconsciousness, even
here ? But he put the dread thought aside. Had not
the great Canon risen buoyantly over all these dii'li-
culties, and created his little paradise ? How was it
done ? And Luke was puzzled.
He was also puzzled by another circumstance. It was
the quaint, strange language of this mysterious people.
It was quite clear that they regarded this earth and this
life as of but little moment.
"Wisha, yer reverence, 'tis good enough for the short
time we're here. Sure 'tis here to-day and away to-
morrow ! "
" Yer reverence, why should we throuble about this
dirty bod}^ ? Sure, 'tis good enough for the worms."
" I'm goin' to me long home, yer reverence ; and 'tis
time. If we hadn't much here, sure we'll have plenty
hereafter."
Luke didn't like all this. It sounded indeed dread-
fully like the Scriptures : " Take ye no thought for the
morrow ; " " Which of ye can add to your stature ; "
" Consider the lilies of the field ; " " Seek ye first the
kingdom of God," etc., etc. The whole thing was hor-
ribly reactionary. But, these quaint Irish peasants were
dreadfully like those fishermen of old ; and their i)hi-
losophy of life was suspiciously a reflection of tliat wliich
was preached by the Sea of Galilee ; and wliich all men
have agreed to pronounce Divine. But wliere then
was the ])hihisophy of the salon, and the delicious hu-
manitarianism of Amiel Lefevril ? Seek ye the (lod in
man ? Evident!}^ these poor people didn't believe it
possible — that strange quest of the lUuminati.
It was on one of these wintry days that Luke received
liis sister's letter. It ran thus : —
"Dear Luke: — T cannot help writing to ask your prayers, and
if not too nuicli, a remembrance in the Holy Sacrifice (jierhaps, if you
have time, you may give a whole Mass), for one of these poor peui-
346 LUKE DELMEGE
tents whom dear Father Meade brought from England. Oh, Luke!
such a death! It was horror after horror in the beginning. Then,
such serenity and peace. It was a miracle ; and we couldn't under-
stand it. But I saw something that explained all. Still it is a
great secret; and I must not tell. Father Tracey (but you don't
know Father Tracey, the dearest old priest that ever lived) knows
it too, and is in ecstasies. But we must not tell. But God is so
wonderful. Some day, perhajis.
" Will you be going home soon ? Do, dear Luke, they're dying
to see you. I hope you like your mission. Try to like it, dear
Luke. You know it is oidy temporary, and you will make it very
happy if you take up and foster the poor. That makes life all rosy
and sunshiny. There ! I suppose now you will say : That's not
English. I don't mind. But, Luke, dear, be humble ; be very
humble. We all need be. I wish I could tell you the great secret.
But some day, perhaps.
" I suppose Reverend Mother will never allow this scrawl to pass.
" Your loving sister,
" EULALIE."
" Conventual, not conventional ! " said Luke. "There
is one grain of common sense. I must run home, if
only to see Father Martin, and ask his advice about
gettiiig away from this unhallowed place forever."
Father Martin was not at all sympathetic.
" There is no reason why you should not do what all
the excellent priests of the diocese have done before
you," said Father Martin. " They all have had to com-
mence in the same way, and most seemed to find pleas-
ure where you experience despair. Do you think that
the life of a priest should be one long holiday of social
and intellectual pleasures ? "
" N-no," said Luke. " That's not it. If I had work,
work, work, from dawn to dark, I shouldn't mind.
But, this enforced idleness — and the daily contact
with all that is sordid and — hopeless — is enough to
give any man the blues."
"• Well, tastes differ. Father Cussen says he is su-
premely happy, except when he thinks of England ;
and then he is disposed to be profane. He is forever
thanking God that his lot is cast in holy Ireland, among
such a loving people."
THE SECRET OF THE KING 347
" I cannot see it," said Luke, in despair. " It is Eng-
land, England everywhere, when we have to blame
ourselves."
" Do you think so ? " said Father Martin, looking him
straight in the face.
" Well," said Luke, " there are faults on both sides,
I suppose. I admit, indeed, this system of land-tenure
is abominable — "
" We won't discuss it," said Father Martin. " Are
you reading ? "
" No. Why should I ? All my books are in their
cases in the stables. I dare not unpack them."
" Why ? "
" Why ? Because, first, I shall not remain here.
Secondly, there is no room to put them in. Thirdly,
those women would ruin them. Fourthly, where is the
use of continuing one's studies in such a country?"
" Phew," said Father Martin. " You have a lot to
learn, and unlearn yet, which is not found in books."
" I have learned that life is very miserable, whatever,"
said Luke.
" A priest shouldn't complain," said Father Martin,
"lie is a soldier. The outpost duty is not pleasant;
but it is duty. The Church was not created for priests ;
but tlie priestliood for the Church."
"I have been hearing that, usqne ad nauseam.''' said
Luke. " And yet, every one is anxious to get the i)il-
lows under his elbows."
"Not ever}' one," said Father INIartin, gravely.
"Tlicre are niimbi>rs of priests, young and old. in this
diocese, and elsewliere, wlio are hap[)y in serving God
under worse circumstances than yours — silent men,
whose life is one great sacrifice."
"And not one gleam of intellectual pleasure?" said
Luke, doubtingly.
" Except the elation of duties Avell discharged ; and
such companionsliip as they can afford eacli other."
" Pretty doubtful ! " said Luke, shrugging his shoul-
ders. "Better solitude tlian tliat fellow I "
348 LUKE DELMEGE
He pointed to the photograph of the poor priest,
around whom Father Martin had grouped his demi-
gods.
Then, noticing a look of pain and displeasure on the
face of his friend, he said : —
" I admit, indeed, there are a few compensations.
There is a vague sense of home, and freedom from
anxiety about money matters that one never exjjeri-
ences in England. Then, somehow, the landscape is
gaining on me. I have seen colouring across the moors
and the breasts of the mountains that would make an
artist's fortune, could he fix it on canvas. And, then,
certainly the little children are very attractive. The one
thing that strikes every English visitor to Ireland are
the children's eyes — das Vergissmeinnicht hlauste
Auge! — "
"• For heaven's sake, Luke, don't talk that way before
the brethren. You'd never hear the end of it."
" I shall go my own way. Father Martin," said Luke.
" If there be one thing I despise before another it is the
eternal deference to human opinion."
" You may be right," said Father Martin. " But,
life needs its little adjustments ; I was going to say its
little stratagems."
That evening Father Martin sat long and anxiously
near his little stove in the library — thinking, thinking
of his young friend. Very few would have spoken to
Luke as he had done ; but he loved Luke, and would
not spare his feelings.
'' The Bishop must take him into the city," he said.
" This violent change in his circumstances is too much
for him."
Then his eye caught the photographs.
" I never thought it was so easy to scandalize the
young," he said. " I Avonder in what fit of diabolical
uncharitableness did I put that photograph there ? "
He took down the frame and unscrewed it from behind.
He then removed the picture that represented " con-
ceited emptiness," and put it carefully in an album.
THE SECRET OF THE KING 349
He balanced the remaining photographs for a long time
in his liand. At last, he dropped them, one by one,
into the stove.
" Satan, or self, which is the same, is lookincf tiiroucfh
their eyes," he said. " The crucitix is enough for an
old man."
And Luke went back to his lonely room, and sat on
the rude deal chair these long, wear}', winter nights,
watching the rough iron bedstead, and tlie thick red
quilt, and the painted washstand and the broken jug ;
hearkening to the heavy breathing of his good pastor
in the next room; and thinking, thinking of the beau-
tiful past, that had vanished so swiftly, and wondering
through what narrow loophole would he escape the
unendurable present and the unpromising future.
And there in the city, in a room far worse furnished,
knelt an aged priest, who thanked (lod for his su})r('me
and unalloyed felicity, and who cried in loving A\()nder
to the pale face on his crucifix : " Lord, Lord, what have
I done to deserve it all ? Stop, stop this flood of delight,
or I'll die."
And when routed from his wretched pallet at mid-
night, he drew on his dingy clothes, and murmurctl,
" What poor soul wants me now?" And when lighted
by the night-nurse along the gloomy wards, where
tossed poor diseased humaiiily, and some sk'e})less
patient caught the light of his holy face, and mur-
mured, ''(iod bless you!" and when he came to the
coucli of the dying, and saw the huppy look creep into
the wistful, eager face, that now turned to Death tran-
quilly, for here was the man who could transform the
Kincf of Terrors into an Ansfel of Liirht, — he mur-
mured, as he uncovered the pyx, and knelt before the
Divine Healer of Humanity: —
"Lord ! Lord ! how wonderful art Thou I and how
generous ! And what a dread purgatory I shall have
for the heaven Thou hast given me liere I "
CHAPTER XXVII
A GREAT TREASURE
Luke did not remain long with the quaint pastor,
who was also a saint. This latter fact Luke took a
long time to realize, although he had the Bishop's word
for it. He could not quite understand how the aureole
of sanctity hung around that old man, who apparently
did nothing but examine his hay and turnips ; and
varied his visits to the barn and haggart by strolling
down to the front gate to get a chance conversation
with a passing parishioner. Then the strange blending
of rare old Irish melodies with fervent prayer almost
shocked Luke. He often listened at his bed-room win-
dow to his pastor, moving leisurely about the little gar-
den beneath, and humming, alternately with the psalms
of his office, that loveliest of all Irish songs, that always
reminds one of the wind wailing over the misty, wet
mountains — Savourneeyi dheelisli^ Eileen 0;ie ! But it
sounded very sweet, and sad, and lonely — there in that
lonely place, with nothing to break the silences but the
querulous cries of fowls, or the swift exultant chant of
a bird, or the wind, that always, even in summer, wailed,
like a ghost seeking rest. But gradually Luke felt
himself in a kind of sanctuary, the very atmosphere of
which was prayer. The old priest moving about the
room, the old housekeeper in her kitchen, Ellie in the
yard — all seemed to be holding an eternal unbroken
communing with the Unseen. So too with the peoj)le.
The old women, bending beneath the brosna of twigs
and branches for the scanty fire, the young mothers
rocking their children's cradles, the old men bent over
350
A GREAT TREASURE 351
the ashes in the open hearth, the young men in the
fields, — all, all appeared to think and live in prayer,
which was only suspended to attend reluctantly to the
meaner business of life. And if the old priest broke
through the psalter, in a moment of regretful uncon-
sciousness, to murmur Savourneen dheelish, the young
mother would sometimes break in upon her lullaby,
Cusheen Loo, to whisper a prayer to the ever present
Mother and Divine Babe for her own sleeping child.
And the sweet salutations : "• God save you I " " God
save you kindly, agra ! " spoken in the honeyed Gaelic
— all bewildered Luke. The visible and tangible were
in close communion with the unseen but not less real
world behind the veils of time and space.
It was this want of touch with the supernatural that
was the immediate cause of Luke's removal. The re-
mote cause was the kindly letter that Father Martin
wrote to the Bishop about the young, and so far, unhappy
priest. Surrounded in spirit with the grosser atmos-
phere which he had brought from abroad with him, he
failed to enter into the traditions and beliefs of the
people — not, of course, in essential dogmas, but in the
minor matters that go to make up the life and character
of a people. In trying to modify these for better and
more modern practices, he was right and wrong. He
could never understand why the people should not tit
in their ideas with his ; or the necessity of proceeding
slowly in uprooting ancient traditions, and conserving
whatever was useful in them. Hence he was often in
conflict with the people's ideas. 'IMu'v were puzzled
at what they deemed an almost sacrilegious interference
with their habits ; he was annoyed at their unwilling-
ness to adopt his ideals. But they had loo deep and
reverential a fear and respect for his sacred character to
say anything but what was deferential, l^ut the old
men shook iheir heads. At last, he touched a delicate
nerve in the Irish mind, and tliere was a protest, deep,
angry, and determined. He had touched their dead.
He had protested often and preached against Irish
352 LUKE DELMEGE
funerals and Irish wakes. He could not understand the
sacred instinct that led people, at enormous expense
and great waste of time, to bury their dead far away
from home, sometimes on the side of a steep hill, some-
times in a well-covered inclosure in the midst of a
meadow. It was with a certain feeling of impatience
and disgust he headed these lonely processions of cars
and horses and horsemen across the muddy and dusty
roads, winding in and out in slow solemnity for fifteen
or twenty miles, until at last they stopped ; and the
coffin was borne on men's shoulders across the wet field
to where a ruined, moss-grown gable was almost covered
with a forest of hemlocks or nettles. Then there was a
long dreary search for the grave ; and at last the poor
remains were deposited under the shadow of the crum-
bling ruin, ivy-covered and yielding to the slow corro-
sion of time, whilst the mourners departed, and thought
no more of the silent slumberer beneath. Luke could
not understand it. He preached against the waste of
time involved, the numbers of farmers brought away
from their daily work, the absurdity of separating hus-
band from wife, in compliance with an absurd custom.
He had never heard of the tradition that had come
down unbroken for a thousand years — that there in
that lonely abbey was the dust of a saint ; and that he
had promised on his deathbed that every one buried with
him there should rise with him to a glorious resurrec-
tion. And these strange people looked askance at the
new trim cemetery, laid out by the Board of Guardians,
with its two chapels and its marble monuments erected
over one or two of the Protestant dead. They pre-
ferred the crumljling walls, the nettles and hemlock,
and the saint, and the abbey, and the resurrection.
Luke was called to see an old j^arishioner who was
dying. The old man lay, a figure of perfect manhood
even in age, on a low bed, under a chintz canopy, to
which were pinned various pictures of the saints. The
priest discharged his duties with precision, and turned
to depart.
A GREAT TREASURE 353
" Your reverence ? "
" Yes," said Luke. " Can I do anything for you ? "
" I want you to say a word to rise me heart for me
long journey, your reverence."
" To be sure," said Luke, who then and there gave a
long dissertation on immortality, chiefly culled from
the Pliaedo.
" Your reverence, I don't understand wan worrd of
what you're sayin' ; but I su[)pose you mane well.
Will the Man above have anything agin me in His
books ? "
This dread simile, prompted l)y sad experiences of
the agent's office, shocked I^uke.
" I'm sure,'' he said, " Almighty God has pardoned
you. You have made a good confession ; and your life
has been a holy and pure one."
"And did your reverence give me a clare resate?"
asked the old man.
Here was the agent's office again.
" I've given you absolution, my poor man," said Luke.
"You must know that God has pardoned you all."
" Thanks, your reverence," said the old man, relapsing
into silence.
Luke said Mass reluctantly in the house when the old
man liad died. He hated the thoucfht of savinsf iNIass
under the poor and even sordid circumstances of tliese
country houses. The funeral was fixed to leave at
eleven o'clock.
"Eleven o'clock is eleven o'clock," said Luke, with
emphasis. " It is not five minutes to eleven, or iive
minutes after eleven ; but eleven, you understand ? "
" Av coorse, yer reverence. 'Tis a long journey to
the abbey and we must start airly."
" I can't see why you wouldn't bury your father over
there in the new cemetery," said Luke.
"He wished to go with liis own," was the reply.
Luke was at the house of mourninsx at five minutes
to eleven. There was no sign of a funeral. He pro-
tested.
354 LUKE DELMEGE
" The hearse and the coffin have not come, yer rever-
ence," was the repl}^
" But why not ? Were they ordered ? "
" They were ordhered to be here on the sthroke of
tin," was the answer.
At about half -past eleven the hearse was driven up
leisurely.
" Why weren't you here at the time appointed? " said
Luke, angrily.
" The toime appinted ? " said the driver, coolly.
" Yerra, what hurry is there ? Isn't the day long ? "
Luke gave up the riddle. Half-past eleven came,
twelve, half -past twelve ; and then the neighbours
began to gather. Luke's temper was rising with every
minute that was thus lost. And then he began to
notice the young girls of the house rushing out frantic-
ally, and dragging in the drivers and jarvies to the
house of mourning, from which these soon emerged,
suspiciously wiping their mouths with the back of the
hand. Luke seized on one.
" You've had drink there ? " he said.
" A little taste agin the road, yer reverence," the man
said.
" That's enough," said Luke. He tore off the cypress-
lawn, which the priests in Ireland wear in the form of
a deacon's stole, and flung it on the ground. Then he
turned the horse's head homeward. There was a cr}
of consternation, and a shout. But Luke was deter-
mined. He peremptorily ordered the man to drive
forward. One or two farmers begged and besought
him to remain, and even caught his horse's head. Luke
took the whip and drove his horse into a gallop ; and
never drew rein till he entered the yard.
"- You're home early," said the old man.
" Yes," said Luke, laconically.
" You didn't go the whole way ? Anything wrong
with the mare ? "
" I didn't attend the funeral," said Luke. " I saw
them dispensing drink ; and the statutes forbade me to
attend further."
A GREAT TREASURE 355
" The wha-at ? " said the old priest.
" The statutes — the statutes of the diocese," said
Luke, impatiently.
"■ Phew-ew-ew-ew ! " whistled the old man. And
after a pause: "• You'll have a nice row over this, young
man. They may forgive all 3'our abuse of the country,
and your comparisons with England ; but they'll never
forgive you for turning your back on the dead. And
Myles McLoughlin was the decentest man in the
parish."
" But, are not the statutes clear and determinate on
the point ? " said Luke. " And where is the use of
legislation, if it is not carried out ? "
" You're not long in this country ? " said the old
man.
" No — no ! " said Luke.
" I thought so," said the good pastor, rising in a pre-
occupied manner. He went over to the window and
looked out. He then began to hum Savourneen dheel-
ish, and Luke knew there was an end to the dialogue.
The following Sunday, after last Mass, at which Luke
had explained and justified his action very much to his
own satisfaction, a deputation called on the i:)arish
priest. They demanded the instant removal of tliis
Englishman. The old man tried to "• soother them
down," as he said. He might as well have tried to ex-
tinguish a volcano. They left in silence. One said: —
"• You wouldn't have done it, yer reverence ; nor any
of our ould, dacent prieshts, who felt for the people."
Luke thought it was all over. His arguments were
crushing and invincible. There was no answtT possible.
He thought men were led by logic — one of his many
mistakes. The following Sunday, when he turned
around to say the Acts, there was no congregation.
Mounted scouts had been out all the morning to turn
the i)eoi»le away from Mass. No one dared come. The
following Sunilay the same thing occurred. Then
Luke felt it was serious. He wrote a long letter in
self-justification to the Bishop, and then demanded his
356 LUKE DELMEGE
removal. The Bishop would have supported him and
fought with him for the maintenance of a great prin-
ciple, but the old quiet pastor implored him with tears
to remove this wild curate, and restore peace. And
Luke was removed in promotion.
Father Martin heard the whole story, and wrote a
long, kind, firm letter, which made a deep impression
on his young friend. The closing sentence was a strong
recommendation to be " all things to all men," like St.
Paul, and to remember " that life required its adjust-
ments, and even its stratagems," from time to time.
It was a happy change in more senses than one. The
moment the people had won the victory, they relente^d.
They were really sorry for their young priest. Several
assured him that it was " only a parcel of blagards, who
weren't good for king or country," that had caused all
the row. Luke said nothing ; but left, a mortified,
humbled man. He knew well that althouofh he had
maintained a great principle, it had left a stain on his
character forever.
He was promoted, however, and this time to a pretty
village, hidden away in a wilderness of forest, — a clean,
pretty little hamlet, with roses and woodbine trailed
around the trellised windows, and dainty gardens full
of begonias and geraniums before each door.
" It's a piece of Kent or Sussex, which some good
angel has wafted hither," said Luke.
Everything was in uniformity with this external as-
pect. There was a fine church at one end of the village,
a neat presbytery, and the dearest, gentlest old pastor
that ever lived, even in holy Ireland. He was an old
man, and stooped from an affection in the neck, like
St. Alphonsus ; his face was marble-white, and his long
hair snow-white. And he spoke so softly, so sweetly,
that it was an education to listen to him. Like so many
of his class in Ireland, experience and love had taught
him to show the toleration of Providence and the gen-
tleness of Christ towards every aspect of wayward
humanity.
A GREAT TREASURE 357
" You will find," said Father jNIartin, in his letter to
Luke, "your America here. If Hossmore and Father
Keatinge do not suit 3'ou, nothing will. Try and relax
your horrible stiffness, that freezes the people's hearts
towards you, and be ^ all things to all men,' like that
great lover of Christ, St. Paul."
So Luke made frantic resolutions, as he settled down
in a neat two-story cottage in the village, and unpacked
his books, and arranged his furniture, that this should
be a happy resting-place, at least for a time, and that
he would adapt himself to his surroundings, and be very
cordial and friendly with the people.
"All things to all men!" Dear St. Paul, did you
know what elasticity and plasmatism, what a spirit of
bonhommie and compromise, what vast, divine tolera-
tion of human eccentricity you demanded when you
laid down that noble, far-reaching, but not too realiz-
able principle? Noble and sacred it is; but in what
environments soever, how difficult ! This fitting in of
human practice, indurated into the granite of habit,
with all the hollows and crevices of our brothers' ways,
ah I it needs a saint, and even such a saint as thou, tent-
maker of Tarsus, and seer and sage unto all generations !
Luke found it hard. Cast into new environments,
how could he fit in suddenly with them ? Suave, gentle,
polished, cultivated, through secret refiection, large
reading, and daily intercourse with all that had been
filed down into tranquil and composed mannerism,
how was he to ada})t himself to circumstances, wliere a
boisterous and turl)ulent nuinner would l)e intt'rjM'ett'd
as an indication of a strong, free, generous mind, and
where liis gentle urbanity would be e(iually interpreted
as the outer and visible sign of a weak, timid disposition,
with too great a bias towards gentility. Yet he must
try.
" ^Vell, Mary, how are all the bairns ? " he said cheer-
ily to a young buxom mother, who carried one chubby
youngster in her arms, and was convoyed by two or
tlu'ee more.
358 LUKE DELMEGE
" Wisha, begor, your reverence, we have but one
barn; and 'tis nearly always impty."
'' I meant the children," said Luke, flushing.
" Oh, the childre ! All well, your reverence. Spake
to the new priest, Katie ; there now, ducky, spake to
the priest, alanna ! "
But Katie was shy, and put her finger in her moutL,
and looked up in a frightened way at his reverence.
" Shake hands, little woman," said Luke, cheerily,
" and we'll be good friends. Shake hands ! "
But Katie declined. Probably she had heard that it
was not considered polite for a lady to offer her hand
to a gentleman on a first introduction. Now, if Luke
had been wise he would have closed the conference
there. But he was determined to win that child.
" What have I done to you, little woman? " he said.
"Let us be friends. Come now, shake hands." Katie
still declined.
" Shake hands, miss, with the priest," said the mother,
shaking her angrily.
"•Let her alone," said Luke. "She'll come round
immediately." But Katie was not coming round.
" Shake hands, miss, I tell you," said the mother, now
fast losing control of her temper. Katie wept the tears
of childhood.
" Begor, we'll see," said the mother, " who'll be mis-
tress here. Hould him," she cried to a servant girl,
transferring the baby to her arms. Then Katie was
spanked, notwithstanding the piteous appeals of Luke,
who was horrified at the results of his intended kind-
ness. He put his fingers in his ears to keep out the
screams of the child, at which ceremony the servant-
maid laughed rudely ; and Luke rushed from the cabin.
" Wisha, 'twasn't the poor child's fault," said the
mother in subsequent explanations to a neighbour, " but
his gran' accint. 'Twas enough to frighten the child
into a fit."
One would have thought that this was a lesson. But
to Luke's mind babies were irresistible. The cold, calm
A GREAT TREASURE 359
way in which their wide round eyes, so frank and hon-
est, stared at him until he winked ; the unfathomable
depths in these same eyes, as if they were wondering-,
wondering, wondering, "Where did I meet you before '/"
made Luke half a heretic. He was beginning to believe
in the anamnesis of the human mind, and the faculty of
recalling a previous existence. This was confirmed by
the free and active interpretation of the nurses or
mothers.
" Sure, she knows you, yer reverence. Look at the
way she looks at you. You knows the priest, ducky,
don't you ? What's his name, darlin' ? "
" Gluck ! gluck," says baby.
" Luke ! Luke ! " echoes mother. " Glory be to you,
sweet and Holy Mother, did ye iver hear the likes be-
fore? And sure she's as like your reverence as two pins."
" She's an uncommonly pretty child," said Luke, in
unconscious self-flattery. "I never saw such eyes
before."
" And she's as cute as a fox," echoes mother. " Wisha,
thin, yer reverence, though I shouldn't say it, I had
priests in my family, too. We have come down low in
the world enough ; but there was thim that wance held
their heads high. Did ye ever hear of wan Father
Clifford, yer reverence, who lived over at Caragh ?
'Twas he built that gran' chapel, the likes of which isn't
in the country. Well, sure he was my mother's gossip.
And I had more of them, too. But let bygones be by-
gones. Sure, when you're down, you're down ! "
During this modest assertion of higli respectability
(for "to have a priest in the family," is, thank (iod, the
patent of honour in Ireland), Luke and the babe stared
wonderingly at each other. Now, he had read some-
where, how on one occasion, a party of rough miners
out West, who had been banished from civilization for
years, on coming down from the gold-pitted Sierras,
with their wallets stuffed with nuggets and their very
clothes saturated with gold dust, had met a nurse and
a child. They stared and stared at the apparition.
360 LUKE DELMEGE
And one huge giant, who had not been washed since his
baptism, and who was a walking armory of revolvers
and bovvie knives, stepped before his fellows, and
offered the girl two handfuls of gold dust if she would
allow him to kiss the child. The young lady herself
was not consulted. But, as the big miner stooped
down and touched the pure lips of the child, a cold
sweat broke out on his face and forehead, and he
trembled under the fever of a sweet emotion.
Luke thought, and was tempted. He said good-b3'e
to the mother, and stooping down touched with his lips
the wet, sweet mouth of the child. He walked away,
leaving serious wonderment in the child's mind, but
infinite gratitude in the mother's ; but he had to steady
himself against a tree for a few moments, whilst the
current of strange, unwonted feelings surged through
his veins.
" That's a good man," said a rough and ready farmer,
who had begun the process of " edjication," and was
supposed to be critical, and even anti-clerical in his
sympathies. He had watched the whole proceeding
from behind a hawthorn hedge.
" He has a soft corner in his heart, however," said
the happy mother.
But it was a fatal kiss ! Luke had examined his
conscience rather too scrupulously that night, and
decided that these little amenities were rather enervat-
ing, and were not for him. And there was deep dis-
appointment and even resentment in the parish, when
it was found that the superior attractions of other
babies were overlooked, and that there was but one
who was highly favoured.
All this was a fair attempt for one who was working
by the rules of art, as well as by the inspirations of
nature. But he was a foreigner, and awkward in his
approaches towards an impressionable and sensitive
people.
His really serious troubles commenced when he had
to get a "boy." We say " serious," for in this quaint,
A GREAT TREASURE 361
old-fashioned country it is the " minor humanities,"
not great cataclysms, social and political, that con-
stitute the factors of daily existence. Luke had been
assured that a " boy " was a necessary and indispen-
sable evil. " You must get him, but he'll break your
heart." It might be imagined that, reared in a country
house, and with a young Irishman's innate love and
knowledge of horses, Luke would have understood per-
fectly how to deal with a servant. But, no ! He had
been so completely enervated and washed out by his
intercourse with the soft refinement of his English
home, that he was almost helpless. Then his tastes
were of the library, not of the stables ; of the kings'
gardens of books, not of mangolds and potatoes ; and
he looked around heljjlessly for a qualified man to see
after his horse and cultivate his garden. He had not
far to seek. Dowered with the highest recommenda-
tions from the archdeacon of the diocese, a young man,
neatly dressed, and with a decidedly military appear-
ance, proffered his services.
''Did he understand horses?" Horses? Every-
thing, except that he was not born amongst them. He
then and there told Luke awful things about spavins,
ring-bones, and staggers, that Luke had never heard
of, or had completely forgotten.
" But if her feet are riglit, and she takes her oats,
she's all right. Lave her to me ! "
"She has a white star on her forehead," said Luke,
anxious to show the mare's liigh breeding.
" What ? " said the boy, as his face lengtliened.
" She lias a white star on her foreliead," stammered
Luke.
"That's bad," said tlie boy, sdU-innly. "No matter,"
he said, in a professional tone, " I'll make up for it."
"Do you know anytliing about flowers?"' asked
Luke, timidly. The fellow saw the timidity, for he
was studying Luke closely.
" Flowers ? Ax Lord Cardoj-ne's gardener, who took
first prize at the 'Articultural Show in Dublin last
362 LUKE DELMEGE
summer, what he knew. Yes ! Ax him, who reared
the Mary Antinetty Rose, that — "
There was a long discussion about wages. A king's
ransom was demanded ; and it was asked, as a smg qua
non that he should be " ate " in the house. Luke
demurred, but no use. Luke cut down the wages to
the lowest common multiple ; and then John Glavin
played his trump card. Taking out a dirty roll of yel-
low papers, tobacco-stained and scented, he proffered
one with the cool air of having thereby victoriously
settled the question. From this it appeared that John
Glavin was an honest, industrious young man, with a
good knowledge of the management of horses, and some
ideas of horti- and flori-culture. He was recommended,
his wages having been paid in full.
" The archdeacon does not mention sobriety ? " said
Luke.
" What ? " said John, indignantly. " Who says I'm
not sober ? The archdayken knew better than to insult
me!"
" It would be more satisfactory, however," said Luke.
" I wouldn't lave him," said John. '' He says to me,
• John,' he says, ' it is usual to put in timperate in a dis-
charge ; but John,' says he, ' I've too much respec' for
your feelings, an' I won't. But if iver anny one hints,'
sez he, 'that you are not a sober man, remimber you've
an action agin him for libel, or even,' sez he, sez the
archdayken, •■ even for shlander ' — "
" I see," said Luke. " Now, what wages were you
getting ? "
" I'd be afeared to tell yer reverence," said John in a
soothing and merciful tone.
" Oh, never mind ! " said Luke. " I can bear a good
deal."
" Well, thin," said the rascal, putting his hand ray
idly across his lips, "as yer reverence forces me to tell
ye, I suppose I must — thirty pounds a year. Not u
pinny less ! "
" I shall give you twelve," said Luke, decisively.
A GREAT TREASURE 363
John walked away. His feelings were hurt. He
came back.
" Your reverence wouldn't insult a poor boy. But
come now, let us say twinty, an* be done.''
" That'll do," said Luke. '^ Be off."
To Luke's intense surprise John was cracking jokes
with the housemaid, and enjoying an excellent dinner,
at one o'clock in the kitchen. He then took possession
of the place. But on many an evening, in the local
public house, he uttered his jeremiads over his down-
fall. From having been "• archdayken's man " to be
reduced to a " curate's boy," what a fall !
It need not be difficult to ascertain the precise cause
of John Glavin's dethronement. Perhaps he had ex-
hausted too many "tail-ends" on the kitchen stairs;
perhaps he had been caught with his ear to the keyhole
on some official occasion ; perhaps some important let-
ters looked as if other than the master's eyes had seen
them. But, he was dismissed ; and the archdeacon had
to undergo a severe cross-examination as to the cause.
Because a great arclibishop. from foreign parts, being
on a visit to the archdeacon, had taken a violent fancy
to the fellow and expressed a desire to secure him for
his own service at a handsome salary. He had taken a
violent fancy to John, for at dinner Jolni, whose speech
was approaching the inarticulate, and whose eyes had a
faraway look in them and were decidedly aqueous, in-
variably addressed tlie archbishop as : " Me Grace ! "
Oh I yes. John liad been to school in his younger
days, and had l)een subjected for several liours tliai day
to a most careful tuition on tnc h()usckcei)cr"s part as to
tlie use of possessive pronouns in addressing dignitaries.
" ' 31)/ Lord,' and ' i/our Grace,' " said the housekeeper.
" Do you understand, you fool ? "
Jolin said he did, and he went around all day mutter-
ing the talismanic words. But, alas I what can a poor
fellow do, when his nerves fail under the eyes of the
" farseers," and especially, when the wheels of thought
are inclined to stand still.
364 LUKE DELMEGE
"John, a potato, please."
" Yes, me Grace ! "
"John, would you get me the salt?"
" To be shu', me Grace ! "
"John, pass that wine."
" The sherry, me Grace ? "
" No. The claret."
John's watery gaze floated over the table, where
things had become horribly confused and exaggerated ;
but he failed to see the claret decanter.
" John ! "
" Yes, me Grace ! "
" Where's that claret ?
" Cummin', me Grace."
" John ! " thundered the archdeacon.
" Yes, me Grace ! "
" Go downstairs and stay there ! "
" More likely to stop half-way," said the archbishop.
" He's sitting now on the top step, weeping. Archdea-
con, that fellow is a treasure. Will you give him to me ? "
The archdeacon was annoyed at the exhibition. Be-
sides, the archdeacon was nowhere. John worshipped
the star of the first magnitude, particularly as it had de-
veloped into a constellation. When he noticed the bishop,
he called him by way of compensation, " Your Lord ! "
The archbishop maintained that it was " Oh Lord ! "
he said ; but that was a mistake. Then and there, how-
ever, the archbishop saw a prize, and coveted it. Alas !
for John, and all human attachments. The master clung
to him, and then — dismissed him. It happened thus.
The archdeacon had been absent from home for a few
days. His carriage was waiting for him at the railway
station ; but to his surprise, John, instead of alighting
with his usual alacrity, clung with statuesque tenacity
to the seat. A porter proffered his services and opened
the carriage door. When they reached home, John was
still statuesque. The archdeacon suspected a great deal,
but said nothing. A few hours later, just as the arch-
deacon was sitting at dinner, he heard the rumble of
A GREAT TREASURE 365
carriage wheels in tlie yard and the heavy tramp of the
liorse's feet. '• What's up now ? " said the archdeacon.
Me went to the front door just as John was leading the
horse and carriage from the yard, and looked on for a
few moments in silence. John, too, was silent and ab-
stracted, and preoccupied with deep thought. At last
the arclideacon said : —
" Where are you going ? "
" Wliere 'ud 1 be goin', is it, me Grashe ? "
"Yes! that's what 1 asked. Where — are — you
— going :
" Where 'ud I be goin' but down to th — train ? "
" For what ? "
" For whash ? To meet your Grashe, to be shu I "
" I see. Going to the train to meet me ? "
" Yesh, m' Grashe. D'3e think Fd lave you yere all
ni', mi Grashe?" John was looking far away over the
archdeacon's head.
" Take back that horse at once," said the archdeacon.
" An'm I no' gon' to meet your Grashe ? "
"Take back that liorse at once, I say."
" Bush you'll ketch yer det o' cowld, me Grashe ! "
"Take back that horse, I say."
"If you diesh, what'U become o' me ? Boo-hoo I "
wept John.
The next day he was dismissed, and the archdeacon
was left to liis fate. But he had to stand a terrific cross-
examination at a subsequent visit from his guest, the
archbishop, who could only by the greatest dii'liculty be
restrained from makiny- an effort to secure " the treasure."
" Fd have taken the fellow at any cost," said the arch-
bisliop, as he related the episode to a friend in after years,
" but tlie (loi'tor told me I should take my choice between
apoplexy ami asphyxia, if ever I brought him to table."
Luke drew the prize, and secured the treasure.
CHAPTER XXVIII
MARr OF MAGDALA
IjST the home of the Good Shepherd the religion of
our Lord reaches its cuhnination. No wonder that the
favourite representation of Chi-ist in catacombs and else-
where for three hundred years was tliis of the yearning
and merciful Saviour. How well those early Christians
knew His spirit, when they placed a kid, and not a
lamb, on His shoulders ! " I came not to call the just,
but sinners." Yes I charity first and then the Cruci-
iixion — the mystery of suffering. And here in the
city of the Violated Treaty, under its crumbling, his-
toric walls, and just outside its ruins, nestled such a
home. You might pass through the city a hundred
times and not know that such an institution was there.
You might visit the historic bridge, and the Treaty
Stone, and never know that here also was a place where
the might of the Lord was visibly triumphant. You
might hear elsewhere of the miracles of Christianity —
here you could see them. You might read of battles,
fought, won, or lost, around the Two Standards : but
here you can see the bleeding and wounded vivatidieres
in Satan's army snatched from tlie battlefield, and shel-
tered in the camp of Christ. And here, if you had
faith, that is, if you opened your e3'es, and brushed
aside the film of habit, you might see miracles, and
saints, and prodigies, such as you read of in the Gospel,
or in mediccval times, when perhaps you wished you
had been born then. So, at least, thought Father
Tracey, who was never harsh in his judgments, except
366
MARY OF MAGDALA 367
when he deplored that crass stupidity of men, that will
not see what is under their eyes.
" Nonsense, child," he would say to Margery, " to talk
about the age of miracles as past. Here are miracles ;
and saints, as great as ever were canonized."
Then he would repent of such rashness, and correct
himself.
" Of course, I don't mean — that is, my dear — I don't
mean to say that the Church should canonize all my
little saints that die. But you know — I mean that our
Lord will — that is, I suppose, you know — my dear — "
" Of course. Father. That is, we, poor nuns, have no
chance with your saints."
" No, no. I don't mean that. But, you know, you
are all very good ; but there are different degrees of
sanctity — some Ajjostles, some Doctors — "
" Yes. But INIary INlagdalen is the next to the Sacred
Heart, just a little outside the Blessed Virgin, and she
is dragging up all her little saints with her ? Isn't that
what you mean ? "
" I'm not sure, my dear. The Imitation says, that we
must not make comparisons, you know."
"■ Yes, But tell me now, su[)pose you liad your choice
of a phic(> in Heaven amongst tlie band that 'follow the
Lamb, whithersoever He goeth,' and sing that incom-
municable canticle ; or of a place with ^lagdalcn and
her woundeil following, wliich would you take?"
"Tliat's a hard (juestion, my dear. But, to tell the
truth, my dear, Td be far more comfortable with the
latter."
"T knew it," said ^largcry, exultantly. " I've won
ten rosaries from Mechthihk'S."
But, wliatever be said of the differt'iit bratitiuU's of
Heaven, it is quite certain llial living amongst the res-
cued sheep was not all beatitude on earth. Sometimes
a poor soul would struggle in the arms of the Shrplicrd
to get back to the horrors of the l)atth'lit'ld : \yould
dream of gas lamps, and tlic midnight, and the tierce,
exultant niadness of sin. And, sometimes, there would
368 LUKE DELMEGE
be depression and even despair, as the awful visions of
the past arose before some poor soul ; and the dreadful
suggestion would paralyze every effort at reparation :
How can I ever enjoy heaven, when so many souls, lost
by my ill-doing, are tortured in hell ? These were hard
trials for Father Tracey.
" No use, Father, I must go ! "
" Have we been unkind, my dear ? Or, is there some-
thing else you could wish for ? "
" Oh, no, no, Father dear ; but I must go ! "
" Well, dear, don't act hastily. This, you know, is a
temptation from the Evil One. Go in, and say a little
prayer to the Sacred Heart ; and I'll send Sister Mary
to you."
" No I no ! don't ! I won't see her. She'd make me
stay. And I must go ! "
" Well, sure, there's time enough. Go in, child, and
pray."
He, dear saint, had great faith in prayer. But he
believed the prayers of Sister Mary to be invincible.
Was it not Sister Mary's prayers that had saved so
many souls from perdition? Was it not Sister Mary's
prayers that drove the evil spirits, howling in dismay,
from the deathbed of Allua? Was she not the custo-
dian of the King's secret, who could do as she pleased
with the King's treasures? And never yet did a poor
penitent, eager to tly unto the dread attraction of the
world, hear the voice of Sister Mary, but her eyes were
opened and she saw beneath her feet the yellow flames
curling up from the abyss.
And who was Sister Mary, or to give her her full
title, who was Sister Mary of Magdala? Well, a poor
penitent, too, who had sought refuge here from the
world. The report was that she had been a great
sinner. Even hardened women spoke of her past life
with a vague hint at horrors ; and, sometimes, when
Sister Mary pressed too hard on a relapsing sinner, and
spoke of hell, it was broadly suggested that she had
sent a good deal of fuel to the fire.
MARY OF MAGDALA 369
"That handsome face of yours, if all were known,
drew many to drink and hell."
And Sister Mary did not contradict, but only bowed
her head meekly, and prayed and argued ever so strongly
for the wayward and the tempted.
It would appear, too, that she had been a lady of very
high rank, and had toppled down from circle to circle
of the Inferno, until God took pity on her and brought
her here. And here she developed such sanctit}' that
the community and her sister penitents were bewildered ;
but all agreed that there was a saint — a real, downright,
heroic saint — amongst them. But by far the most sur-
prised and bewildered amongst this sacred community
of nuns and penitents was the confessor, Father Tracey.
He did not know what to make of it. He was confused,
humbled, nervous, ashamed. The first time he saw this
young penitent was at a "})lay." For this glorious
Sisterhood used up every human means that talent or
the divine ingenuity of charity could suggest to wean
away these poor souls from the fierce attractions of sin
and the world. And so there were plays, and concerts,
and dramatic entertainments, and tableaux vivants, and
all kinds of innocent dissipation for the "-penitents."
And these harmless amusements were very successful in
cheating the poor souls of the more deadly draughts of
sin, until grace and habit tinally triumphed. Well, at
one of these entertainments. Sister Mary of iNlagdala
was chief actor. She personated a fine lady of the
world, suffering from nerves, and in consultation with a
lady specialist. It was very amusing, and the au<lience
were in convulsions. Venerable old penitents, who had
done their fifty years of purgatory in this asylum : young
penitents, fresh from the pollution of the city and with
the remnants of rural innocence still clinging to them ;
dark, gloomy souls, the s})ecial prey of the tempter ;
and tlie gentle Sisterhood, presiding over all, — all
yielded to the irresistible merriment. Sister Mary had
doffed the penitent's dress and was clad in the finery of
the well-dressed Avoman of the world. It became her
2b
370 LUKE DELMEGE
well. She was every inch a lady, and all the sweetness
and delicacy of her early training shone through the
absurdity of the part she was playing.
"Ladies from the city, my dear?" whispered Father
Tracey to Margery. " How good of them to come in
and amuse these poor girls ! "
" No ; they're our own children," whispered Margery.
"But that grand young lady, my dear? why, she's
fit for a palace."
" That's Mary of Magdala," said Margery, smiling.
" She's now a great saint ; but they say she was awful."
But, oh ! the pity of it, when the performers disap-
peared amidst the plaudits of the audience and the
rough criticisms of some poor creatures, and immediately
reappeared in the penitents' costume — blue dress and
mantilla, and high, white Norman cap — and took their
places amongst the inmates again. Father Tracey was
choking with emotion, as he watched that young girl,
disrobed of her natural dress and clad in the strange
livery that hid, and yet hinted at, unspeakable shame.
And she so calm, so unconcerned, without a blush at the
frightful transformation, and accepting so gratefully
the rough congratulations from her sister penitents, as
she sat on the lowest bench and lifted up the beads of
old Sister Paul and toyed with them like a child.
" I tell you, my dear," said Father Tracey, " that if
Heaven is the place for those who become little cliildren,
that poor child will be at home there."
And the good old priest became frightened at Sister
Mary of Magdala. He almost began to think he had
been mistaken in not taking^ charg-e of the nuns instead.
And when he recognized her voice in the confessional
he got a violent fit of coughing and turned away his
head and pulled up his old cassock over his knees, and,
instead of the long, fervent exhortation he usually
addressed to his saints, with such emotion that he set
the most hardened aflame with the love of God, he only
muttered, with averted head : —
" Yes, yes, to be sure, my dear, to be sure."
MARY OF MAGDALA 371
Margery and he used to have long spiritual confer-
ences on this subject.
" Fm sure I don't know what to do, my dear," he
would say. "Can you help me? Isn't there a book
written by a good, holy man, called Scaramelli, or
something like it, for the direction of these holy
souls ? "
" There is, indeed, Father. But, sure you have
knowledge and inspiration enough for these poor peni-
tents."
"• Me ? I don't know anything, my dear. I was,
you know, what they call minus haberis in Maynooth."
" What's that, Father ? "
" Well, it's the very opposite of what your great,
clever brother was."
Margery shuddered.
" He was at the liead of his class ; I, at the foot of
mine. Why, I was 'doctored' twice."
" Doctored ? O, I am so glad ! "
" Yes, my dear, — 'doctored.' That is, I was com-
pelled twice to read the same treatises for a second
year."
" And wasn't that good, Father ? "
" Yes, my dear ; but it meant awful stupidity.
Somehow 1 could not understand things. I used to
look at those books and papers ; luit ni}" head would
swim round and round, and I used to see the words
without luiderstanding what they meant. Wh}', it was
the wonder of the whole college that they ordained me
at all."
" I suppose so, Father," said Margery, trying to keep
back her tears.
"It was, my dear. And I suppose Fd he digging
potatoes to-day, which would be my proper vocation,
but for old Dr. Whitehead. They all agreed that I
should go. They said Fd disgrace the Churclu which
was (piite true. And the senior professor of theology
said that I knew no more about theolog)^ than a cow
about a holiday. But poor Dr. Whitehead asked, could
372 LUKE DELMEGE
I manage to get up the ceremonies of the Mass ? and
they shook their heads. ' Well, I'll teach him,' he
said; 'and he must be a priest.' May the Lord be
kind to him — and — forgive him."
"Well," said Margery, "and did you learn them?"
" In a kind of way, my dear. Sometimes I do be
puzzled ; and I look up, when I should look down ;
and, at the Conference, the Bishop never asks me any-
thing, lest I should make a fool of myself."
" I'm afraid you want Scaramelli badly. Father. It
was well for j^ou you didn't get charge of us."
" Ah, that was out of the question, my dear. And
the Bishop saw it the moment I hinted at the thing.
I'd have the all of ye half-cracked by this time."
" And so you think Mary of Magdala is a saint ? "
" Think ? I know it. And suppose now, I should
misdirect that grand soul, or fail to lift it upwards,
what a frightful responsibility ! I'm thinking of ask-
ing the Bishop to remove me, and — "
" You'll do nothing of the kind," said Margery, thor-
oughly frightened. "You'll just stay where you are."
" Perhaps so, my dear. But I'll tell you now what
you could do for me. You could read up all about
St. Catherine of Siena, and Blessed Angela of Fo-
ligno, and Mary Magdalen de Pazzi, and let me know
what their confessors used do. Or, I'll tell you. If
you'd be so good as to write to your brother (he's a
very distinguished theologian, you know), and pretend
nothing, but ask a few questions, which I will put to
you from time to time, perhaps — " i
" The very thing," said Margery. Adding in her
own mind, " 'Tis a direct inspiration."
" Then, you know, I could feel sure that I was sup- \
ported by sound Catholic theology ; and I couldn't go
very far astray."
" I will," said Margery. " And so they were going
to turn you out of Maynooth ? "
"So they were, my dear, but for Dr. Whitehead."
" And you would be now digging potatoes ? "
MARY OF MAGDALA 373
" Yes, ray dear, in a flannel waistcoat and hobnailed
boots."
"H'm. A decided improvement, I should say, on
your present wardrobe. At least they'd keep out the
rain."
And Sister Mary of Magdala was quite unconscious
that she was exciting such interest ; but went around
in her penitent's garb, and washed and scrubbed, and
ironed, and did all kinds of menial offices for the aged
and the sick, and took gratefully tlieir awkward grati-
tude.
" God bless you, alanna ! " or, "God bless you, Mary,
and forgive you, and forgive us all, for all we ever done
against His Holy and Blessed Name ! "
And they wondered, poor souls, in their own dull
way, at the wonderful skill of the Divine Artist, wlio
could raise this spirit of sweetness, this lily of light, out
of the sordid and reeking refuse of the regretful past.
Meanwhile, Dr. Wilson had advertised all over Eng-
land fur the missing Barbara ; and had even employed
private detectives to find out the convent in which she
was hidden. A foolish thing, for if Barbara liad done
God's will in entering religion, as she had said, there
was little use in fio-hting against (iod ; and, if it were
not God's will, then Barbara would very soon find her
way home. But the Doctor was not well acquainted
with such things. So he spent quite a little fortune in
the vain quest. He was hcljH'd a good deal in liis reso-
lution by a remark dropped by that excellent huly, .Mrs.
Wenliam, who, having returned to Dublin, had called
for a (h)uble purpose — to visit the Wilsons formally,
and to consult the Doctor jjrofessionally. For, alas !
that we should have to relate it, the beautiful and ac-
complished Mrs. Wenham, Circe and Siren, was but
mortal ; and the dread forerunners of death were play-
ing suspiciously around that frail complexity of charms
which had sent more than one fool to destruction.
.
374 LUKE DELMEGE
Her visit to the drawing-room was short. The eter-
nal plaint of the mother's heart was wearisome. It was
all Louis I Louis ! and the woman of the world, with
all her contempt for the pretty little puppet, would just
prefer that he should be allowed to sleep in peace. It
was monstrous that these ghosts of memories, and memo-
ries of ghosts, should be summoned up by the heart of
a foolish mother at a pleasant morning call.
" It is quite a seance of spiritualists," she complained
to her muff. " She'll ask me to summon this little idiot
from Hades."
'■'■ I beg pardon," she said sweetly to the sorrowing
mother, " does not your religion afford you some conso-
lation in your bereavement ? "
" It does, of course," said the weeper. " But it can-
not bring Louis back."
" But you can pray, can you not, for — what's this the
expression is — for the eternal repose of his soul?"
" Of course," said the mother. " And I have prayed.
Indeed, I have. But death is death, and judgment."
Mrs. Wenham rose hastily. Here were those dread-
ful words again — always connected with these people.
Death ! Judgment ! and at a morning call !
She entered the Doctor's study. Here it was Bar-
bara ! Barbara ! Had she seen her ? Did she know
her ? Was there ever the faintest clew to her where-
abouts ? And the father's eyes pleaded piteously with
the strange woman.
" Yes," she said, " Miss Wilson had called on her at
a very unseasonable hour, and had appeared rather
excited and disturbed in her mind. She spoke in a
rather rambling manner ; and appeared hardly able to
control herself. She would not like to say that Miss
Wilson was quite demented — but — "
It was quite clear that Miss Wilson had not entered
a convent, or that she would be soon sent home.
" I thought," said Mrs. Wenham, " that it was the
highest ambition of Roman Catholics to see their chil-
dren in religion "? Now, I assure you, I have often
MARY OF MAGDALA 375'
thought that T should so like to be a nun. I have seen
such pretty pictures of them, — at the hospital, kneeling
to the cross, singing their hymns ; and tiiey looked so
pretty — such lovely faces, turned upwards to the skies
— such peace, such happiness, to which we, poor women
of the world, are strangers ! "
" Let us change the subject," said the Doctor. " You
wished to consult me ? "
Yes. And the consultation went on. And lo ! as a
result, the pretty nun faces vanished, and a grim death's
head appeared, floating through the eyes and in the
words of that horrid Doctor. And she besought him,
implored him to reconsider his verdict. So young, and
the world so bright I
" I regret to say, Mrs. Wenham, that everything you
tell me seems to confirm my judgment."
And Mrs. Wenham wept. Death and Judgment
seemed to follow this family as footmen.
The Canon, too, was deeply interested. He had writ-
ten piteous letters to great ecclesiastics in England.
He had always written on his crested notepaper with
the family arms and motto, Sa^is tache! and he signed
himself "Maurice Canon Murray." He would have
given a good deal to be able to add Archdeacon, or
Dean, of X . But that was not to be, yet a while.
He received, after some delay, very courteous replies ;
but there was no news of Barbara. K she had entered
an Knglish convent it could hardly have escaped the
notice of the authorities. At last, one day a letter came
from the south nf England, stating that a young lady,
answering in all respects his description of Barbara,
had entered a branch of a foreign institution, lately
domiciled in England owing to the persecutions in Cier-
many, but hinting a doubt that there must be a mistake,
for this Order admitted as postulants only the children
of noble or, at least, aristocratic families. The (\inon
was indignant, and wrote back a dignilied letter to his
correspondent, asking, somewhat sarcastically, whether
376 LUKE DELMEGE
he was aware that her father was a Dublin baronet, and
her uncle Canon of X . The next post brought an
apologetic reply ; and it assured the Canon that all
doubts were cleared up ; and that it must have been
his niece who had entered the novitiate of the Dames de
Saint Esprit. She had been sent to Austria to complete
her two years' novitiate.
" I thought so," said the Canon, grandly. " And I
shall be very much surprised if she does not reach the
highest — ha — distinction in her Order ! "
And fancy — an old man's loving fancy, swept him
even farther ; and he would dilate at length on the
present and future prospects of his niece. And when
the poor old people, who had been recipients of Bar-
bara's charity, when she visited her uncle, asked him,
with the tender and tenacious gratitude of the poor :
" Wisha, yer reverence, may I make bould to ask you
where Miss Wilson is, God bless her ? " the Canon
would answer : " Yes, my poor woman, I am happy to
inform you that my niece, your benefactress, has — ha
— entered religion — become a nun, you know, in a
community exclusively reserved for the highest con-
tinental families." And when the poor would express
their joy and surprise : " Wisha, we knew God would
always hav^e a hand in her, the sweet young lady — "
the Canon would say : " Yes, indeed. Some day Miss
Wilson will reach the highest dignities in her Order,
and probably become its mitred Abbess."
And " mitred Abbess " became the standing puzzle
and enigma to the parish for many months. When the
word " mitred " came to be understood, it caused grave
head-shaking and heart-trouble.
" The notion of a bishop's hat on a little girl like
that," was almost a scandal. Father Cussen was con-
sulted.
" Psha ! " he said. " Mitred, indeed ! 'Tis the mitre
he wants himself. And it should be a pretty high one,
for his head is always in the clouds ! "
Nevertheless, the Canon was gratified ; and the people
I
MARY OF MAGDALA 377
conceived a larger idea of his power and might, and the
greatness of the family.
And even Dr. Wilson was reconciled to the idea,
when he discovered that liis beloved child was enrolled
amongst the nobility of France and Austria.
" After all," he said, " the Church is a beneficent
mother, and happily provides shelter for her children
in every grade of life."
CHAPTER XXIX
A PARLIAMENTARY DINNER
It was part of the programme that Luke should in-
vite his brother priests to dine. He was one of the few
curates who enjoyed the privilege of " separate main-
tenance " ; and the privilege entailed some responsi-
bilities, and, amongst them, the initial one of giving a
"house-warming." He had some nervous qualms and
difficulties about it. His prim, cold, English manner
had not made him a favourite with the brethren, whose
quick, breezy, volatile ways he disliked, and whose
attempts at easy familiarity he rather resented. But,
he felt he should come down from the stilts, if he were
to get on at all in this strange country, Avhere every
one seemed to live in a kind of indolent and easy un-
dress.
" I hope, my dear young friend," said the gentle and
kind old pastor, in that tone of urbane and deferential
friendship which characterized him, " that you will not
go to any extremes in this little entertainment. Your
revenue here will be extremely limited ; and, in any
iease, it is always well not to be singular."
" O, no, sir ! " said Luke. " I shall attempt nothing
beyond what is usual on these occasions. To be very
candid, indeed, I should just as soon not be obliged to
hold these entertainments. I don't care much for them ;
and I have a lively horror of a dining-room and all its
appliances."
" You know you must command everything you re-
quire here," said the old man. " If you would kindly
378
A PARLIAMENTARY DINNER 379
send up your servant, my housekeeper will be most
happy to send you any glass, or table-linen, or cutlery
you require."
" I am sure I'm most grateful, sir," said Luke. "We
shall say five o'clock on Thursday."
The dinner passed off well. Even the stiff formality
of the host could not subdue the vitality of his younger
guests, which effervesced and bubbled over in jest, and
anecdote, and swift, subtle repartee. Nowhere on earth
is there such wit and merriment as at a clerical dinner
in Ireland. May it be always so, in this land of faith
and frolic !
John was waiter ; and John was gorgeous in white
front and swallow-tailed coat. This idea of a waiter
was rather an innovation, which some were disposed to
resent ; and it palled a little on their spirits, until there
was a stumble, and a crash of broken glass in the hall,
and the spell was broken. Luke flushed angrily. John
was imperturbable. He explained afterwards : —
'■'■ Where's the use in talkin' ? Sure, tilings must be
broke."
It was the calm philosophy of Celtic fatalism.
Now, Luke, as he had once explained before, had
made the most determined, cast-iron resolution never,
under any circumstances, to be inveigled into a discus-
sion on any subject, because, as he explained, it is im-
possible to conduct a de])ate on strictly parliamentary
lines in Ireland. 'I'his, of course, was very chilling and
unfriendly ; but he thought it wiser and safer. Alas !
for human resolutions ! What can a man do, in Charyb-
dis, but fling out his arms for succour?
"That rennnds me," said a young curate, who had
been classmate with I>idve in Maynootli, "of a legend
of our college days, of a student, who was strictly for-
bidden to enter the rooms of a professor, his uncle.
He tried several stratagems, but in vain : for Jack was
as 'cute as a fox. Then, he struck on the plan of drag-
ging up the coal-scuttle, and tumbling over it, just at
Jack's door. And Jack should come out to see and help
380 LUKE DELMEGE
the poor servant in his emergency. And then — the
warm fire, and the ghiss of wine."
" I don't see the application of your anecdote," said
Luke, who was very much put about by the accident in
the halL
" Let me see," said the other. " I don't think I
intended any application. But let me see ! Oh, yes !
I really would not have noticed that clever Ganymede
were it not for that crash in the hall. Accidents are
required to develop genius."
"It is really interesting," said the old pastor, "to
behold how easily our people fit into tiieir surroundings.
You can turn an Irishman into anything. A skilful
alchemist, that is, an able statesman, could take up all
the waste material in Ireland, and turn it into all beau-
tiful forms of utility and loveliness. I knew that poor
fellow," said the old man, in his kind way, " when he
nearly broke the heart of the archdeacon by his inso-
briety and untruthfulness. I never thought that you
could transform him so rapidly."
The little compliment made Luke proud, and broke
his cast-iron resolution into smithereens. He called
for more hot water and coffee, and settled down to a
j)leasant academical discussion.
" Yes," he said, folding his napkin over his knees,
" the Irish are a plastic race ; but the mould in which
they are newly cast should never be allowed to run
cold. If it is so suffered, they are stereotyped forever.
It is a land of cast-iron conservatism. You cannot break
away in originality without becoming a monster. It
is the land of the Pyramids and the Sphinxes, with all
the newer races staring at it, and giving it up as a
puzzle."
" It would no longer be a puzzle," said the young
priest above mentioned, " if we were allowed to solve it
in our own way. But, it has ever been our misfortune
that a blind man is always called upon to solve the
riddle."
" I'm not quite so sure of that," said Luke, tossing
I
A PARLIAMENTARY DINNER 381
his soutane over his knees, with the old sic-argumen-
taris gesture ; " our ecclesiastical department is not so
much meddled with ; and behold where we are ! "
" And where are we ? " said the other.
" I should say somewhere in mediteval times," said
Luke. " Compare our ideas of man's fitness or unfit-
ness for a certain position, with those which obtain the
wide world over. In every other department of life
you ask, Is this man fit ? In our department, you ask,
How long is he on the mission ? So, too, you never
judge a man's actuality by the net amount of work he
has done, or is capable of doing, but by. What did he
get ? The meaning of which enigma is, what prizes
did he take in the days of his small clothes and his
seminary ? "
" You shouldn't complain. Father Delmege," said an
old priest ; " Maynooth has left its hall-mark upon you,
and you cannot rub it off."
" Thank you. Father," said Luke ; " but it is just as
absurd to speak of a man as a great theologian, because
he gained a prize in theology thirty or forty years ago,
as to speak of a man as a great warrior, because he was
captain in a successful snowball sortie at Eton ; or as
a great artist in black and wliite, because he drew a
caricature of his teacher on the blackboard of a country
school."
"I often heard that Eton won Waterloo," said the
other.
" One of the world's, or history's, falsehoods," said
Luke. " It was the starved commissariat of the Frenclu
and the treachery of Grouchy, that lost Waterloo, and
the well-filled kettles of the British, and the help of
Bliicher, that won it. It was the victory of stupidity
and roast beef over genius and starvation."
" Now, nonsense, Delmege ; every one admits that in
the career of every great man his early triumphs are
recorded as indications of his future."
" I have not noticed it," said Luke, '* because all the
great meu of niT/ acquaintance never cast their heroic
382 LUKE DELMEGE
shadows in the halls of a university ; but this is Ireland
all out. You attempt to nail the shadows on the grass,
and then believe them realities."
Luke had. scored. It was a Pyrrhic victory, and a
dangerous one, for it flushed him. His cast-iron reso-
lution was now flung to the winds.
"• But to return," he said. '' We are just passing
through another transition stage, where the new mould-
ing of our people's character is about to take place.
Let us be careful that the new ideals are right, before
the genius of the race is fixed forever."
" There are so many artists at the work now," said
the young priest, '' that they can hardly blunder."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Luke. '' In a ' multi-
tude of counsellors there is much wisdom,' but that
supposes that the counsellors can agree upon some-
thing. I see nothing before us but to accept the spirit
of the century, and conform to the Anglo-Saxon ideal."
This was known to be Luke's pet hobby ; but he hac'
never formrdated it before. The whole table flared up
in an angry flame of protest.
"The Anglo-Saxon ideal? A civilization where
Mammon is "god, and every man sits with one eye on
his ledger — the other on his liver ! "
" The Ano-lo-Saxon ideal ? A nation of dead souls,
and crumbling bodies ! "
" The Anglo-Saxon ideal ? " The young priest be-
fore mentioned was on his feet, gesticulating furiously,
his hoarse, rasping voice drowning the angry protests
of the brethren. Luke grew quite pale under the com-
motion he had excited.
" Yes," he said, " you have to face civilization for
good or ill, or create a civilization of your own. The
people are losing the poetry of the past — their belief
in Celtic superstitions and creations. Can you create
a new poetry for them ? and can you fight, and beat
back your invaders, except with their own weapons ? "
" Better the whole race were swept into the Atlan-
tic," said the young priest, "than that they should
A PARLIAMENTARY DINNER 385
oomproraise all their traditions and their honour by
accepting the devil's code of morals. One race after
another has been annihilated in this Isle of Destiny for
four thousand years. But they passed away with honour
untarnished. So shall we ! "
'• Oh, my dear Father ! " said Luke, deprecatingly,
*' if you are prepared to sit down and accept the inevi-
table, all right I There is no need for further argument.
Let us fold our togas around us as we fall. But if the
struggle is still to continue, there is not much use in
kite-tlying, in the hope that we are going to call down
the lightnings of heaven on our opponents."
" 1 suppose 'tis Destiny," said the young fire-eater,
resuming his seat. " But, better be exterminated a
hundred times than turned into money-grubbers and
beef -eaters."
" It's only the cyclical movement in all history, no-
ticed by all great thinkers, and formulated by Vico and
Campanella," said Luke, now victorious and exultant,
and forgetful, " the corsi and ricorsi of all human prog-
ress ; and there is one great luminous truth running
through it all — that he who cannot govern himself
must allow himself to be governed by another ; and
that tlie world will always be governed by those who
are superior in nature."
It is a little thing that turns the Irish mind from
anger or despair to laughter.
"Would you please pass down the corsi and ricorsi oi
that coffee and liot water ? " said a young wit ; and lo !
the discussion ended in a roar of merriment.
Just then a sweet, clear, girlisli voice, just outside
the window, which was raised this Avarm, summer even-
ing, sang softly, and witli great feeling, the lirst lines
of Lady Dufferin's pathetic ballad : —
I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat, side by side.
It was so sweet and mournful, there in that Irish vil-
lage, with the golden sun streaming over the landscape,
and the air warmed and perfumed with the sweet odour
384 LUKE DELMEGE
of the honeysuckle that clambered around the window;
and it seemed so appropriate, that the priests were
hushed into silence. It wrapped in music the whole
discussion, which had just terminated. It was the
eaoine of the Banshee over the fated race.
I'm biddin' you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true !
But I'll not forget you, darlin', in the land I'm goin' to;
They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always
there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair.
Not a word was spoken at the dinner table till the singer
concluded. It was the infinite pathos of Ireland !
The girl came to the open window, and pleaded. She
was a tall, slim young girl, dark as an Italian, the hood
of her light, black shawl scarcely concealing the black
curls that hung down on her forehead. The plate went
round ; and she held more silver that evening in her
hands than she had ever seen in her life before.
" If Father Meade were here," said Dr. Keatinge with
a smile, '•^ he v/ould say it was the ghost of Erin — the
wraith of a departed people."
"• I'll not forget you, darlin'," soliloquized the 3^oung
priest; "but they c?o forget you, darlin'; and what is
more, they despise you. And there isn't on earth, or
in the nether hell," he said vehemently, bringing his
hand down heavily on the table, " a more contemptible
being than he, who, seduced by the glitter and glare of
foreign civilizations, has come to despise his mother-
land."
" Now, now, now, that song has excited you. Cole,"
said his neighbour.
"I'm not excited," he protested; "but I tell you,
'tisn't English steel, but foreign gold, we fear."
"Never mind. Cole," said another, "the corn and
ricorsi will swing around again in their cycles, and
Ireland will come uppermost ! "
" Yes ! " he hissed, " if she does not forget her des-
tiny."
!
A PARLIAMENTARY DINNER 385
" And what might that be, Cole ? " shouted one or
two, laughing at his vehemence.
" What might that be ? What ivould have been the
destiny of the Jeivish race if they had not rejected
Christ r'
" Delmege, compose this fellow's nerves, and sing
'The Muster.'"
But no ! Luke had forgotten " The Muster " — he
couldn't recall the words — it was many years since he
sang it, etc. He sang : —
Oh! dotli not a meeting like this make amends?
" I wouldn't doubt him," said the fire-eater. " He's
the Cauon's pupil, and an apt one."
The guests dis])ersed early; and Luke was alone —
and unhappy. What was the reason that he always
felt miserable after much contact with men ? And
especially, wlien he returned to himself after a tem-
porary dissii)ati(>n of thought, why M'as he always
angry with himself and dissatisfied ? Every touch of
the external world made this sensitive nature shrink
more closely into itself, except when he had something
to look up to and to worshi]). With all his i)rofessions
of practical wisdom, he was forever craving after an
ideal that was shy and unrevealed.
As he passed from the heated atmosphere of the din-
ing-room into the cool garden that was behind the house,
he heard the soft patter of feet iu the kitchen, aud a
low whistling sound, lioth were faint and muilh^d, as
if with ail effort at concealment ; and then the whistling
broke out iuto ai'ticulate language : —
(Forte) " Welt the flure, Biddv JMcClure ! "
(Anildiilr) " Show them the rioht step. Mary McCarthy I"
{ Iu)r!issiiiio) '"Vcrra, daiioe to the musio. ye divils !"
(Ailafjio) '• At — the — widow — McLau" — an — an — ghlin's
pa — a — a — a — rty ! "
Then the dancing ceased.
" I'm too warrum," said Mary, "and I'm tired afther
all the cookin' and slushin'."
2c
386 LUKE DELMEGE
" An ye did it well, Mary," said John, the musi-
cian ; "I never saw a betther dinner at the Archday-
ken's."
" Wisha ! for the luv of God, stop the ' Arch-
dayken's,' " said Mary, who despised flattery ; " it's
nothin' but ' Archthiyken ' here, and 'Archdayken'
there. Why didn't you sthop wid him, whin you were
there ? "
" Take that, John," said one of the boys, who had
dropped in, with that easy familiarity which is common
to the country.
"I didn't mane any harrum," said John, humbly.
" But it was a grand dinner, out an' out ; I heard the
priests say so."
" You'll have a nice pinny to pay for all the glass you
broke," said Mary. " The masther looked like a jedge
wid his black cap."
"'Twasn't that made him mad," said John, "but that
little red priesht from Lorrhabeg. Begor, he pitched
into the masther like mad."
" He met his match, thin," said Mary. " I'd like to
see wan of 'em, excep' the parish priesht, who could
hould a candle to him."
" What was it all about ? " said one of the neigh-
bours, unable to restrain his curiosity.
" No saycrets out o' school. If you tell this ' purty
boy,' he'll have it in all the public-houses in the parish
before Sunday," said Mary, the loyal.
" Wisha, 'twasn't much," said John. " 'Twas all the
ould story of England and Ireland. The masther said
we must all be English, or be swept into the say. The
little wan pitched the English to the divil, and said
we're Irish or nothin'."
" And who got the best of it ? " said the " purty
boy."
" Hard to say," said John. " They were all talkin'
thegither, and jumpin' up, like Jack-in-the-Box, excep'
the quite ould parish priests. And thin that girl came,
and you'd think they wor all in their cradles."
A PARLIAMENTARY DINNER 387
" Begor, they're a quare lot," said the purt}^ boy.
" They're as like childre as two paj's. Get wan of 'e"m
into a tearin' rampage about the dlirink, or a dance, or
a bit of coortin' ; and thin say a word about the
Blessed Vargin, or the ould land, and you have him
quite as a lamb in a minit."
" The English and the landlords would have aisy
times but for 'em," said Mary.
" Thry that jig agin, Mary," said John. " I'll get
the concertina."
" No," said Mary ; " 'tis too warrum."
" I'm thinkin', John," said the purty boy, "of gettin'
me taylor to make a shuit for me, like that. What 'ud
it cost?"
" More than iver you see in your life," said John,
angrily.
'•But we could get it secon'-hand, like yoursel'," said
the other.
" Stop that," said Mary, peremptorily. She objected
to a duel. " Itemimber where ye are. Get the concer-
tina, John. 'I'lic mastlier won't mind."
" Fun, ligliting, antl praying," thouglit Luke. "• The
Lord never intended tlie Irish to work."
He strolled along the village street, the quiet, calm
beauty of the evening stealing into his soul, and stiUing
the irritation and annoyance of that dinner table. The
pur[)le mountains in the distance seenu'd to contract
and expand, as the shadow or the suidight fell upon
them. The air was heavy with the odours of roses
and woo(ll)ine, and yet cooled with tlie breezes tliat
floated down from the liills, over wliose sliarp ridges
were iiencilled darker lines, as you see in tlie liorizon
lines of tlie sea. The old men sat snnikiiiL!' ilieir clav
})ipes leisurely. The old women pondered anil mili-
tated, with that air of resigned peace so pei-uliar to the
Irish. A crowd of children were lautrliiuLr and i^lavinsf
in the main street, gambolling in circles, and singing
that folksong, that is common to the children of half
the globe : —
388 LUKE DELMEGE
London bridge is broken down,
Grand, said the little dear :
London bridge is broken down :
Faire Ladye !
Build it up with lime and sand !
Grand, said the little dear :
Build it up with lime and sand,
Faire Ladye !
On the bridge were perched twenty or thirty young
men, resting after the day's toil ; and listening to the
soft wailing of a flute, played by one of their number.
Luke passed swiftly through all. The old people
arose, and courtesied, the men taking their pipes from
their mouths. Luke said : " How d'ye do ? " They
did not understand. They were accustomed to some-
thing different from their kind old priests. " How are
you, Maurya ? How are the pains ? " " Cauth, when
did you hear from the little girl in Boston ? " " The
murphies are gettin' dry, Pat." "To be sure, man;
send over for the saddle in the morning, and keep
it as long as you like." " That's the finest clutch of
chickens I saw this year," etc., etc.
" He's a fine man, God bless him," said the women,
as they resumed their seats. " But he's mighty proud."
The children ceased from play, as he approached, and
ran to their mothers. The boys leaped from the bridge,
and saluted. The player hid his flute. They all could
tell where the curate lived; but oh! he was a thousand
miles away from their hearts. He passed out into the
country under the thick twilight of the beeches. The
privet hedges threw out their white blossoms, heavy
with the odours which the bees loved ; the sweet wood-
bine twined in and out of the hawthorn and brier ; and
the white clover, stamped by the feet of the voluptuous
kine, wafted its sweetness to the passer-by. Far
away some girls were singing an old Irish air ; and, as
Luke stopped to listen, and watched the blue smoke
curling upwards in a straight line from the cottages, he
heard the flute again wailing out another Irish thren-
\
A PARLIAMENTARY DINNER 389
ody, The Coulin. Then, the voices of the children
rose, clear aud shrill again: —
London bridge is broken down,
Grand, said the little dear:
London bridge is broken down:
Faire Ladye !
The problem of the inexorable present ; and the proph-
ecy of the inevitable future strangely blended again.
He went into the village church again, on returning.
There was a deeper twilight here than without. He
knelt to make his evening visit, and say his Rosary,
Here and there were scattered some of the pious
villagers. You heard only their whispered prayers,
and the rattle of their beads. At the altar rails, bowed
in reverential love, was the old pastor, his head slightly
inclined to one side. Luke envied him.
'* I wish I were old," he said, "• and done with these
life's enigmas. These old men seem to cast untroubled
glances into eternity."
He stopped a moment at his cottage gate, before retir-
ing for tiie night, and looked down upon the street, the
neat cottages, outlined against the dark, deep bank of
the thick foliage behind. It was very peaceful.
'*" A wise man would make uj) his mind to be hapi)y
here," he said. " But will it last? And what can 1 do
to preserve and extend it ? " The problem and puzzle
again,
'"Anything that man can do, Fll do," he said vehe-
mently, " to solve this dread enigma, and save this
devoted people."
The following morning two letters lay on his break-
fast-table. One was from Amiel Lefevril. It was one
of many. And it was the old cant.
" Ilnmanity is incarnate in all great men in a snpremo degree ;
the true Shfchninh, says Chrvsostoin. is man. Every ohilil of
Humanity is a transfigured type of Humanity. We are immortal
in the immortality of the Race. Seek the Divine in Man, and
help its development."
390 LUKE DELMEGE
" There is a hidden element of truth in the jargon,"
said Luke. " Wonder we were never told it."
And Luke forgot that he had taken First of First
in Maynooth, in Dogmatic Theology; and that he had
held with vigour and success that " the revelation of God
in Man, through the lowly figure of Jesus of Nazareth,
had a far-reaching object, apart from the immediate
purpose of the Licarnation ; and that was, to confound
the pride of mortals in the perfectibility of the race."
" If we could only teach these poor people," he said,
" that their lofty ambition : Seek ye the God in man,,
was once, and only once, realized, all would be well.
But, then, they should become little children again ;
and Nicoderaus said that was impossible."
The other letter was from Margery, asking for light
and advice on a critical question, about which Father
Tracey, who said he had no idea of theology or mysti-
cism, was much concerned. It would appear that one
of their penitents. Sister Mary of Magdala, who had
been a great sinner, was now developing extraordinary
sanctity; and Father Tracey craved light on one or
two knotty points.
" Dear Luke " [the letter ran], " don't throw this aside in
petulance or disgust. I know, and if I didn't, Father Tracey
would convince me, that you are a profound theologian. But
somehow I feel, too, that these things are revealed to little chil-
dren. Luke dear, be a little child, as well as a profound thinker ;
and let me know all you think on this most important matter.
You have no idea of the peace of mind it will give us all, especially
dear Father Tracey.
" Mother is not too well. Won't you go see her?"
" Well, well," said Luke ; " is there any use in talk-
ing to nuns, at all ? "
He wrote his little sister to say, that the veriest tyro
in theology knew that these poor penitent girls were
either subject very frequently to delusions, especially
in the way of superior sanctity ; or, were unfortunately
prone to simulation of virtue for the purposes of decep-
tion. He had no doubt, whatever, that the case sub-
II
A PARLIAMENTARY DINNER 391
mitted to him came under one of these two heads ; and
he would advise liis sister not to get involved in any-
way in what would probably prove an imposture, wliich
might also eventuate in a grave scandal. Father Tracey,
he understood, was an excellent man ; but rather prone
to take unwise views about spiritual manifestations, on
which the Church always looked with doubt and sus-
picion.
Clearly, Luke had become very practical. A good
many years had gone by since he vowed his pilgrimage
to the city to kiss this old man's feet.
He took up his sister's letter again : and read it in a
puzzled manner.
" It is downright positivism," he declared. " Margery,
too, sees the Divine in Man — this time, in a wretched
penitent. Imagine — Amiel Lefevril and Sister Eulalie
arriving at the same conclusion from opposite poles ot
thought."
CHAPTER XXX
CROSS CURRENTS
He congratulated Mary warmly on the success of
her dinner. He had seen nothing like it, since he had
left England. Mary blushed with pleasure.
" I did not think it was possible to procure such fowl
at this time of the year," said Luke.
" Oh, the neighbours were good, your reverence,"
said Mary.
" The neighbours ? "
" Yes," she said. " Mrs. Mahony sint the chickens ;
and the ducks came from Mrs. Cleary's yard ; and — "
" You surprise me," said Luke. '•' How did these
people send them ? You purchased them, of course ? "
"Indeed'n I didn't," said Mary. "The laste they
may do is to help their priests, who are workin' night
an' day for thim."
" But, my good girl, it was highly improper to solicit
from these poor people — "
"• I didn't solicit," said Mary, whose temper was
rising.
'' Then how could they know that I had a dinner in
contemplation ? " asked the bewildered Luke.
" Know ? " said Mary, with a toss of her head.
" They know more'n that. They know what's inside'n
you."
Luke was silent for a few seconds.
" Was there much glass broken ? "
"• There was, thin," said Mary. " But it wasn't
ours."
392
CROSS CURRENTS 393
" Oh, the parish priest's ? That makes it all the
more necessary that we should restore it."
" Ah ! he won't miss it," said Mary. " Sure, he has
double your jues."
" Oh, no, no, no," cried Luke, amazed at this liberal
theology. " He has been very kind ; and we must
return every article he has lent us."
"There'll be a nice hole in your quarter's wages,"
said Mar}^ to John in the kitchen. " You'll have to
pay for all the glass you broke."
" How could I help it ? " said John. " Sure, every
one knows that things must be broke."
"You'll pay for it," said jVIary. "And they were
the parish priest's ; and worth about half-a-crown a
glass."
" Begor, tliin, if I do, I'll have it out of him," said
John.
"Not while I'm here," said Mary. "If you put a
wet finger on anything while I'm here, you'll suffer for
it."
Luke visited his pastor.
" I must congratulate you," said the kind old man,
"on that beautiful dinner last evening. It was a rare
pleasure."
"Only for tliat unhappy discussion," said Luke.
"I really must forego everything of that kind in future.
It disturbs me too nuicli."
"Much better than foolish talking about each other,"
said the old man. " Youth is the age for problems :
old ajje is for the one g^reat certainty."
" You must give me a few days' indulgence, saui
Luke, " to re{)lace that glass which was broken. I
hope to have it all from the city in a week."
" Now, never mind, my dear boy ! I'm disposed to
make the little sacrifice cheerfully, you liave made such
a convert of that poor boy. You must lend him to me
in future, when 1 give our little parties here."
394
LUKE DELMEGE
Luke was not quite so enthusiastic about his convert.
Complaints were coming in from the people ; and little
bills appeared on his breakfast table every second
morning-.
To wan pare of chickens, kilt by the mare — 5 / —
Mairy Haigerty.
To five bags of otes for the mare, £2 — 7 — 6.
John Rafferty.
To wan dashboord, kicked to pieces by the mare — 15/ —
Daniel Regan, Carpenter.
To wan sheep, run over by your car, with one leg broke,
comin' home from the fare at Kildinan — £1 — 10 — 0.
James Daly.
" This won't do," said Luke. " It means bankruptcy.
Come here," he said to John ; " read these. What does
it mean ? "
"Mane?" said John. "It manes that they're the
graytest liards and rogues unhung. I admit the oats ;
but all the others are chayting."
" These people would hardly send in bills without
reason," said Luke.
"They wouldn't only they think you're innocent-
like," said John.
" Well, it must be stopped," said Luke. " You're
giving the mare too much oats. She's getting restive."
" Annythin' you plaze, yer reverence," said John.
'-'• But don't blame me if she breaks down on the
road."
" You seem to have taken whiskey this morning ? I
thought you had the pledge ? "
" Me — whiskey?" said the startled John in horror.
"Devil — ahem — not a drop since I took the pledge
from the parish priest, so help — "
" Sh — sh," said Luke, horrified. " I may be mis-
taken. Our senses deceive us. But there's an unmis-
takable odour of spirits around the room."
" Maybe the decanther is broke," said John, looking
with great anxiety towards the sideboard.
CROSS CURRENTS 395
"Hardly," said Luke. "Now, be a man, and confess
decently that you have broken the pledge."
" Would it break the pledge," said John, with the
tone of a casuist propounding a difficult problem, " to
smell sperrits, or to draw them in wid your bret?"
"Well, hardly, I think," said Luke. "But I can
scarcely conceive how such remote contact could leave
behind such permanent results."
" Well, yer reverence," said John, with the air of a
man unjustly accused, and who is playing the trump
card for acquittal, " this is what happened, and you'll
see Fm innicent. I wint down this mornin' to Mrs.
Dennehy's wid a message for Mary — that's the house-
keeper — "
Luke nodded.
"And just as I intered the dure, what wor they doin',
d'ye think •.^"
Luke declined to conjecture.
" Watherin' the whiskey," said John ; " watherin' the
whiskey." He spoke as of a sacrilege.
"'What the d are ye up to?' sez I. ' Thry is
it wake enough,' sez Mrs. Dennehy. 'I won't,' sez 1 ;
' I've my ])ledge an' I'll keep it, wid God's blessin'.'
'Thry it,' sez she agin. ' Sure, you needn't swalley it ;
and ye have betther taste,' sez she, ^ than whin you wor
drinkin'.' She was fillin' up a glass, as she was spakin".
' Stop that ! ' sez I, ' stop that ! ' ' 'Tis only a sample,'
sez she. ' Sure, ye needn't take but as much as ye like.'
So I smelU'd the glass. ''Tis strong still,' sez I. 'So
I thought,' sez she. ' It wants more wathering.'
' 'Twouid spile it,' sez L ' Taste and see how wake
it is,' sez she. ' I tell you, 'oman,' sez I, ' I can't.' ' Did
you iver see such a fool ? ' sez she. ' Sure, I'm not axin'
ye to dhrink it, but to taste it.' Wid that I tuk a sup in
my mout', when the young blagard began to laugh at
me. And begor, I got mad, and was goin' to say some-
thin', whin I forgot all about the whiskey, and down it
wint the wrong passage. An" I coughed and coughed,
as if I was in a decline. Thin, Dennehy had to slap me
396 ' LUKE DELMEGE
on the back ; but begor, 'twas no use. I was coughin'
and coughin', till I was black in the face. ' Begor,' sez
she, ' you'll have to swalley the dhrop now, whether you
like it or no ; or else we'll have a corp in the house.'
So begor, I had to take the rest of it ; but "twas in leather.
That's all, yer reverence, the same as if I'd kissed the
book."
" Well, you'd better go and renew the pledge," said
Luke. " I won't keep you on other conditions."
" Sure I often hard yer reverence sayin' from the
althar, that a tiling is no harrum, if you can't help it ! "
said the bewildered John.
" That'll do," said Luke. " Get away, and bring me
a note from the parish priest."
So Luke was not quite so enthusiastic as the good
pastor ; and he changed the subject.
" Some of these poor people," he said, " have been
asking me to assume the presidency of the local branch
of the League. Do you see any objection, sir, or do you
deem it prudent ? "
" There certainly is no objection," said the old man,
" but it means trouble, and even disappointment to you."
" I shouldn't mind the trouble," said Luke, " but I
fear the disappointment. I cannot make out why my
good old pastor, Canon Murray, is able to turn his
parish into a little Paraguay, but all other efforts seem
to be abortive."
" It's the dread of the superior powers, which are
quite out of sympathy with the people, that paralyzes
everything," said the old man.
'' Well, if it does nothing else but to make them hold
up their heads and assume an air of manly independence,
it is worth trying."
" Quite so," said the old man, resignedly.
So the Rev. Luke Delmege became President of the
local branch of the League. His first speech was sensa-
tional.
"I want you distinctly to understand," he said, "that
if I am to remain your president, it must be on condition
CROSS CURRENTS 397
that your constitutions are strictly observed. I shall
allow no backsliding-. (Hear, hear.^ Nor shall I have
any distinction of persons. (Hear, hear.') If the rules
are violated, you'll hear from nie. Now, I understand
that some gentleman has a resolution to propose. You
will please mark its phraseology, so that no one can say
afterwards that lie did not understand its significance."
Tlie resolution was : —
" Resolced : That we, the members of the Rossmore Branch of
tlie Land League, hereby solemnly bind ourselves not to take off
our hats to any man in future, except the priest."
There was a long and heated discussion. They all
knew at whom it was directed — a local magnate, fierce
and fiery, and military, with a great tawny mustaclie,
that he tied behind his neck sometimes, like the mighty
warriors of Jena and Austerlitz. He was by no means
popular, but very much dreaded, and he loved saluta-
tions in the market-place. Indeed, it was whispered
that sometimes, when he had English visitors at the
Lodge, he used dis[)ense sundry sixpences to the gamins
of the village to secure their fealty.
Sundry amendments were proposed, debated, and re-
jected. One demanded that the clause, " or when pass-
ing the chapel door,"' be inserted. Another insisted
that the words '' or our sweethearts "should he the final
clause. Another thought that " cap " should be put in
after " hat," " because," he said, '' there were fellows
mane enougli to lave their hats at home in order to
escape the pinalty." However, it was finally decided
that the original resolution should stand. Then buke
arose.
" Now," he said, " that resolution is after my own
heart. 1 am a thorough democrat in the sense that I
hold that every man is just what he is in the sight of
God, and nothing more. And I tell vou. that until vou
''ill
conceive this loftv opinion of yourselves, and understand
the necessity of the self-respect that accompanies it.
there is no chance that our generation can work out the
398 LUKE DELMEGE
liberties of Ireland. We want men, not pieces of putty-
in the shape of men — " Much more he told them, as
they wondered and were glad. And he read a page or
two of Carlyle, and wound up with the declaration,
"that the true Shecldnah — the revelation of God to the
world — is man ! "
This evoked tremendous cheering, and Luke floated
on the blissful tide of popularity.
" Yerra, that's the man we want."
"That's the way to talk to 'em. Begor, now we'll
see who's who ! "
" Afther all, 'tis these quiet min have the go in 'em.
Faith, he'll make 'em quake ! "
" The ould Gineral will be a sight on Sunday. He'll
want a pound in sixpences to bribe the young blagards
to shaloot him."
There were some other trifling matters, however, where
Luke was not quite so completely in touch with his ad-
mirers. His proposal to bring down an organizer, or
teacher, in the shape of a young lady from Dublin, who
would instruct the farmers' wives how to prepare poul-
try for market, was met with a kind of playful scorn.
It was unintelligible. Luke explained ; and told them
a good deal about the anatomy of fowls, the various
chemical elements in food, and the carnal desires of the
English, who wanted fat fowl for good money. It was
no use. The idea of importing a city girl to teach
farmers' wives how to raise chickens was too absurd.
And when the good women heard it, there was great
hilarity. And many and pungent were the jokes that
echoed around the hearths in many a peasant's cabin
during these days. Yet Luke persevered. He had a
mission, and was determined to fulfil it. He returned
to the subject again and again ; showed how many thou-
sand chickens were imported into England from Nor-
mandy and the Channel Islands year after year ; counted
up the millions of eggs that were used in one biscuit
factory in England ; and dilated on the certainty of
opening up a market for fruit and vegetables in London,
I
CROSS CURRENTS 399
and the thousands of pounds that might be made from
strawberries ah)ne. They only shrugged their shoul-
ders, laughed, and turned it into a joke. Then Luke
saw there was no use in appealing to the cupidity of
this people. Some other chord must be touched.
His sermons, too, for similar reasons were a failure.
Luke disdained appealing to the passions or sentiments
of the people. He had read somewhere that the Greek
equivalent for preacher is an interpreter or expounder
— thence a player, or actor. And, with his high ideas
of humanity, and his reluctance to gain an unfair victory,
he reasoned, argued, but disdained using the least word
or gesture that might affect the feelings of the people at
the expense of reason. His choice of subjects, too, was
original. He spoke of justice, temperance, punctuality,
foresight — the great natural virtues which must be the
foundation of the supernatural superstructure. Alas !
what could these poor people, thirsting for the waters of
life, as plants thirst for the evening shower, what could
they make of such reasoning and philosophy ?
" Begor, he must be very fond of the money. He's
always talkin' about it. Post offices and savings banks,
an' intherest I Why doesn't he spake to us of the Sacred
Heart, or our Holy Mother, or say somethin' to rise us,
and help us over the week ? "
" Wisha, indeed, Cauth, 'tis a change from ould times.
The ould prieshts used to tell us : Nevermind ! God is
good, and He said He would. Trust in Him. And h^ok
at the Blessed and Holy Family 1 Didn't know, whin
they had their brekfus, whei'e they'd get their supper ;
nor, whin (hey had their supper, where they'd get their
brekfus. But now, tis all money, money, money."
" I suppose he has a lot of it, ^Iaurya ? ""
•'They say he have. But he's the quare man. He
thinks nothin" of givin' a half-crown or a shillin' to a
poor man, but begor, if you put your nose inside liis gate
to look at a tlower or a head of cabl)age. he'd ate you.
Ijook at that poor angashore, Kate Mahoney. In the
ould times, she'd always a sate in the priest's chimley-
}
400 LUKE DELMEGE
corner ; and whin the dinner wos goin' on, she'd stick
her fist in the pot, and take a pratie, and ate it ; or per-
haps, pick a bit of the chicken, or rub the pratie agin
the bacon. Pilhilu I whin this man hard it, he got into
a tearin' passion. Poor Kit will niver see the inside of
that kitchen agin. But he gives her a shillin' a week
all the same."
"And sure, they say he was goin' to dismiss tliat poor
boy he has — and a hard job it is — because he caught
him takin' out a han'ful of oats in his two pockets to
give the poor widda Maloney for her little chickens."
" 'Tis thrue, I believe. And sure, what have he but
what the people give him ; and sure, what they give him
is their own."
" I suppose he belongs to a high-up family intirely ? "
" Wisha, hard to say. Nobody knows who's who, now-
adays. But, if he's anything to the Delmeges of Lisna-
lee, he's be a cousin of me own — "
" You wouldn't be afther tellin' me, Cauth ? "
" I would, indeed. But I wouldn't purtend it to him
for the wurruld. I don't want bit, bite, or sup of him,
thank God. If we're poor, we can be dacent."
The eventful Sunday came at last, which was to wit-
ness the triumph of the democracy — the first assertion
of manly independence which the people of Rossmore
were called upon to make. There was great exultation
in the minds of the strong and virile — the glamour of
battle and victory ; and corresponding depression in the
hearts of the weak and the wavering. For the " Gin-
eral" was a great power. A faultless disciplinarian, he
had been cordially disliked in the army. He now brought
into civil life the iron discipline of the profession. He,
too, was a beautiful, polished, merciless machine. He
sought to make all his subjects like himself. He took
credit of having made Rossmore what it was — an Eng-
lish village planted in the midst of an Irish population.
And he drove through the one street of the village with
great pride, when he showed his English visitors what
he had effected. And the people hated him. He was
CROSS CURRENTS 401
a callous, unfeeling autocrat, who evicted remorselessly,
if everything was not pipe-clayed ; and sent his ahirmed
subjects to hell, if a hen walked across the tiled and
sanded floor. And what a doleful place an Irish village
would be without the morning reveille of a dozen chan-
ticleers !
The proposer and seconder of the famous resolution
had posted sentinels all along the road through which
the " Gineral " had to pass to church. Now, he always
timed that triumphant march, so as to meet the great
bulk of the villagers as they returned from ]\Iass ; and
he always drove in a very high trap, so that the eyes of
his subjects should be upturned towards him. He got
a little start of surprise, when the first batch of rebels
passed by, and laughed, almost hysterically, at some par-
ticularly good story. They were so engrossed, that tliey
never even saw the " Gineral." He turned to his daugh-
ter, Dora, who was with him, and said significantly —
" There's something up ! "
Batch after batch came on, talking, laughing. They
seemed to scan the entire horizon, except the particular
arc that was cut by the " GineraFs " hat. He got furi-
ous, and although he was going to church, probably
to hear a gospel of peace, he dashed, and dashed, and
dashed between his teeth at these rascally rebels. He
saw the mighty fa])ric of liis despotism toppling to its
fall. The sentinels rejoiced. It was the great renas-
cence of the new spirit that was just then stirring the
dead clods of Irish life. They could not forbear smil-
ing, as group passed after group, and drove their hands
deep into their pockets, and glued them there, lest the
force of habit should prove traitorous to tlic great prin-
ciple at stake. The "•Gineral" raged and grew pale,
lashed his horse until he threw him into a gallop, then
reined him suddenly and flung him on his hind legs.
He was a beaten and baffled man. Just then, woman's
wit came to the rescue. His daughter quickly divined
the nature of the conspiracy ; and taking the reins
quickly from her father's hands, she drew the horse
2d
402 LUKE DELMEGE
and trap over against the furthest wall, so that all the
people should pass on her side. Then, bending down,
and fixing her brown eyes on a little group, she said,
with her sweetest smile : —
" Good morning, Pat ! Good morning, Darby ! Glad
to see you so well, Jem ! "
There was a moment of bewilderment and horror.
Then Irish chivalry, that is always losing Irish battles,
conquered Irish patriotism. They took their hands
from their pockets, lifted their hats, and said with
shamed faces : —
" Good morning. Miss Dora ! "
The " Gineral " lifted his hat courteously. It was
the first time he was ever guilty of that politeness to
his serfs, whose very bedrooms he always entered and
examined with that hat glued to his head. But the
occasion was critical. The battle was won. Every
succeeding group now followed the example ; and Dora
smiled and saluted and caressed them, while the sentinels
raged and thundered, and formed dire projects of sum-
mary justice and revenge.
A meeting of the League was promptly called at three
o'clock. Luke was wild with anger. The one thing
that galled him most painfully was this dread servility.
He believed that the first step to Irish independence was
the creation of a new manhood, self-respecting, self-re-
liant ; reverent, yet independent. This day he broke
utterly through the crust of quiet, polished English
mannerism, and poured out a lava torrent of Celtic elo-
quence. His audience grew white and trembled under
such a sudden and unexpected display. They thought
they could laugh it off. It was growing serious. Some-
thing should be done.
"Is your reverence finished?" said one of the delin-
quents.
"Yes," said Luke; "for this occasion," he added
significantly.
" Would the secretary be plazed to read that resolu-
tion agin ? "
I
CROSS CURRENTS 403
The secretary did, with great solemnity.
" I submit, your reverence," said the chief culprit,
" that none of us who have been arraigned before this
tribunal is guilty. We saluted Miss Saybright, not the
Gineral, and the resolution says nothin' about ladies."
" That's a contemptible and miserable subterfuge,"
said Luke, angrily. And there was a roar of indigna-
tion through the hall.
" You know right well," said Luke, "that this was a
ruse ; and, like your countrymen always, you were led
into the trap."
" I don't know about that, yer reverence," said another
criminal. " Would ye be plazed to tell us what ye'd do
yourself in the circumstances ? "
" What I'd do ? " echoed Luke.
" Yes, yer reverence, what 'ud you do, if you were
saluted by a lady in the public street ? "
Luke flushed, grew pale, stammered.
"That's not the question," he said.
" Oh ! but it is the question," said his tormentor.
" If you wor goin' home from ]Mass on Sunday, and if
Miss Saybright said ' Good mornin', Father Delmege,'
what 'ud you do ? "
" I certainly should return the salute," said Luke, in
dismay.
" That's all we did," said the victor, looking around
triumphantl}-.
And Luke had to admit in his own mind, as the meet-
ing broke up, that this race must lose tlieir chivalry and
become brutalized before they shall ever attain freedom
in these days of savage force. But tlien, is freedom
worth the sacrifice ? Here again is the enigma, the
problem of the race.
During the following week the weatlier continued
warm, and one sultry afternoon, when Luke was away
on a sick-call, Mary escaped from the heat of her kitchen
and sat near the open window in one of the upper
rooms. It was very cool and pleasant, and the wood-
bine, witli all the beautiful familiarity of Nature, was
404 LUKE DELMEGE
pushing its scented blossoms over the boxes of migno-
nette that filled the window-sill. Everything tempted
to a reverie ; and Mary began to dream, to dream of
one of those little diamond-paned cottages down there
in the village, with its roses and honeysuckle, and she
dreamed it was her own, and there was a lovely fire-
place, painted brick-colour, and shining pots and pans,
and a tiled floor, and — at noon a shadow flung across
the sunshine, and — from a corner, out from a mass of
pink embroidery, came a tiny voice, and she saw the
blinking blue eyes and the tossed, helpless hands ; and
then she woke up to see the garden gate open and the
" Gineral " coolly riding up the narrow, gravelled walk.
" Bad — to ye," said Mary, now thoroughly awake to
see the evil genius of her dream.
The General rode up on his gray charger, and his
head was on the level with the window where Mary
was sitting, with folded arms and all the self-possession
of a Vere de Vere.
" Good-day ! " said the General, trying to control his
horse.
" Good-day ! " said Mary, without stirring.
" Is the Rev. Mr. Delmege at home ? "
" He isn't," said Mary. " An' I'm thinkin' he won't
be plazed to see his flower-beds trampled when he
comes "
" Will he return soon ? " asked the General. f
" He might, and he mightn't," said Mary.
" Would you kindly tell him," said the General, " that
General Sebright called ? "
"Gineral what?" said Mary, struck with sudden
deafness.
"• General Sebright," echoed the visitor. " Stop, I
think I'll leave a card."
" Oh, ye needn't take the throuble," said Mary,
grandly. " He has plinty of thim, himself, in his
dhrawing-roora. "
The General put back the rejected card, and stared
hopelessly at this apparition.
I
CROSS CURRENTS 405
" Perhaps ye'd be afther tellin' me your business
with the priest?" said Mary.
" Oh ! it was merely a call of courtesy," said the
General. " Good-day ! "
" Good-bye, and good-luck," said Mary ; and then,
sotto voce, " and that's not what I mane, me ould exter-
minator ! "
For Mary was a red-hot little rebel, like most of her
country-women. She too had her idols and ideals.
Amongst the former were Robert Emmet and St. An-
thony of Padua, whose pictures graced her little bed-
room, just under the great hierarchy of the Incarnation.
Amongst the latter, neither rank, nor title, nor Mam-
mon had a place. True as the needle to the pole are
the instincts of her class and race. May no doctrinaires
or self-elected prophets ever succeed in making such as
this poor girl swerve one inch from their simple princi-
ples, which are the highest philosophy of existence !
At dinner she told Luke of the visit.
" 'Tis a wondher he never called before," she added.
" Pm thinkin' he got a lesson on Sunday, tho* the stag-
eens renaged."
Now, Luke was in another dilemma. Should he
return that call or not? He knew perfectly well that
that visit was purely diplomatic. The (ieneral had
allowed months to elapse, since Luke's advent io the
parish, and he had never shown that courtesy before.
Well, then ? Meet diplomacy with diplomacy. Luke
determined that lie would return that visit. P>ut what
construction wovdd be put on his action by his parish-
ioners ? How would they view this alliance with their
deadly enemy ? He saw all the possible consequences :
but he dcs[»ised consequences. The question is, A\']iat
is right, and what is wrong? Yes! he Avould visit at
the Lodge.
He did, ami was received with a certain kind of
courteous homage. He lingered there more than an
hour over the teacups. No wonder. It was Ayles-
burgh again I The beautiful drawing-room, hung with
406 LUKE DELMEGE
such dainty pictures ; the soft heavy hangings and
portieres, that deadened all sound, and made a dusk of
colour in the room ; the large vases, filled with early
chrysanthemums of every size and hue; the grand
piano, covered over with costly furs, the wood fire blaz-
ing merrily in the grate — ah, yes ! it was the grace,
the light and beauty of civilization once more ; and
Luke, with all his fine tastes, seemed to be wrapped in
a dream of sweetness and luxury again. And Luke
theorized, and made sundry complaints and suggestions,
which were very flattering. Why could not the Irish
gentry do what their brethren were doing the wide
world over ? Why could they not come down to the
level of the proletariat, and by a little zeal and self-
denial, introduce the sweetness and light of the higher
life ? Here, to his mind, was the radical difference
between England and Ireland — that in the former
country there was a perfect link between the classes,
the nobility and gentry being gently associated with
the labouring classes through the medium of the clergy-
man and his family ; whilst here, in Ireland, there was
an unspanned gulf between them, to their common det-
riment and disadvantage. The General and his lady
and Dora Sebright listened with sympathy, and even
enthusiasm. It was a happy idea ! The very inter-
pretation of their own thoughts. And Mr. Delmege
really wished that they should enter into the cordial
and intimate relations with the people he had so ad-
mirably expressed ? Unquestionably ! Well, then,
they were most grateful for the suggestion ; and would
promptly act upon it. And Luke, as he passed down
the avenue that wound through thicket and shrubbery,
felt that he had gone far towards settling forever the
eternal and insoluble problem.
In less than a month he had to confess to an uneasy
and undefinable feeling that something was wrong.
His remarks at the League meetings were received
coldly ; and he was greeted with soured silence on the
streets. The good old pastor, in the most gentle man-
CROSS CURRENTS 407
ner, hinted at attempts at proselytism, which he heard
had been made. It had been reported to him that cer-
tain kidies, on their visitation at the cottages, and nnder
pretence of introducing a finer tcstlietical taste among
tlie vilhigers, had tried to remove the time-honoured
portraits of patriots and saints, and replace them with
good loyal pictures from tlie Ciraphic. At home, Mary
had hushed her merry songs ; and, alas ! did slam the
door twice or thrice violently. Altogether, Luke felt
between Scylla and Charybdis, the cross currents and
pitiless vortices of daily life.
CHAPTER XXXI
GREEK MEETS GREEK
Mrs. Delmege lay upon her deatli-bed. The physi-
cians had been called in, and had shaken their heads.
"• This is Mors,'' said one to another. And those around
the poor patient understood. And she also understood.
" Than' God," she said. " He has given me a long
and a happy life ; and now He calls nie to Himself.
Welcome be His Holy Will ! But, I'm sorry for Mike.
He'll be lonesome. But I'm glad 'tisn't I am over his
coffin."
Luke came over to Lisnalee. When he entered his
mother's room, and asked, with a faltering voice, how
she was, she only took his hand, his priestly hand, and
kissed it passionately. Then she spoke of the King of
Terrors with such disdain, that he hid his head, and
was ashamed.
••' What should I be afraid of ? " she said. " Sure,
'tis as natheral to die as to live ; and what is it but
goin' to God? Sure, I have had all I wanted in this
world. Me daughter in her convent ; and me son,"
here she kissed Luke's hand again, " at the althar of
God ; what more would any poor woman want '? "
"■ Ay, I mind the time," she continued, after a pause,
" wlien you, Father Luke, wor only a weeshy baby in
me arms ; and sich a rogue as j'ou wor, too. Father
Dimpsey, that Avas here before Father Pat, God be
good to liira ! and to all our good priests I used have
the greatest fun wid you. And wan day, when you
caught his big, bony finger in your little weeshy fin-
gers, and wouldn't let him go, he said : ' Mrs. Del
408
i
GREEK MEETS GREEK 409
mege, we'll make a bishop of this fellow?' 'I'd be
satisfied,' sez I, ' if the Lord would only make him a
priest.' And sure, I got me wish, and what more could
inother's heart desire ? "
" You'll recover, mother," said Luke, weeping, " and
we'll have many a pleasant day again at Lisnalee."
"No," she said ; "the Death is on me. And how
many Masses now. Father Luke, will you say for me,
whin I'm gone ? "
" That depends on other obligations," said Luke ;
"but you may be sure, mother, that up to the day of
my own death, I shall never say a Mass, without re-
membering you."
"At the Miminto of the Deadf'' she said.
" Yes," said Luke.
There was a long pause. The instinctive refinement
of the Irish peasant, that deterred from touching on a
delicate subject, and the deep, reverential fear of the
priestly character, held the mother silent. Then her
great love bore down the barrier.
" An' how are ye goin' on wid these new parishion-
ers ? " she asked.
" Oh, very well, indeed," said Luke, airily.
" The people are good," she said ; " but they're jeal-
ous-like of tlieir priests. They worship the ground ye
walks on ; but they want the little word, and the
' Good-morrow ! Good luck ! ' they're used to. I hard
some of tlicm say, over there where ye had the little
throuble some time ago, that they'd die for you. But
they have their little ways, and they must be humoured."
" Has the Canon called ? " asked Luke, changing the
sul)ject abruptly.
" Over and over again, God bless him I " she replied.
" It was only 3esterday morning he said Mass there on
that table : and you'd think he was a 'uman, he was so
gintle and nice."
"And Father Cussen ? "
" He's here every day, and sometimes twice a day,
poor man — "
no LUKE DELMEGE
" And Father Meade and Father Martin come up
often," said Lizzie, who was in and out of the sick-room
with her baby in her arms.
" And sure poor Father Pat shouhi come all the way
from the other ind of the diocese to see his old friend.
' Good right I have,' sez he, as if I ever did annythin'
for the good, holy priest."
" Fm very glad, indeed," said Luke, as Lizzie now
stopped the colloquy by putting her little baby beside
her mother in the bed. And there they lay, the one
commencing its little pilgrimage through this weary
world, the other ending hers ; and both in the hands
of the All-Father.
The Canon looked more aged than ever to Luke's
eyes. His tall form was slightly stooped, although he
strove to move erect as ever, and the pallor of age was
deepening on a face fringed with hair that seemed
whiter than ever. And, somehow, a gentle resignation
seemed to take the place of the old affectation, as if he,
too, having tried everj^thing in an attractive world, had
found all things evanescent and shadowy in the light
of the one reality. He asked Luke at once, had he
heard of Barbara? Her fate seemed to be the one
thing that still made life interesting. Luke had heard
nothing.
" It makes but little difference," said the Canon. " It
is quite clear she is quite safe in the shelter of some
convent ; and by degrees, by degrees, she will reach
her proper station — "
" It is really surprising that she has not written to
you, sir," said Luke. "The black pall that is thrown
over a young novice at her profession symbolizes death
to the world. But, there is no order so rigid as to for-
bid absolutely correspondence with relatives."
" Quite so," said the Canon. " Perhaps the family
honour — shall I say, pride — withholds her. When
she has reached her legitimate station, she will write."
" I confess," said Luke, " I am become quite indiffer-
ent to this question of honorary preferments. They
I
GREEK MEETS GREEK 411
seem to be scattered over the heads of mortals, as if by
chance."
" Quite true, my young friend," said the Canon.
" And as an exemplification of what you say, I have
just had a letter informing me, that that young clergy-
man who, you may remember, was placed in a seminary
in a position which you sliould have rightl}* occupied,
has actually been advanced to the Chapter of the Dio-
cese, as if the honorary degree, lately conferred upon
him, was not sufficient recognition of his services."
Luke was stunned. He had not lieard of this.
" Why, he didn't get an Atque ^ even in college," he
was about to say, when an interior voice shouted per-
emptorily : Silence ! For silence alone is wortliy of
thee !
But the wound was made, and festered. And it was
with a troubled and abstracted mind he entered the
library at Seaview, where Father iNIartin Hughes and
Father Cussen were before him. Tlie latter was rolling
a ball in and out under the great library table, uncU^r
which Tiny and Tony, now full grown, were screaming
and scrambling for the prize. When Luke was an-
nounced the fun ceased, and the children rushed from
the room.
After the first greetings and sympathetic inquiries
about his mother, the conversation between Father
Martin and Luke turned on general topics. Father
Cussen — one of those restless, impatient spirits tliat
must be forever moving — strode up and down the long
room, now clutching at a book and examining tlie title,
then putting it back impatiently, all the time tossing
and twisting his watch-chain, as if eager to break it
into its se])arate links. Was it George Eliot who spoke
al)Out the inevitable convergence of lives, apparently'
distant as the poles ; and of the lines of human thought,
shifted and changed forever by influences that seemed
to be far remote from each other and from their objects ?
It is inevitable that two lines not quite parallel must
1 The lowest distinction.
412 LUKE DELMEGE
meet, if pushed far enough into space ; it is inevitable
that the Russian Bear shall hug the British Lion in the
passes of the Himalayas ; and it was inevitable that Luke
Delmege and Henry Cussen should meet and thresh
out the mighty problem for which each had his own
solution. Father Martin felt, too, that the inevitable
had come, and he strove by gentle words and kindly
stratagems to make the shock of the collision as harm-
less as possible.
" Mother couldn't forbear," said Luke, innocently,
" a little lecture about that unhappy business at .
She cannot see, poor soul, that we have duties towards
our people less pleasant than necessary."
" And so Father Pat came over," said Martin Hughes,
trying to throw Luke off the track. " He has given me
up since poor Father Tim went to his reward."
"Of course," said Luke, "any man can live a good,
easy, comfortable life by doing nothing. Then no one
can find fault ; but a man cannot do his duty in Ireland
and remain popular."
" These are not the ethics of Lisnalee," said Father
Martin. " Every priest is beloved there, because they
know but one test — does he love the people ? "
" There is love and love," said Luke. " There is
the maudlin love of a foolish mother ; and the wise
love of a prudent father. And the first has been ours
from time immemorial. The world tells us it is time
to change."
" The world ! What world ? " said Father Cussen,
hastily turning round.
" The world of progress and civilization," said Luke,
calmly.
" Pah ! " said Henry Cussen. " The world that we
are colonizing and civilizing dares to dictate to us."
" My dear Father," said Luke, " these are purely
insular ideas. If we do not climb to the best seats in
the chariot of modern progress, we shall be crushed
under its wheels."
"Of what does your modern progress exactly con-
GREEK MEETS GREEK 413
sist ? " said Father Cussen, now coming over and facing
his antagonist. " We are forever hearing of it ; but we
don't see it."
" It is a strange thing," said Luke, in his old crush-
ing style, " to ask a definition of what is so visible and
palpable. Progress is the onward and invincible
march of humanity to the ultimate goal of the race."
" And what might that be ? "
"What might that be? Simply the perfect happi-
ness of the individual in the perfection of the race."
"Then why do we interfere with the perfect happi-
ness of the savage ; and compel him with gunpowder
and dynamite to be as miserable as ourselves ? "
" Ay ! But that's mere sensual happiness. We are
educating the savage to the higher ideal."
"And succeeding?"
"To be sure we are."
" And you want to educate our Irish people to a
higher ideal ? "
"Certainly."
" Tell me, can you conceive, even with your experi-
ences of the English aristocracy, a higher life than that
of your good mother, now closing in a death that the
highest philosopher might envy ? "
"Hers is an exceptional case," said Luke, faintly.
"Indeed, I'm always Avondering how the Canon has
been able to raise the standard of living here ; and
everywhere else our efforts seemed to be doomed to
failure."
" The standard of living ? " echoed Father Cussen.
contemptuously. " That appears to be the one idea of
your modern progress, the worship of the Body, called
otherwise the religion of Humanity."
"It is the spirit of tlie Church in our century,"
said Luke, " that we should keep abreast of modern
progress."
""Yes. But what is modern progress?" said Father
Cussen. " Do you mean the circus chariot, daubed all
over with the abominations of hell in red and gold
414 LUKE DELMEGE
figures, and the devil liolding tlie reins ; or do you
mean the safer veliicle, if slower, that moves to eter-
nity ? "
" I don't understand your figurative language," said
Luke, impatiently. " I say that humanity has a claim
on the Church ; that the Church admits it ; and that,
therefore, she is in perfect sympathy with every ele-
ment that makes for the betterment of the people."
'■' Precisely. But what is the betterment of the
people ? If 3'ou mean an improvement in their social
condition, accompanied by a corresponding improve-
ment, morally and intellectually : concedo ; if you merely
mean the acquisition of wealth with its accompanying
vices and vulgarity: nego.^''
" But why should wealth mean vice and vulgarity ? "
said Luke, bewildei'cd.
" Because Mammon is an essentially vulgar deity,"
said Father Cussen ; " as vulgar as Bacchus, and as dis-
reputable as Aphrodite, and as insatiable as Moloch.
Because no wealthy nation was ever characterized by
education and refinement, but by brutality and sensu-
ality. Witness Babylon and Rome, not to speak of
modern empires that are rushing onwards to similar
destruction. And what is true of empires is true of
individuals ; and your modern wealth, ill-got, ill-placed,
and ill-managed, is simply begetting on the one hand a
generation of bloated revellers, and on the other a gen-
eration of blaspheming and homicidal starvelings. And
if you think that the Church of Christ is going to be
bundled in, as a second-class passenger, in this chariot
of destruction, with the devil holding the ribbons, I
think you are much mistaken."
"The Church can never be indifferent to the interests
of humanity," said Luke, faintly. " Her role in the
coming century will be essentially humanitarian and
philanthropic."
" Quite so, as it always has been. But with her own
leading lights to eternity, not as a blind bureau of the
State."
I
GREEK MEETS GREEK 415
" It seems to me you are both saying the same thing
in different hmguage," said Father Martin, meekly.
"Not by any means," replied Father Cussen. " We
are as far asunder as the poles. Delmege argues for
time : I, for eternity ; he, for the body : I, for the
soul ; he, for the real only : I, for the real and the
ideal. In object and methods we are essentially distinct.
But there's no good in arguing in a circle. Take the
concrete."
" Certainl}'. Select your types, and judge what is
progressive, and wliat retrogressive."
" ' I thank thee, Jew, for that word ! ' Fll take my
types, the lowest and the highest according to your
estimates, the Neapolitan lazzarone and the great Brit-
ish workman. Will these do ? "
" Precisely," said Luke. " You cannot find better
specimens of inertia on the one hand, and push on the
other. Tlie gods have given thee into my hands,
Cussen ! "
" Now," continued Father Cussen, " let me see ! ]\Iy
picturesque Southern goes out in the morning after a
breakfast of dry bread and black coffee, and stretches
himself luxuriously on the parapet of the quay-wall
that circles the bay of enchantment. Mind ! He is
picturesque. He is a handsome gipsy, clad in rags, but
with all the glory of colour. He comes in to a humble
dinner, and, after a siesta, he does some trifling work
for a few bajocchi ; plays witli liis semi-nude but always
picturesque babies ; strolls down to the quay again ;
indulges in some light, winged sarcasm on the Britisli
tourist; and after a supper of maccaroni and sour
wine, he takes part in an improvised concert (ui the
sands, and serenades the stars. Is the pirturc cor-
rect ? "
" Quite so," said Luke. '"I cannot imagine a more
wortldess being, a more soulless scamp."
"Not soulless! I didn't say that. This man wor-
ships God in liis own way ; and womanhiuxl, througli
his loving and beloved Madonna. And Italia I Italia .'
416 LUKE DELMEGE f'
his goddess and his queen ! Now for the British work-
man."
" Go ahead ! " said Luke. " You are sinking deeper
in the mire."
" Well, my model of progress and enlightenment is
very unpicturesque. He is clad in coal-dust, and — a
pipe. He goes down to hell every Monday morning ;
and there, by a Davy's lamp he digs and delves in smoke
and heat and darkness, if he is not summarily blown
into atoms by an explosion of fire-damp. He comes up
into the sun, that is, what ought to be the sun ; but the
sun never shines on England; and takes his wao^es —
three pounds. Then, he drinks all day on Saturday,
and sleeps and drinks all day on Sunday. He has no
God ; and he goes down to hell again on Monday
morning — "
" At least, he is a producer," said Luke, fast losing
temper. " He understands the sacredness and nobility
of work. He is no contemjitible parasite living on the
labour of others."
" The same may be said for the horse and the ass,"
said Father Cussen. ''But will any man tell me, that ■
my low-typed Neapolitan is not in every way a happier, jf
better, nobler fellow than — "
" Happier ? There's your fallacy. Men are not born
for happiness, but for — "
" You are quite right ; but you are contradicting
yourself hopelessly, Delmege," said Father Cussen.
" You are just after stating that the whole trend and
object of this modern progress is the happiness of the
greater number."
" Quite so. Wrought out by Entsagung, the Selhst-
todtung of chosen souls."
" Oh, Lord ! " said Father Martin, in an undertone, " I
knew he'd give himself away."
" Now, look here, Delmege," said Father Cussen, " I
don't want to hurt you ; but that's all cant and rot, the
cant and rubbish of those who are forever dictating to
the world what the Church of God alone can perform.
GREEK MEETS GREEK 417
You know as well as I, that all this modern enthusiasm
about humanity is simply a beggar's garb for the hideous
idols of a godless world. You know there is no charity
but in the Church of God. All the humanitarianism
outside is simj^ly political self-preservation, with the
interest of the atom lost in the interests of the State.
And if you want a proof, go to your prisons, go to your
workhouses, or go down to your ports of landing, and
see paupers and helpless maniacs dumped on your Irish
shores, because, after giving their best years to build up
the Temple of Mammon in England and America, their
wretched support, half-crown a week, would lessen the
majesty of the mighty god ! There is the huge fiction
of Protestantism — the Godless abstraction — the State,
humanity, the race, etc. Never a word about the maj-
esty of the individual soul ! "
" That's all fine rhetoric, Cussen," said Luke, " and
fine rhetoric is the bane of our race. But whilst all
your theories are depopulating the villages and towns
of Munster, Belfast is leaping with giant strides towards
prosperity and affluence."
" One moment," said Father Cussen. " Our southern
towns and villages are being depopulated. Why ?
Because the great god, JNIammon, is sending his apostles
and missionaries amongst us ; because every letter from
America is an ai)pcal to the cupidity and lust for pleas-
ure, which is displacing the Spartan simplicity and
strength of our race. The gas-lit attractions of New
York and Chicago arc rivalling successfully the tender,
chaste beauties of Irish life and Irish landscapes. It is
because all the chaste simplicities of home life are de-
spised for the meretricious splendours of city life, that
our people are fleeing from their motherland. But you
spoke of P.elfast?"
" Yes," said Luke. " AVhile all down here is a slough
of despond and misery, there in the North you have a
metropolis of splendour, and wealth, and progress."
" Progress, again ! In heaven's name, man, are you
a Christian and a Catholic ?"
2e
418 LUKE DELMEGE
" It is because I am both the one and the other, that
I see the inevitable absorption of our race in the
stronger one, or its absolute depletion under the over-
whelming influences of modern life. If we do not adopt
modern methods, out we go."
"And do you consider what you lose by your modern
methods? Is the game worth the candle? Listen: I
cycled around the North of Ireland last year — "
" Vm surprised," said Luke.
" Surprised at what ? "
" That you could be so modern as to cycle at all."
"Never mind. I called at Portrush; and put up at
one of the big hotels there."
" No, no ! " said Luke, sarcastically. " You put up
at a wayside cabin; and you had potatoes and potheen
for dinner."
" Well," continued Father Cussen, " we were a pretty
happy party for the week — a few very nice English
and Scotch families, over for golfing — "
"Not at all. You're dreaming, man. How could
they be English and nice ? " asked Luke.
" Well, Pandemonium burst on us on Saturday after-
noon. Train after train disgorged the Progressives of
Belfast — a loud, blatant, red-faced, amorphous set, who
paraded their vulgar wealth everywhere, and filled every
corridor and room in the house with an atmosphere of
stale liquor. Champagne, carefully diluted with brandy,
was their beverage. They drank steadily all day on
Saturday ; spent Sunday, with opera glasses on the
beach, and champagne glasses in the bar. The fright-
ened Saxons locked themselves in their bedrooms. On
Monday morning they cleared out at seven — "
" And every man was in his counting-house at ten,"
echoed Luke, triumphantly.
" Well, that's your progress. Now, look on the re-
verse side of the picture. Last month, I was down in
Crosshaven, at the mouth of Cork Harbor. It was Sun-
day. Railway steamer after steamer flung out its quota
of passengers — pale-faced mechanics from the city, with
GREEK MEETS GREEK 419
their young wives, and little cliildren swinging Laskets
of provisions between them ; a crowd of laughing stu-
dents or commercial men ; a number of mercantile or
professional men, seeking a breath of sea-air and a few
hours' rest ; a bevy of gaily dressed, laughing girls,
"Oh, go on, go on ! " said Luke. "You are doing
well with your word-painting."
" I saw them, these mere Irish," continued Father
Cussen, witli some emotion, " going out the white road
towards the sea ; I saw them on the cliffs ; I saw them
on the beach — a happy, bright, cheerful crowd. I saw
them taking oat their modest dinners — a sandwich or
two, a bottle of lemonade, a few cakes and oranges for
the children. I passed through and through these
happy groups, near enough to hear every word they
said. I peered over the shoulders of a young mechanic.
He was reading Sesame and Lilies. I saw them return
in the evening — a happy, bright, courteous, rehned
crowd ; no hustling or jostling ; but Celtic politeness
and Celtic wit and humour. And then I thought of
Portrush ; and of their fellow-countrymen festering in
the fetid tenements of New York, or gasping for a mo-
ment's breath in the siroccos of the Western States ;
and I thought, that progress consists not in miles of
gas-lit streets, or millions of bricks piled squarely
against the sky ; but in human souls, taught to know
tiieir dignity, and the vast universe of their inheritance."
" I do not at all dispute your reasoning, or your con-
clusions," said Luke, meekly ; " but how does it solve
the problem, that is threatening, not theories of life,
but the very existence of the race itself ? Here il is :
can you find a via media l)etween modern civilization
and Irish purity and faith? If you do not adopt the
methods of the former, your very existence, as a race,
is at stake. If you adopt them, all tlie characteristic
glories of your race and faith vanish. Here comes mod-
ern progress, like a huge soulless engine ! Tliere is but
one way of escaping being trodden out of existence by
420 LUKE DELMEGE
it, and that is, to leap up and go with it, and then, what
becomes of your tender faith and all the sweet sinceri-
ties of j^our Irish innocence and helplessness ? "
" We can create our own civilization," said Father
Cussen. " Here is our initial mistake, with, God knows,
what consequences. We are imitators, instead of being
creators."
"And, meanwhile, what is to save you? English
omnipotence is pushing from behind : American attrac-
tions are dragging in front. What can save you ? "
Father Cussen paused for a moment. Then, lifting
his hand with some solemnity towards the ceiling, he
said : —
" The God of Abraham, and of Isaac, and of
Jacob ! The same God that has pulled our race
through seven centuries of fire and blood."
CHAPTER XXXII
PERCUSSA ET IIUMILIATA
When Sister Mary laid aside her Norman cap, at
niglit, she also laid down her crown of thorns; and,
with her blue mantella, she put aside the cross she was
bearing so bravely and lovingly. For it was a mighty
cross, assumed in a spirit of love and penance ; and it
bore down to the earth sometimes the frail figure that
supported it. For Nature is ever in protest against the
spirit; and is ever asking querulously, Wh}' ? why?
when the soul seeks pain, and the body cries for rest.
But sleep brought more than rest to this penitent spirit.
It l)rought dreams; and dreams brought anguish to the
daylight.' I>ut they were very beautiful. Were there
no waking, they would have made Heaven. And now
some of these dreams occurred again and again ; and
Sister iNhuy was obliged, so very beautiful they were
in sleep, so dread in the consciousness of day, to ask
prayers frequently against their recurrence.
" Pray, Sister," she would say to tlie nun in charge
of the dormitory, " that I may not dream to-night ! "
Hut tlie dream that used to dawn out of the shad-
ows of sleep most frequently was this. She thouglit
she walked in a great garden, beneath the umbrage of
trees, and Innislied by the great, beautiful flowers, that
leaned towards her to toucli lior feet, her bands and lier
garments. And in the garden was a mighly [jalace,
always lighted for a festival ; and she saw a long pro-
cession of tlie white-rol)ed immortals entering slowly,
but with U}»lifted faces, on which the lights of the lian-
queting hall sht)ne. And, when all had entered, and
421
1
422 . LUKE DELMECJE
the doors were about to be shut, a Figure came to the
portals, and, shading His eyes with His right hand,
looked long and lingeringly into the darkness. And
Mary knew that it was herself was the desired one ; but
she dared not come out of the darkness into the light,
because the robes of humiliation were around her ; and
the blue serge of sorrow was not a fitting garment for
the splendours of the King's Hall. So she turned
away from the questing eyes ; and sought the shadows
again. Then she was suddenly aware that a Voice,
quite near, called her ; and that she was sought out
amongst the shadows. For she heard, ever and again,
the whisper : Veni, Sponsa ! Veni, Immaculata ! Veyii,
8po7isa mea ! and then a hand was laid gently upon her.
She was found, and reproached. But she could only
point to the blue garment of penitence, and weep. And
then she found herself in the Hall of the King ; and
with His own wounded hands He put on the bridal robes
— the soft, white habit, and the veil, and drew around
her the blue cincture and let the scapulary fall ; and He
hung the Silver Heart on her breast, and tied the rosary
to her girdle ; and lo ! she was a Sister of the Good
Shepherd. And He led her trembling into the lighted
Hall ; and all her Sisters gathered around her, and
kissed her — and then, — well, then, she would wake up
on her narrow bed in the gloom of a winter's morning,
with just a yellow gas-jet above her head ; and, ah, yes !
here was the blue serge mantella and skirt ; and here
the high, frilled, Norman cap — the badge of penitence
and shame. No wonder that her heart sank like lead,
and that a film crossed her eyes, as she went about her
weary work for yet another day ; until, perhaps at Mass,
or afterwards in the hushed silence of the afternoon, she
would study and watch the white figure of her crucifix ;
and, then, with one swift aerial flight, as a mother-bird
swoops on her nest, she would fly on the wings of love,
and fold herself and nestle in the big, gaping wounds of
the torn side of Christ ; and then all was peace again
until another dream.
PERCUSSA ET HUMILIATA 423
But there were other sorrows, too, awaiting her, deep
humiliations, that plunged her into the abyss, until
rescued by prayer and faith. Thei-e is no use in argu-
ing against the inexorable law. The gold must be lire-
tried.
There was one young penitent who was the special
object of Sister Mary's solicitude. She had come into
this sacred asylum again and again ; and again and
again she had gone out unto the dread attractions of
the midnight streets. But always, when she knocked
hum])ly at the Convent gate, she was admitted with a
smile of welcome. The charity of this Order, like the
charity of Christ, is inexhaustible. It would be a ter-
rifying novelty, except to those accustomed to the
supernatural, to witness the fierce fury of the tempta-
tions that used to assail this young girl — the paroxysms
under which she strove to resist her own dread inclina-
tions, and the wiles of the unseen. It was here that Sis-
ter iSIary had been most successful. Because, although
her efforts at reclamation of this sister-penitent were
doomed to disappointment, and the bird was forever
breaking from her hands, there was some tie between
them, some bond of love, that might have been stretched
and strained, but was never broken. And whenever the
poor girl returned, clothed in her right senses, after th 3
s})ell of midnight madness, it was always Sister iNIary
who was privileged to take off the soiled gewgaws of
fashion, and put on the cleaner vestures of penitence
and grace. There was therefore great love between
them, the love of the rescued and the rescuer.
Well, one day, after the dream of the Espousals, the
old fury seized on this young girl ; and she announced
her intention of leaving the asylum. And, as there was
perfect freedom to come or to go, the permission was
accortled. She had most carefully screened her inten-
tion from Sister Mary, lest the entreaties of the latter
should compel her to forego her resolution ; and it so
happened, that Laura Desmond (this was the young
girl's name) was passing down the long corridor, in
424 LUKE DELMEGE
which was the oratory and the niched statue of the
Good Shepherd, when she heard rapid footsteps echoing
on the tiled pavement behind her. She did not look
around. She fled. There was a moment's delay in
opening the gate that led into the outer world ; and
she felt a gentle hand laid on her shoulder, and a voice
as from eternity said : " Laura I "'
" Well ? " said Laura, turning fiercely on her pursuer.
" You are not leaving us ? " said Sister Mary.
" I beg yer pardin' : I am though," said the poor girl.
" Turning your back on the Sisters, and on Father
Tracey, and on — our Lord ? " said the pleading voice.
" That's me own business," said the poor fugitive.
"And then, going out to the world — and the horrors
— the awful horrors of the streets?" And Sister Mary's
hand trembled on the shoulder of the poor girl.
" Ye seem to know a good deal about them," sneered
the poor girl. " Come, Mary, yerself, and we'll have
a good time. Sure, ye can come back agin ! "
"What awful spirit possesses you ? " said Sister Mary,
staiting back, horror-stricken. " Oh, child, child I come
back I come back to God ! There's no harm done yet.
Return ! and all will be well ! "
But the dark spirit was filling to repletion this doomed
soul. And bespoke, "Is it you'll make me?" he said.
" Not I, but our Lord," said Sister Mary.
" Stand back and lem'me pass ! " he shouted.
The gentle hand was still on the girl's shoulder. It
now stole around her neck.
" Wance more, I say, stand back, and lem'me pass ! "
The arm unconsciously tightened around her neck.
" There, thin, take that ! " and Sister Mary felt a
stinging blow on the face, and she reeled and fell. And,
as she fell, the wretched girl tore off her own scapulars
and beads, and flung them on the prostrate form. Then
she tore her frantic way into the outer Avorld.
But, a greater Power pursued her. She had reached
the outer gate that led into the road, when she thought
the world was falling to pieces, and that the end of all
I
i
PERCUSSA ET HUMILIATA 425
things had come. The trees seemed to crash down on
her path, and the great iron gate smote her as with
steel gantlets. Earth rose up to overwhelm her, and
the universe seemed rushing to ruin around her. There
was a sound in her ears of mighty waters that liad broken
their bounds, and were heaving and plunging in illimi-
table ruin, and a great darkness came down out of the
angry skies, and whelmed all things in a dread and fate-
ful night. And then, as an end to the sudden and fear-
ful cataclysm, all was still, and all was dead.
When, after three days of unconsciousness, but of
dread convulsions, Laura Desmond woke up from her
epileptic fit in the Convent infirmary, it was quite clear
that she had been saved. The brand was snatched from
the burning, and would never again feed the flames.
Her beauty was gone. One side of her face was hope-
lessly paralyzed.
During these three days Sister ]\Iary knocked furi-
ously at the gates of Divine Mercy ; but varied her
supplications with loud and fervent hosannas for the
redemption of that soul. And when she heard that the
poor patient had recovered consciousness, but was a
hopeless physical wreck, great were her jubihition and
thanksgiving. "What!" exclaims our ardent humani-
tarian ; "jubilation over a wrecked and shattered body ?
Where is humanitv and fellow feeling: ? And the Divine
Altruism, etc., etc. ?" Even so, my good frientl I Suoh
are tlie ways of these strange people, called Catholics,
and tlie still more stranofe elect amongst them, called
Saints. For to them a shattered and broken frame,
even though it was honeycombed Avith a thousand dis-
eases and racked by a million nerves, is a better thing
tlian an imi)ure body, were it that of Aphrodite herself ;
and, beyond the body, though still its inhabitani. and
immeasurably separated from it in importance, is the
soul ; and the soul, the soul, the soul, here is the one
tiling that takes the place of gold and consols, scrips
and shares, in the divine economy of the Church. And
hence, Sister Mary rejoiced and was exceeding glad,
426 LUKE DELMEGE
because her little client could never again go forth to
snare the unwary with her eyes and mouth. And, as
for the rest, here was peace and rest, and all that Divine
Charity could effect for the solace of the stricken one,
and her strengthening under her trial.
A few days after the patient had recovered conscious-
ness. Sister Mary was admitted to see her. She was not
prepared for her reception. For the moment the eyes
of the poor girl, wandering around the infirmary, rested
on the meek face of her rescuer, a look of awe and un-
speakable dread crossed her face. She looked plead-
ingly at the Sister Infirmarian, who interpreted the
look as one of aversion and pain, and who instantly
said : —
" Sister Mary, your presence is painful to this poor
child. I think you had better leave the infirmary.
And, if you have hurt this poor girl's feelings, ask God
to forgive you."
The patient seemed to make a feeble protest, which
the Infirmarian interpreted as assent ; and Sister Mary
bowed her head, and left the room.
The follov/ing Saturday, the penitents around Father
Tracey's confessional were quite sure they heard the
sound of sobbing, when Sister Mary was at confession.
And, on this occasion, she remained a very long and
most unusual time on her knees. And they wondered,
when they saw her emerge, with red, swollen eyes — it
was so unlike her, who was always so calm and composed.
Bat their wonder was nothing to that of Father Tracey,
who, commencing with his usual formula, "Yes, yes,
my dear, to be sure ! " was surprised to hear behind
the screen the sound of a voice broken with sobs, and
utterly unable to proceed with the usual weekly con-
fession. Then a transformation took place. His great
saint, whom he had feared to address, was but human
after all. She, too, had come down from the mountains
into the valley of desolation, and claimed comfort and
strength at his priestly hands. And as nothing melts
the heart of a priest so much as an appeal for help and
PERCUSSA ET HUMILIATA 427
pity, tliis holy servant threw aside all his reserve and
fear ; and drawing out gently tlie source of sorrow from
this aftiicted soul, he poured out of his great priestly
heart a torrent of balm and consolation, until his very
emotion choked him, and he wondered at himself, as he
closed this first exhortation to that soul with the words :
" Thou didst call upon me in affliction., and I delivered
thee; I heard thee in the secret place of tempest ; I proved
thee at the waters of contradiction.'"
Some days elapsed ; and Sister Mary was alone in
the infirmary with Laura Desmond. The latter had
recovered the use of speech ; but her faculties seemed
to be wandering. At least, she stared at Sister ]Mary
as at an apparition ; and, after a long time, and many
kind things said by the latter, Laura drew her down
gently, until her face almost touched the poor paralyzed
cheek, and whispered : —
" Wlio are you?"
" Don't you know me, dear, — Sister Mary, your old
friend?"
" You are 7iot Sister Mary," said Laura ; " nor Sister
anything else ! Who are you? "
" There now, dear," said her friend, thinking this
was the delirium of illness. " Rest, and only talk in
a whisper to God ! "
" I will," said the poor patient. " But I'd like to
know who you are."
" Dear God ! restore her to her senses ! " said Sister
Mary. " I am one of the Magdalens, dear, a poor soul,
like 3^ourself, whom the love of the Sacred Heart has
rescued."
Laura shook her head. "Don't tell nic," slie whis-
pered. "You are nothing of the kind. Yoii never
sinned. Don't tell me ! "
" We have all sinned, dear," said Sister iMary. " AVe
are all unworthy children. It is but (lod's mercy that
spares us."
"You are good," said Laura, "and you should not
lie. You are not a Ma^fdalen."
428 LUKE DELMEGE
Then Sister Mary felt the hot blood mounting to
face and forehead, as she drew back from the revelation.
" There," said Laura, pulling down the sweet face
again, and touching the cheek with her finger, " there's
where I struck you, — may God, in His mercy, forgive
me ! There is the print of my four fingers."
"Forget it, dear," said Sister Mary; "although it
was a happy thing for me and you."
" An' you won't tell me who you are," said Laura.
" Well, some day I'll find out — "
" No ! no ! " said Mar}', frightened. " Leave me as
I am. It's God's will."
" I suppose now," said the affectionate girl, " some
mother is thinkin' of you, and wondherin' where you
are ; or your father is wishin' that he had you with
him, and that he could sthroke down your beautiful
hair, like this — "
" Don't, dear, don't," said Sister Mary. "We are
all gathered here by God. Let us forget everything
else."
" Well, whatever you like," said Laura. " But you're
not wan of us. Don't tell me. You're not wan of us,
whoever you are."
Sister Mary left it so, answering nothing. But the
poor puzzled brain was busy solving the enigma. It
was clear, clear as noonday to this poor girl's infallible
instincts that her friend, though she wore the garb of
penitence, was immaculate before God. How she ar-
rived at the conclusion, it would be difficult to conjec-
ture. It might have been some faculty, like that which
the saints possessed, but struggling and obscure, and
which recognized that here were none of the indelible
marks of sin, which remain, even after years of repent-
ance. But it was quite clear that she saw something
quite unique, and different from ordinary experience
in this girl, who had so often rescued her; and her
poor brain began to trace causes and origins and rea-
sons for the bewildering fact, that a sinless soul had
chosen to assume a character from which every one, not
PERCUSSA ET HUMILIATA 429
imbued with the charity of Christ, turns away with
loathing and abhorrence. It was inexplicable, — a deep,
awful mystery for which there was no explanation. For
days Laura Desmond dwelt and rested on the thought.
Sometimes she would watch Sister INIary performing the
ordinary offices of the infirmary, where she was assist-
ant — watch her with curious speculation in her eyes.
And when her good friend came over to perform some
little kindly act around her bedside, or to ask a ques-
tion, or to whisper a prayer, Laura would stare lier all
over with tlie unconsciousness of a child, and study her
eyes and mouth, and touch her hair and her dress, and
take up her hand to study it, like a palmist ; and then
would turn away to pursue the vast enigma which was
tlirown on the blurred canvas of her own life.
After many days of deep cogitation ; and after patch-
ing and piecing together all that she had ever heard of,
and all her own experiences of Sister INIary, she came
to a dread conclusion, which plunged her back into de-
spair. It was midnight when it seized her in her sleep-
less meditations ; and starting up wildly, she rang her
bell, and summoned the Sister Infirmarian. In a mo-
ment tlie latter was by her bedside, but was appalled to
see the look of horror and dismay on the features of her
poor patient.
" Call the priest," was the cry, "at once ! at once ! "
And so Father Tracey heard in his slumbers the famil-
iar sound of the midnight bell, and woke up, confused,
and put on in a dream his dingy clothes, praying and
asking : " What poor soul wants me now ? "
If there be on earth one reward greater than another
for the sacrifice a priest is forever called upon to make
for liis flock, it is the dawn of hope and comfort that
shines in the eyes and on the faces of the pain-stricken,
or the sorrowful, or the desjtairing, when a priest ap-
proaches their l)ed of sickness or suffering, and all the
phantoms tliat haunt poor humanity fly at his approach.
The mnrniured '' Thank God ! " the little laugli, half-
smothered, of triumph and x^eace ; the very manner in
I
430 LUKE DELMEGE
which the sick and the wounded arrange themselves on
their couches of sorrow, as if they said : " I have got
a new lease of life now ; for the Healer and Consoler
is here ! " — all this faith and confidence and hope,
placed in his very presence, as apart from his ministra-
tions, is a reward, so far beyond all earthly guerdons
and triumphs that it can only be said to foreshadow the
blisses of eternity. So, at least, Father Tracey felt;
and so did he thank God every moment for the sublime
vocation, which, in all humility and meekness, he was
followinof.
When he entered the infirmary this night, every one
gathered around Laura Desmond's sick-bed felt a kind
of sensible relief. And she turned to him wistfully, and
when he bent down to hear what she had to say, she
locked one finger in the button-hole of his coat, as if to
secure him beyond all doubt. Then, in a husky voice,
she whispered her secret.
He drew back in amazement, and looked at her, as if
her mind was astray. When she persisted, he only
smiled, which seemed to reassure her ; and then he
laughed the idea to scorn. This seemed to compose
the poor girl, but she held the button-hole firmly.
" On your word of honour, as a priest, are ye tellin'
me the truth ? "
" Of course I am," he cried. " Compose yourself,
child, and try and get some sleep."
" There's no more sleep for me," she said, " until I
get God's assurance that it is not so."
" Take my assurance," he said. " What more can
you have ? "
" Very well, yer reverence. But I tell you this, —
she's no more wan of us, than — than — than — "
" That may be, too," he said, although he felt he was
venturing dangerously near the King's Secret. " God
alone knows the secrets of hearts."
" Thin why is she here ? " asked the bewildered girl.
" Sure this is no place for her likes. Unless," she drifted
back to the old idea, " she is what I say."
PERCUSSA ET HUMILIATA 431
"Put that idea forever from your mind," he said,
gently disengaging himself. " And pray, pray. There
are more saints in the world than the world is aware of."
A few days afterwards he had a long conference with
Sister Eulalie on the subject.
" Sometimes I begin to doubt, myself," he said. " The
whole thing is so strange and wonderful and beautiful.
It will be many a day before the idea leaves that poor
girl's mind."
" It is strange and beautiful," said Sister Eulalie.
" Sometimes, I am inclined to kneel down and kiss the
ground where she walks. And fancy poor Luke's sus-
picions about imposture and hysteria."
" You're quite sure you know her ? " Father Tracey
said meditatively. " That you have seen her ; and
there is no doubt ? "
" There ! you're nearly as bad as Laura," said Sister
Eulalie. " There is no mistake, except that, God for-
give me, I thought ill, too, of tliis sweet saint, and
thought her stuck-up and proud and disdainful."
" But you may be mistaken, my dear," said Father
Tracey. "One never knows. And fancy, if — "
"There now, you're off, too. There's no doubt,
Father," she said reassuringly. " It is she ; and slie
does not dream that we know of her and her awful
vow."
And Sister Eulalie shuddered to think if such an
oblation were ever required of her.
Sister Mary began to be very nuich pained and very
much bewildered. Just as her confessor began to regard
her as human, mid therefore pitiable, her associates be-
gan to consider her as something superluiman and celes-
tial, and sent amongst them through some secret and
ineffable design of God. It was a long time before
Sister Mary's humility would permit her to recognize
this fact. Nay, even, she regarded tlie reverence and
timid slirinking from her, the slipj)ing aside from her
path wlien she appeared amongst a group of penitents,
the sudden silence, the quiet watchfulness that followed
432 LUKE DELMEGE
all her movements, as indications of aversion and sus-
picion. And, interpreting all this by the remark of the
Sister Infirmarian after Laura's recovery of conscious-
ness, she concluded that, in some way, she had been
guilty of undue harshness, apparently as the result of
self-conceit, and that she was, in consequence thereof,
shunned and disliked by those she loved so much. It
was a subtle and most painful delusion, and it caused
her infinite anxiety. It was the sharpest mortification
she had yet received. The cross was weighing heavily;
tlie thorns were pressing sharply, and she was about to
faint. Then one day, to her intense amazement, she
found, as she passed by a group with averted faces, her
mantella slightly touched, and, turning around, she
found that one of the group had raised it reverently
and kissed it. And she trembled all over with the
sudden revelation that she was regarded with reverence,
and not aversion, and then she grew pale and trembled
still more, for the dread that the mighty secret of her
life was about to be revealed.
The truth was, that Laura's whispered suspicions,
though stilled by the voice of authority, had taken wing
and flown from soul to soul of the community of peni-
tents, and very wild surmises were afloat. " There are
more saints in the world than the world is aware of,"
said their own dear saint. Father Tracey. Well then,
who knows ? Doesn't every man, woman, and child in
Ireland understand and believe that in one shape or
another the Blessed Virgin, the great Mary of Ireland,
the Mary of her ancient litanies and Masses, is always
amongst the Irish people ? Hasn't her sweet face been
seen again and again ? Hasn't she appeared to poor
sinners on their death-beds, and haven't they pointed
out her white, refulgent figure to the priest, as she
hovered over their beds and beckoned them to Paradise?
Hasn't she appeared to little girls over there in France ?
Wliy not, tlierefore, to her own Irish, who love her
more than all the world beside ? Well, we say nothing,
but we think a good deal, even we, poor penitents.
PERCUSSA ET HUMILIATA 433
May not the all-sinless one have come down here, and
put on our poor garments, even as her Son put on the
Hesh that had smned ? Oli, no, we daren't say any-
thing ; but — who knows ?
And Laura's dread thought, that this might be the
very Mother of God whom she struck with her open
hand — the dread thought that rang the midnight bell,
and summoned Father Tracey from his dreamless sleep,
began to pursue its way, under a thousand modifications,
through the minds and hearts of these poor, repentant
ones ; and although no one dared breathe such a whis-
per, and Sister Mary could only conjecture tluit there
had come a great change over her associates, she only
knew that her cross had been suddenly lifted by an
Unseen Hand, and that He had verified His words : " I
heard thee in the secret place of tempest ; I proved thee
uv the waters of contradiction."
2p
CHAPTER XXXIII
DAGON DISMEMBERED
The last words of Father Cussen in the library at Sea-
view Cottage may be said to have commenced Luke Del-
mege's Illumination. The world's catchwords seemed
to have lost all meaning in the appeal to God. He be-
gan to understand how divine was the vocation of the
Church in its mission to the individual, and how sublime
was her carelessness under what form of government
she worked, so long as she was not interfered with in
her quest after human souls. Side by side with this
conviction there grew up the perception that his own
race were following out this divine apostolate in secret
and hidden ways. Sometimes, when entering a city
convent, he would meet a batch of nuns just returned
from Benin, or a young Irish Sister just about to start
for Java. And they thought no more of the journey
and its hardships than if it were a picnic to some pic-
turesque spot on the Shannon. And he found the entire
burden of their conversation was the souls of black, nude
niggers, Avhom modern imperialism would gladly blow
into space with lyddite and dynamite, or corrupt and
corrode into disease and death by the agencies of modern
civilization. And when these young martyr apostles
left, they left behind them the divine contagion ; and
little Irish children, who, perhaps, themselves were in
want of bread, brought their halfpennies to the treasury
of the convent, "to buy a black baby for God." And
Luke's heart often wailed aloud, because he had turned
his back once and forever on the same divine vocation ;
and his conscience murmured more than once, Idiota !
434
f
,7'
I
DAGON DISMEMBERED 435
Idiota ! But he had gained two facts by experience :
(1) That the individual soul was everything to the
Church and God ; and (2) that the feigned and ficti-
tious watchwords of the new gospel of humanity were
the unspoken but well-fulhlled vows of his owji race.
" The horse-leech hath two daughters which say, Give !
give ! " But '' renunciation " is the motto of the apos-
tles of his race.
So, too, there began to dawn upon him, stealthily and
insensibly, the marvellous beauties even of tlie most
commonplace landscapes of Ireland. The very solitude,
which had oppressed him with such lonely and melan-
choly feelings, began to assume a strange and singular
charm. There was a mysterious light over everything
that gave an aspect of dreamland and enchantment, or
of old, far-off times, even to the long, lonely fields, or
the dark, sullen boghmd. He could not well define it.
There was some association haunting ever>-thing, inex-
pressibly sweet, but so vague, so elusive, he could not
define what it was. The fields in the twilight had a
curious colour or cloudland hanging over them, that
reminded him of something sweet and beautiful and far
away ; but this, memory or imagination could never seize
and hold. And when, on one of these gray days, which
are so lovely in Ireland, as the light falls sombre and
neutral on all things, a plover would sliriek across the
moorland, or a curlew would rise up and beat his lonely
way, complaining and afraid, across tlie ashen sky, Luke
would feel that he had seen it all before in someVaking
dream of childhood ; but all associations had vanished.
The magic of Nature alone remained. liut tlie juoun-
tains, the mountains haunted him perpetually. He
never rose in tlie morning without asking. How will my
mountains look to-day? And whether the great Artist
had drawn them far away in a beautiful mist of jiencilled
shadow, and they leaned, like a cloud, on the horizon;
or brought them up close and defiant, their blue-black
faces seamed and jagged, where the yellow torrents had
torn off the soft peat covering and left the yellow loam
436 LUKE DELMEGE
and red pebbles distinctly visible, the same dim, haunt-
ing memories hung around them, and he asked himself
a hundred times, Where have I seen all this before ?
And how does Nature, as she pushes forward her moun-
tains or withdraws them, and paints them every day
with a different brush — how does she draw on the back-
ground of memory some shadowy, elusive picture, and
associate it so strongly with that marvellous colouring
on mountain, and cloud, and sky ?
The October of this year, too, was a marvel of beauty.
The weather was so dry and frostless that Nature took
a long time to disrobe herself, and she changed her gar-
ments in such beautiful, varied ways, that the landscape
became a shiftins^ mass of colour. There was no sun,
either, to make the gradual decay too palpable — only
a hushed, gray colour over all the land. And Luke
watched the beautiful death from the moment the chest-
nut put out her pale, yellow leaf, and became a golden
blot on the thick mass of foliage, which filled the entire
hill behind the village, until all was over, and only the
evergreens vaunted their immortality. Every day was
a new pleasure ; and he began to think, with some con-
tempt, of long, dusty streets, and the stupid uniformity
of houses, and the asphalt pavements, and the miserable
patch of blue sky, which one is privileged to see in cities.
And to think, also, that there is such a thing as the
populous deserts of civilization, where man is but an exile
and a waif ; and the delightful, homelike feeling in Ire-
land, where you feel you are always sitting by your
mother's hearth ; and, come weal, come woe, this is
home, and all around are friends and lovers.
And, as in a happy home, the very worries and vexa-
tions of life have their own charm, so Luke began to
find, in everyday simple and very prosaic experiences, a
relief from thought that was quite refreshing.
It is true, indeed, that the eternal squabbles of the
kitchen hurt his nerves, until he began to find that they
meant but little ; and that the strong language some-
times used was only the hyperbole of a people who are
DAGON DISMEMBERED 437
used to express themselves picturesquel3\ When Maiy
described John as " the most outrageous fool that the
Lord ever created. He don't know his right hand from
his lef ; " and when John averred that '•• Mary had the
worst tongue the Lord ever put tlie bret' of life in ; "
and that her " looks would peel potatoes, and turn
sugar into vinegar, and even sour the crame in tlie
middle of winter," it disturbed Luke very much, until
he heard a musical duet of laughter from the kitchen
five minutes after, and an experienced friend assured
him that it was a sound maxim of domestic economy
that when the man and the maid fell out, tiie master's
interests were safe. So, too, when approaching tlie
stable in the morning he heard unmistakable sounds of
dancing to the everlasting tune of '' "Welt the flure,
Biddy McClure," and knew, by every law of sense and
reason, that John was practising a heel-and-toe for tlie
dance at the cross-roads the following Sunday; and when
he found the said John, sitting demurely on a soap-box,
and iH)lishing the harness for all it was worth, he began
to think he liad a Valentine Vousden in disguise.
" I thought I heard the sounds of dancing," Luke
would say, in a puzzled manner.
"•Dancin'? yer reverence. Ye hard the little mare
stampin' her feet."
" Stamping lier feet ? What for ? "
"'Tis a way she has whin she's hungry," John would
reply. " She's not aisy in her mind since ye cut her all
her oats." And Luke wouhl give u[) the riddle.
He found, too, that in tlic horticultural dcj)artmcnt,
John's knowledge was strictly limited to the cultivation
of potatoes, and his experience of flowers was equally
circumscribed. hi young ladies' ''books of confes-
sions," a favourite llower always has a place, the tastes
varying from a daisy up to an amaranth. John had his
favourite flower, it was the homely nasturtium ; and
he was so loyal to this love that lie declined to have
charge of the more aristocratic garden-belles which
Luke afl:'ected.
438 LUKE DELMEGE
" It costs no throuble," said John.
" It is only a weed," said Luke.
" 'Tis just as purty as thim that must be watched
and tinded like a baby," said John.
" The very etymology of the flower condemns it,"
said Luke.
" Well, indeed, it hasn't much of a scint," said John.
" I didn't mean that. I meant it has a nasty name — "
" There's many a wan has a bad name as doesn't
deserve it," said John.
It is not difficult to sympathize with John's tastes.
It is impossible not to feel a kind of pitying love for
Nature's homely creations. They are so generous, so
prodigal of their beauties, that one cannot help being
grateful ; and, like gipsy-children, they thrive in all
weathers without care ; and Mother Nature loves them
because they do credit to her handiwork without any
help from the bungling and blundering hands of man.
There is reason to fear that contempt is largely blended
with our admiration of the Lady Rose. She is a petted
and spoiled beauty. She must have attention and
admiration. She must have her toilette carefully made
every morning ; and eheu^ infandum! she must have
those ugly green parasites brushed away from her
lovely petals ; and, more dreadful still, the dainty lady
has to be fumigated and disinfected ; and, with all, as
she hangs her lovely and languishing head with rain or
dew-pearls in her bosom, no bird or bee will come nigh
her. And here, in the same bed, up springs a hardy
tramp of a thistle, and careless of wind or rain, and
untouched by parasites, he shoves his yellow, unkempt
head above the golden tresses of my rose ; and the
sparrows steal away his frowsy petals, and the bees find
something sweet deep down in his scraggy breast. Or
that insolent, lawless beggar, Robin-run-the-hedge,
draws his ill-smelling coils around the dainty lady, and
smothers her in his embraces, and mounts up, higher
and higher, until he flaunts his white, clear bell flowers,
a summer anemone, high above the regal rose-crests.
DAGON DISMEMBERED 439
Of course, the policeman, that is the gardener, conies
and carries off these tramps to jail or death, — that's
the way with the world — the hardy child of the people
must give place to the perfumed and delicate aristocrat.
Nevertheless, there are a few that sympathize with
Mother Nature's children, and amongst them may be
numbered .John and — anotlier.
It may be presumed, therefore, that Luke, with his
passion for flowers, got little help, and a consi(lera])le
amount of embarrassment from his gardener. His
large ambition to reduce the picturesque irregularities
of Irish life to the dull, rectanglar monotony of geomet-
rical perfection, Avas here too, in large measure, doomed
to disappointment. It was quite useless to try to per-
suade John that all this digging and manuring and clip-
ping and watering and cutting was recompensed by the
fleeting beauties of what he called " a few posies,"
which huno- out their fragile loveliness and scented the
air for a few days, and then peevishly threw down their
pretty petals the moment a light breeze disturbed them
or a shower of rain bowed them to the earth. Neither
could he see the use of cutting flower-beds into dia-
grams of Euclid ; and his heart smote him as he ran
the razored edges of the lawn-mower across the grass,
and all the pretty daisies lay decapitated beneatli tlie
ruthless guillotine.
" Begor," he said, " the masther was watchin* all the
winther to see the first daisy put up her purty little
head ; and you'd think lie'd go mad whin the first
primrose looked out of the black earth. And here he's
now with his : 'John, cut down thim daisies ; ' 'Jolni,
tliat grass is dirty;' 'John, get away thim weeds.'
Did ye iver hear the likes of it ? " And Jolm was dis-
contented, and the "mastlier" was in despair.
" Hring out the bulbs that you took up last winter,"
said Luke, late in the October of this vear.
" What balls '.^ " said John.
"The tulip and liyacinth bulbs which I gave you to
put by against the winter," said Luke.
440 LUKE DELMEQE
John was bewildered. Mary heard the conversation
and giggled.
" Yer reverence giv me no hicense," said John, fairly-
puzzled.
" I gave you last May four dozen of tulips from this
bed, and two dozen hyacinths from these beds," said
Luke, angrily pointing to where the geraniums and
begonias had just been lifted.
John was still puzzled. Then a great light dawned,
and he looked at his master with all the compassion of
superior knowledge.
"Oh ! thim inguns, your reverence ! Yerra, sure the
chickens ate every wan of thim."
" What ? " cried Luke, now thoroughly angry. " Do
you mean to say that you have thrown away those
tulips that cost me four shillings, and those hyacinths
that cost six a dozen ? "
" Yerra, not at all," said John, smiling. " Sure ye
can get any amount of thim up at Miss Smiddy's.
They're hanging in ropes from the ceiling, and they're
chape now. I'll get a dozen for ye for tuppence."
Then Luke collapsed. He was genuinely angry ;
what florist would not be ? And he half made up his
mind that John should go. He was incorrigible and
utterly incapable of being educated. After long and
deep deliberation, in which the saying of a friend,
whom he had often consulted on John's retention and
dismissal, " If you hunt him, you'll only be gettin' a
bigger blagard ! " came frequently uppermost, he at last
decided that he could not stand this worry. He told
Mary that John should go. Mary had been laughing
at John all the morning, and had told him several times
that it was all up now. The master would never for-
give "thim chewlips." He should go. Luke was sur-
prised to find Mary bursting into an agony of tears,
and rushing wildly from the room. But he was inex-
orable. The misery was going on too long and should
be ended. He moved out towards the stables with a
certain amount of nervousness, for he hated to do an
DAGON DISMEMBERED 441
unkind thing. Instead of the usual patter of dancing,
he heard the sound as of prayer. He listened. John
was preparing for confession, and making his examina-
tion of conscience aloud. Luke walked away, but he
was determined. When he tliought tlie examen was
over, he returned. John was making his act of con-
trition. There was no harm in listening there. The
voice came, broken with sobs — yea, the voice of John !
It said, amidst the weeping : —
What was Thine of sorrow and pain, O Thou, who in heaven
dost reign,
O King, both good and great;
It comes not into my mind, the amount to find,
Nor, if found, could my tongue relate
The bitter anguish and smart of Thy Sacred Heart,
And the spear-cleft in Thy side,
That moved with a holy awe of Thy Sacred Law
Even kings on their thrones of pride.
O Father! O Jesus mine ! who by Thy Death Divine
With life our souls dost warm.
Thou, in creation's hour, whose plastic power
Made man to Thy own blessed form,
Is it not, O Christ ! O King! a cruel, cruel thing,
That naught has been loved by me
Save sins that the soul defile, save all things base and vile,
That are loathsome unto Thee ?
It was the beautiful old lay of the Sacred ITcart,
translated from tlie ancient Irish, ^ and wliich John
had picked up at the church door and retained, — as it
appealed strongly to his fancy, — as an act of contri-
tion. Everytliing in prayer and proverb that rliymes
or sings touches the heart of Ireland. And Luke
heard the sound of sobbing again as John went over
the line : —
Is it not, O Christ! O King! a ca-ru-el. ca-ru-el thing?
Then he turned away, muttering, Poor fellow ! and Jolin
was saved.
A few days after, Luke was summoned to his mother's
1 By D. F. McCarthy.
442 LUKE DELMEGE
funeral. She had lingered en through the summer ;
and though Death had taken up permanent lodgings
in the house, he was afraid to ask his hostess to leave
with him. But one night he stole through the door
and a soul was with him. The good old mother had
passed away in her sleep whilst the household slumbered.
She was spared the pain of weepers and watchers around
her as she stole over the threshold and out into the
night.
With all his intense dislike for noise, or demonstra-
tion, or too much ceremonial for the dead or for the
living, Luke was hoping that his mother's obsequies
would be celebrated as quietly as possible. The last
wish of the deceased, " to have a dacent funeral," did
not quite agree with his instinctive hatred of fuss and
noise. But the matter was quietly taken out of his
hands. To his intense amazement, nearly thirty priests
had assembled on the morning of the funeral. They
had come from all parts of the diocese. Some of them
Luke had never seen before. The names of others
were unfamiliar to him. No matter ! This was a
priest's mother. She shared in the Levitical consecra-
tion of her son. She should be equally honoured.
There was to be a full Office and Mass for the Dead.
The morning was wet. Some one said, " It rained
ramrods." The little sacristy was full of priests, whose
friezes and mackintoshes created little lakes of water
everywhere. Some had come ten miles, some twelve,
some even nineteen, straight away from the stations,
that last through October and into the first week of
November. Luke, touched to the heart, had great pity
for them.
" We'll have but one Nocturn," he whispered to the
master of ceremonies. The latter went over to the
Canon, who was to preside. He brought back word
that the entire Office should be sung. It was the wish
of all the priests. And Father Daly, too, was one of
the chanters ; and very beautifully he intoned the noble
antiphons of the sublime Office of the Dead. The
DAGON DISMEMBERED 443
c2iurch was packed to its farthest extremity by a silent,
devout congreg-ation. From their wet, sodden clothes
steamed up a cloud of vapour that mingled with the
incense smoke and filled the entire church with a heavy
liaze. They too had come from far distances to testify
their reverence for the dead. And Luke remembered
there, in the dawn of his great illumination, that all
this was slightly different from the cold, mechanical
heartlessness of England, where the dead were unprayed
for and unremembered ; and a few black mourning
coaches were the only testimony of respect to the lump
of clay which had to be hustled from the sight of the
living as speedily as possible.
The long procession commenced. Larry, the old
retainer, jealous for the honour of his family, counted
carefully every car.
" There wor wan liundred and thirty," he told old
Mike Delmege afterwards, "and twinty horsemen.
There should be wan hundred and thirty-six, if she had
her rights, and if thim who ought to he there hadn't
stopped away. But we'll remimber it for 'em.'"
Down came the wear}^ Aveary rain, as the long, sIoav
procession defiled along the slushy roads. A group of
beggars was assembled down near the house, who gave
vent to their feelings in language that was oidy meas-
ured by gratitude. True for them ! It was never
known that neighbour's child was ever " broke *' on that
farm ; or that a beggar was ever turned from that door.
And many a piece of rusty bacon, hanging from ilie
ceiling, and many a huge semicircle of griddle cake
disappeared in the wallets of the indigent^ to the con-
sternation of Nancy, who crossed herself devoutly and
prayed Heaven to guard tlie house against the depreda-
tions of the " good people."
Down still came the rain, when the lonely procession
reached the Abbey grounds. l>ut no one heeded, ex-
cept to repeat the distich : —
Ilappv is tlie bride the sun shines on !
Happy are the deatl the rain rains on I
444 LUKE DELMEGE
"When the coffin was lifted from the bier on to the
shoulders of the men, among whom there was heated
rivalry for the honour, the cortege, instead of moving
directly to the Abbey across a smooth pathway, made
a circular detour around the entire graveyard. This
entailed much discomfort on priests and people, for the
high grass was sodden with rain, and the nettles and
hemlocks threw a spray of crystal drops on the passers-by.
And down into hollows, and over the crests of graves,
and stumbling against fallen tombstones, and falling
into pits, the priests and bearers went on, whilst the
mournful 3Iiserere was carried out in strong currents
of wind and rain across the landscape, or echoed sadly
over the graves of thirty generations of the dead. No
matter. It was the custom of the land, and no power
on earth could change the tradition of the most con-
servative people on earth. And for the hundredth time
Luke Delmege concluded that there was but little use
in attempting to transplant foreign civilizations here.
This race must create or develop a civilization peculiarly
its own.
When the circle of priests was completed around the
open grave, the Canon resumed the funeral service.
Luke stood near him and held his umbrella over the
old man's bare head. Just before the Benedictus, as
that glorious antiphon. Ego sum Resurrectio et Vita, was
being chanted, Luke resigned iiis umbrella to a young
priest standing near and went over and stood by his
father, Avho, bowed and sorrow-stricken, was gazing
mournfully into the open grave. And here a sight met
his eyes which was a shock, and then — a revelation.
The gloom which overhung the whole proceedings had
deepened in his soul into a strange overpowering mel-
ancholy, which the leaden skies and the weeping land-
scape intensified. All through the Office in the church
he had tried to close the eyes of his mind to its terrible
significance. The mournful music of the Psalms, with
their alternate cadences of grief and hope — now sink-
ing almost into despair, and then soaring aloft into an
I
DAGON DISMEMBERED 445
exaltation that seemed almost to presume too much on
the Eternal — did not affect him quite as deeply as the
lessons from the Book of Job, which, read slowly and
solemnly by dignified priests, seemed to sound as the
death-bell of poor humanity. And all that he liad ever
read in the poetry of mankind blended and mingled
with the inspired threnodies of the man in the land of
Hus ; and it was all, all about the nothingness of man
and his momentary existence on this planet.
Remember, T beseech Thee, that Thou hast made me as the
clay; and Thou wilt bring me into the dust again. Hast thou not
milked me as milk, and curdled me as cheese? Against a leaf that
is carried away by the wind, Thou sliowest Thy power; and Thou
pursuest a dry straw. Who cometh forth like a flower, and is
destroyed, and fleeth as a shadow, and never continueth in the
same state. I should have been as if I had not been, carried from
the womb to the grave.
And —
A little soul for a little holds up the corpse which is man.
And —
They wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashioned with loathing and love;
With life before and after,
And death beneath and above;
For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a span,
With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.
Not a word about the "perfect man" that is to be, or
his immortality on tliis his little theatre ! Not a word
about the '^ deity in emln-yo," or the "slumbering god-
head." He shall pass ! he shall pass ! That is all I
The grave was dug close beneath the great northern
window of tlie Abbey, which almost fiUed the entire
gable, its slender shafts holding aloft, like the stems of
candelal)ra, the beautiful tracery that spread itself into
flame shapes, terminating in one sharp jet at the apex.
The floor of the Abbey had been raised, in the course
of centuries, six or seven feet, for only the curved arches
446 LUKE DELMEGE
of the sedilia were visible in the side walls ; and Luke,
staring into the open grave, saw that it was lined on all
sides with human remains. Brown bare skulls filled
every inch of its walls ; and here, tossed also on the
grass were fragments and shells that once held together
the little pulp that makes man's body. Some one,
pitying the people, had ordered the coffin to be lowered ;
and the rude labourer who acted as sexton had caught
up a handful of earth-stained bones and flung them into
the grave as carelessly as a woman flings a handful of
twigs on her fire. Then he lightly kicked a large
round skull after them. It fell with a heavy thud on
the coffin, turned up its ghastly visage and grinned,
rolled over in another somersault, and was finally jammed
between the angle of the coffin and the brown walls of
the grave. There it leered up hideously at the indiffer-
ent spectators. Luke felt sick. Here was the end of
all his youthful dreams. There lay the little god of
this planet. And his dream of Humanity was buried
in that grave where Dagon lay dismembered before the
face of the living God !
Luke had been quite unconscious of the singing of
the Benedictus, so absorbed was he in his reverie. He
now woke up to hear, in a kind of triumphant psean,
the words : —
Visitavit nos, Oriens ex Alto !
The words seemed to unlock the secrets of the grave,
and to open up the far vistas that lay before the fallen
race. Oriens ex Alto! Oriens ex Alto! The far visions
of the prophets — the proximate revelation to the Father
of the Precursor — the mighty apparition of the Sacred
Humanity seemed to hover over that charnel-house of
bones ; and Luke saw, what long ago he had maintained
as a theological thesis in the halls of jNIaynooth, that
there is but one, and can be but one, perfected Human-
ity ; and this it is that shall lift the whole race into
Itself, drawing the certainties of eternity from the
doubts of time, and out of the despair of earth, deriving
f
I
DAGON DISMEMBERED 447
the hope and the bliss of heaven. " Seek ye the man
in God."
The aged father, stooped with years and sorrow, hung
over the grave to the end. Then Luke gently raised
him, and offering the feeble limbs the support of his
strong arm, tliey moved towards the Abbey entrance.
All else had gone ; but there lingered a small group of
peasants at tlie gate that led into the inclosure. Tliey,
too, were sodden with wet and damp, and tiny rivulets
of rain ran down from their felt hats. Luke, with liis
head stooped in sorrow, was about to pass them without
noticing them, when one stepped forward shyly and
held out his rough hand.
"• We kem to tell you, Father Luke," he said, " that
we are sorry for your throuble."
Luke grasped liis hand, but looked bewildered at the
speaker.
"I'm James McLoughlin," the latter said; "you
remimber, yer reverence, where we had the little dissin-
sion, you know ? "
Then Luke remembered his former parishioners, who
liad given him all the trouble, and had procured his
dismissal from their parish. The poor fellows, anxious
to make up for past delinquency, had come across the
country from a great distance to testify their respect.
As Luke did not immediately respond, the}' thought he
was resentful.
"We thought that bygones should be bygones, yer
reverence," said James lilcLoughlin, "and \\f kem — "
" Don't speak of it, my dear fellow," said Luke. " I
have long since forgotten and forgiven cxerylhiug.
And Lm inlinitelv oblio-ed to you for yom- kindness in
coming so far on such a day. Father, these are my
former parishioners, who have come miles from home to
attend mother's funeral."
And they had to go back to Lisnalee and were well
entertaineii there. And there is some reason to fear
that the statutes of the diocese were ruthlessly broken,
and Luke made no protest.
BOOK V
CHAPTER XXXIV
CREMOXA AND CALVARY
It was the wish of the good Canon that Luke should
spend a few days at his rectory. But^Luke preferred
Seaview Cottage. The Canon was always courteous,
kind, hospitable. Father Martin was always outspoken,
sometimes even brusque. Yet Luke preferred the easy
comfort of Seaview Cottage, even though it sometimes
blew heavy guns, to the calm, untroubled dignity of the
rectory. The best of men like an arm-chair and the
luxury of crossed legs. Yet the atmospliere even of
the sunny library was sombre these dark days. It was
only lighted by the eyes of Tiny and the laughter of
Tony. Some time in the course of the evening, before
ihey were dismissed to bed, the former, after a long
and careful study of the grave, solemn stranger, drew
a chair silently behind his, mounted on it, and flung
her arms, and closed them, like a spring, around Luke's
neck. He drew the child around and kissed lier.
" There's somethin' hurtin' you dere," said the child,
pc^inting to liis breast pocket.
"True, Mignon," he said, drawing out a bundle of
letters, wliich in all his hurry he had ])rought from
liome unopened. He had now leisure. Tlie lirst was
from his Bishop.
" A letter of condolence ! " conjectured Luke. As
he read it, his face fell. He handed the document to
Father Martin. It was a gentle repiiniand ; but it
was a reprimand, and a Bisho[)'s words cut like an acid.
Luke had been reported to liis Bishop for not only per-
mitting, but even encouraging, proselytism in his par-
461
452 LUKE DELMEGE
ish. The matter had been referred to his parish priest,
who tried to extenuate it. Nevertheless, the facts
remained ; and the Bishop warned Luke to be more
circumspect in future.
"I am hopelessly doomed," said Luke, "to desire
what is good, and to accomplish the reverse."
"You look too much to principles — too little to
men ! " replied Father Martin.
" Could anything be better than to seek to reconcile
and make mutually tolerant and helpful the two great
classes in this country ? Surely, it is the only solution
of this apparently insoluble problem."
" Quite so. But did you ever consider that in this
attempt you are seeking to reconcile not only interests
which are hopelessly conflicting, but the very spirits of
affirmation and negation ? "
" I cannot see it," said the bewildered Luke.
" Don't you see the gist of this complaint ? " said
Father Martin. " The people object to the dethrone-
ment of their saints and heroes. These stand to them
in the light of the embodiment of a great idea or prin-
ciple. It is an affirmation that there have been, and
therefore there can be again, heroism, bravery, truth,
in this weary world. Now, your fine ladies come, and
with the best intentions introduce the spirit of denial.
'Who art thou? What is thy name?' said the stu-
dent to the Spirit of Evil. ' I am the Spirit that denies,'
was the answer. And the little poodle of Reformation
heresy that has been running around in circles for the
last three hundred years has now swollen into the big
monster behind the stove. And out of the swollen
monster. Materialism, and to the music of the spirits
of Poetry and the Fine Arts, steps the urbane, cultured
scholar, who makes his bow : ' I am the Spirit who
denies ! ' "
Luke shuddered.
" And yet," he said, " there are the sweetest, beauti-
fullest souls I ever met over there across the border.
Oh, what a riddle, what a puzzle ! "
f
CREMONA AND CALVARY 453
■' Well, don't puzzle ! " said the matter-of-fact Father
Martin. "Keep close to your own people — the peo-
ple of eternity ! Let alone the sons and daughters ol
men ! "
" The people of eternity ! " Yes, indeed ! so they
are, as Luke was every day more fully ascertaining.
Time and the world were nothing to his race, who
seemed to look at everything as if they themselves were
already disembodied.
Luke sat in the dim sacristy of Rossmore on the even-
ing of All Saints' — the eve of All Souls' Day. A
long list lay before him — the names of the departed,
who were to be prayed for on the morrow. The sacristy
was filled with an eager crowd, and there was a mur-
mur of voices outside. One by one they came to the
table, laid down the little offering, and with scrupulous
exactness had the names of the deceased registered.
There Avere tears on many faces, and many broken voices
repeated the names of the dead, and always with a
note of gratitude and respect. And not only relatives,
but even the mere passing acquaintances of life, were
remembered.
" For me poor boy, yer reverence, that's lyin' out on
the snows of the Ilimalees."
*•• For the good father that reared me, and brought
me up clane and dacent."
" For the poor sowl, yer reverence, that's in the great-
est howlt."
Luke put down his pen.
"Any relation of your own? " It was his first blunder.
He was coming round.
" Faix, it niiglit be, yer reverence. How do T know ?
But no mattlicr wlio it is — if it wor tlie blackest stran-
ger from (xalway, so long as tliey want it."
Luke wrote down his own translation.
" For Mary Carmody, yer reverence," said a voice in
a whisper, that was made still more gentle by the hood
of the shawl wra})[)ed around tlic face.
" Your sister ? " said Luke.
454 LUKE DELMEGE
" Yerra, not at all, yer reverence ! But a poor cra-
chure, that we picked out of the sthreets. The old
boy had his glaum upon her ; but faix, we chated him
in the ind."
" For me cummerade, Mike Mulcahy, yer reverence,"
said a stalwart pensioner, putting his hand to his fore^
head.
" Killed ? " said Luke, who never wasted words.
" Begor, he was, yer reverence," said the pensioner,
settling down for a long narrative, and utterly heedless
of the fifty or sixty persons who were waiting behind
him, and who had heard the story a hundred times.
" It was in the Crimee, before Sebastopool, and we were
lyin' in the trinches up to our nicks in mud ; and the
Rooshian shells flyin' over our heads, like a flock of
crows cummin' home of an evenin'. 'Look,' sez I, 'an'
put up yer head.' ' There's'n room,' sez he. 'Niver
min', so,' sez I ; and shure I'm thankin' the good God
every day since, that I didn't sind him to his death.
' They're quiet now,' sez he, ' and here goes ! ' ' What
did ye see ? ' sez I. No answer. ' What did ye see ? '
sez I agin. No answer. ' What did ye see, ye of
an omadhaun,' sez I. No answer. I looked round. His
head was blown clane away. There was nothin' left
but from his nick down, and — "
" Poor fellow ! " said Luke, seeing the impatience of
the crowd. " Well, I hope he was prepared."
" Prepared ? Faix, he was. We all wint to confes-
sion a few days before to Father Walsh."
" I'll tell you what you'll do," said Luke. " I cannot
afford to lose any of that story. Will you call at my
house to-morrow night, and let me hear the whole thing
from beginning to end ? "
" Faix, I will, with jjleasure," said the good pen-
sioner ; and he went away with his head in the air, six
inches higher for the honour. He always spoke of Luke
after the interview as " me friend, Father Luke," add-
ing : " That's the kind of min they want as army
chaplains. If the Juke knew him, he'd have him in
Aldershot in a mont'."
CREMONA AND CALVARY 455
" For me parents, and decased friends," said a strong,
rough man, who spoke in a rather superior manner, as
if he were offended by the want of tact shown by liis
predecessor. Luke wrote the names.
" Put down now, yer reverence," said the man, " the
name of Martin Connolly, soldier of the Federal Army,
wdio died from wounds received in the gallant charge
of the Irish Brigade at Fredericksburg."
" That's hardly necessary," said Luke.
" Oh, but it is, yer reverence. I want me poor cum-
merade to get his rights in the next world, as he didn't
get them in this."
" That was Meagher's Brigade," said Luke, in a mo-
ment of forgetfulness and enthusiasm.
The poor soldier smiled, drew himself up erect, and
put out his right hand.
" Ah, you know it, yer reverence. God bless you !
Put the hand there ! "
Luke placed his hand in the big, broad palm. The
old man raised it reverently, and kissed it.
" Put down the sowl of Thomas Francis Meagher,
there, yer reverence," said he, sobbing. " Sure it isn't
I should forget him. I was as near to him as to j-er
reverence this minit on that day. 'Boys,' sez he, ' re-
mimber who ye are ! Sure 'tis Fm the proud man to
be lading to death or victory the bravest and best min
in tlic Federal Army. Bo3-s,' sez he, here's your flag,
don't disgrace it ! I wish to God, boys,' sez he, ' tluit
I had ye on the slopes of Slievnamon. Wonkln't we
make the redcoats fly?' He stop[)ed tliin, as if lie wor
tliinkin' of ould times and cummerades. 'Dinipsey,'
sez he to the bandmaster, 'play u^) l)rian Boru's march.
Slope arms, four deep — forward I ' And on we wint
to our death. Father Walsh, not this man's Fatlier
Walsh," he said, jerking his hand contemptuously at
the last iKMisioner, "but our own Fatlier Walsh — God
be wid him, he was the fine man — sat on his horse, as
we passed by. He was a big man, wid a big black
beard, and he was risin' his hand over us, as we marched
456 LUKE DELMEGE
past. I put me hand on his knee, and sez I, ' Father,'
sez I, 'gi' me a double blessin', for I'm a double blag-
ard.' He laughed, poor man, 'twas the last we seen of
him. For we weren't twinty minits in the field, thryin'
to take that hill (sure we might as well be thryin' to
take the gates of Heaven), whin down I wint, with a
splinter of a shell in me calf; and down wint poor
Martin, with a bullet in his left lung. We wor out on
the field, all night in the cowld, watchin' the stars,
widout a bit, bite, or sup, only the wounded moanin'
and groanin' all around us. About twelve, we saw
lights ; and whin they kem near enough, we saw they
wor the Confederate ginerals come out to see after their
own. ' Here goes,' says Martin, shovin' in a cartridge ;
' one shot at the rebelly rascals, and thin I die aisy.'
' Dang yer sowl, ye ruffian,' sez I, and 'twasn't that I
said ayther, yer reverence, — ' do ye want to go before
God wid murder on your sowl ? ' ' They killed many a
brave man to-day,' sez he, spittin' blood. ' Fair play is
bonny play, sez I,' taking the rifle from the ruffian. An'
shure, if he fired that shot, yer reverence, all the rebels
in camp wud be among us in a minit, stabbin' and
shootin' like the divil. But, Fm afeared I'm delayin'
the nabours," he said, turning round, " that ould Cri-
mean pinsioner kep ye sich a long time."
" This offering 's too much for you," said Luke, push-
ing back a half-orown. "I'll keep just half."
" Not a bit of it, yer reverence," said the old man,
pushing the coin back again. " We're not like these
poor English angashores — on sixpence a day."
He passed out triumphant, though limping from that
splintered shell. In a few minutes he returned, and
pushed his way through the crowd of women to the
table.
" I thought you might be forgettin', your reverence.
Did you put down, Martin Connolly, soldier in the
Federal Army, who died of gunshot wounds, received
in action — "
" It's all right, it's all right ! " said Luke.
CREMONA AND CALVARY 457
" And Thomas Francis Meagher, Brigadier Gin-
al — "
" 'Tis all right, 'tis all right ! " said Luke.
It was a gloomy night, starless and moonless, and
with a heavy black-brown pall, as of faded velvet, hang-
ing down over the world, as Luke passed out from the
iron gate, and picked his steps carefully down the un-
even ways of the village street. He had passed up
through his little garden, and was placing his latch-key
in the door, when he became aware of a stooped, huml)le
figure, evidently waiting for him near the doorway.
The figure, silently and uninvited, followed him into
the lighted hall.
" I have made bould to call on yer reverence," said
the voice, the voice of a wizened old woman, whose face
and figure were hidden under a mass of clothes.
" Well, my poor woman, and what can I do for you ? "
s-aid Luke.
"• I had nothin' to offer you," she said, " and I didn't
like to be seen in the vesthry ; but if your reverence
would remimber in the Mass the sowl of Father
O'Donnell — "
'' Father O'Donnell ? Father O'Donnell ? " said Luke.
"I never heard the name."
" Av coorse you didn't, yer reverence," she said.
" You're too young, God bless you ! He's dead these
forty years. 'Twas T nursed him in his last sickness,
and he used to say, ' Nellie, don't you forget me in your
Masses and prayers ! The people think that we have
no purgatory ; but tliey don't know what a hard judg-
ment we have for all the graces we get I ' I remimber
the words well. An' sure, if anny wan ever desarvod
Heaven, it was you, me poor, dear priest ! But I have
never forgotten thim words : an' I never left an All
Sowls' Night pass without gettin' him mintioned in the
Blessed Mass."
" It shall be done, my poor woman," said Luke,
affectionately.
458 LUKE DELMEGE
" God bless yer reverence ! " she said, humbly passing
out into the night.
And Luke sat down near his parlour fire. He didn't
read. He had many things to think of. Thought,
after a little while, became unbearable. He put on his
biretta, and stepped out on his little garden walk. The
night was extremely dark, and here and there a light
shone in the village.^ And, far above the village, out
of the black breast of darkness, there gleamed the lights
of the Lodge. The wind was moaning dismally ; but
it was a warm wind ; and if one could believe that
spirits in pain seek their places on earth to do penance
for their transgressions, and to ask the alms of prayers
for atonement, it would not be hard to realize that the
heavens and the earth were haunted this eerie night,
and that the pitiful prayer, Miseremini mei! miseremini
mei! was the burden of the wailing wind. But it was
not this, but the pathetic remembrance of the dead
by these poor people that affected Luke deeply. He
thought of his sister's words : " Luke dear, love the
poor, and life will be all sunshine." And he did love
them : loved them deeply, earnestly ; but in that hard,
mechanical way, that never touches their hearts. He I
wanted to lift them up ; and lo ! there they were on
the summits of the eternal hills far above him. He
desired to show them all the sweetness and light of life ;
and behold, they were already walking in the gardens
of eternity ! He was preaching the thrift of money to
the misers of grace. Where was the use of talking
about economizing to a people whose daily fancies
swept them abroad to regions where Time was never
counted ? And the value of money to a race, who, if
parsimonious and frugal, became so through a contempt
of physical comfort, and who regarded the death of the
rich man as the culmination of all earthly misfortune ?
Then it began to dawn upon Luke's reason that it was
moral, not altogether economic, causes that were driving
1 In Ireland, lights are kept burning all night on All Souls' Eve, as
on. Christmas Eve.
CREMONA AND CALVARY 459
the people from their motherland. They were bitten
by the dogs of Mammon here and there, and the unrest,
that sought peace and pleasure in the saloon, and the
electric-lighted streets, and the music-hall, and the
theatre. And he began to understand what was meant
when his confreres spoke of the creation of a new civili-
zation, founded on Spartan simplicity of life, and Chris-
tian elevation of morals, and the uplifting to the higher
life, to which all the aspirations of his race tended, in-
stead of the steady downward degradation that was cer-
tain to ensue, if tlie new dogmas of mere materialism,
founded on the i)urely natural virtues, were allowed to
supplant the larger lights of the Gospel, and the sacred
doctrines that set at utter naught all the ordinary dic-
tates of selfish ])rudence and purely temporal ambitions.
And if for a moment his old ideas returned of a race
self-seeking, prudential, hard-hearted, and endowed with
all the virtues of the fox and the squirrel, and his reason
cried, Utopia, Utoj)ia I to the creation of a spiritual King-
dom — well, here were the voices of the night, Miseremini
mei! miseremini mei! the children of eternity crying to
the children of time for the alms of prayer and sacrifice.
Luke was extremely busy this week. He had no
time to prepare a sermon for Sunday. He had ex-
hausted all his political economy ; and he was beginning
to tire of it. Saturday evening came. He had returned
from his confessional; and he was depressed. Here,
too, he was slnmned by the people. Notliing used ]>ain
him so deeply as when entering the churcli on Satur-
days or the eves of holidays, he saw his own confessional
deserted, and a great crowd around tlie old pastor's
"box"; and the little childriMi, even, wliom he loved
so much, would hold down their heads, half afraid to
be seen, or wouhl look up with a shy, furtive glance
at the grave, solemn curate. He could not understand
it. He was always kind, gentle, merciful to penitents.
Why was lie sliunncd ? He had lost the key of the
supernatural; and he didn't know it. One word about
grace and eternity ; about the Sacred Heart or the
460 LUKE DELMEGE
Precious Blood ; about the Virgin Mother or St. Joseph,
would have opened floodgates of sorrow and love. Nay,
if lie had scolded them, and abused them, for their soul's
sake, they would have loved him. But goodness for
prudence' sake — virtue, because it was a paying trans-
action in the long run, they could not well grasp ; and
all his exhortations fell, dry and withered, on hearts
that thirsted for higher things.
He took up a newspaper this evening. There was a
brief account of a certain battle that had been fought
some centuries ago, in far Cremona. The details
amused him — they were so characteristic. He laid
down the paper.
" By Jove I " he said. " I will. I'll preach on
Cremona and Calvary I "
He did ; but it cost him a tremendous effort. He
had trained liimself so perfectly to self-restraint, par-
ticularly in his language, that his measured words fell,
at first, on a cold and unsympathetic audience. He in-
troduced the subject in connection with the great AH
Souls' Feast, which had just passed. He wished to prove
that love for the dead was always a characteristic of the
race ; that soldiers j)rayed for dead comrades — ay, even
for the enemy they had destroyed. Then he spoke of
Cremona ; of the two regiments, Dillon's (the old Mount-
cashel Brigade) and Burke's, that were quartered in the
city. He drew a picture of the great French army,
asleep in the famous Italian city — the stealthy ajiproach
of the enemy — their successful entry — their bivouac
on the square while the garrison slept. The congrega-
tion woke up at the old familiar names — Dillon, Burke,
Mountcashel. The U. S. pensioner and the Crimean
veteran rose in their seats. And as Luke went on to
describe the reveille at midnight, the sleepers aroused
from dreams to the terrible cry : " Tlie enemy is upon
us ! " the sudden rush for arms, and then the mighty
valour with which the two Irish regiments, in very pro-
nounced undress, flung tliemselves unaided on the foe,
and drove them beyond the walls, and then drew up at
i
CREMONA AND CALVARY 461
the bridge-gate that commanded the town entrances,
and drove back charge after charge of the cuirassiers,
— and all this, while their marshal was in the hands of
the enemy, — he let himself go, the first time for many
years, and painted with all the emphasis of Celtic imagi-
nation the valour of this remnant of the Irish Brigade.
There was a broad smile on the faces of the people as
he spoke of the deshabille and unfinished toilettes of
these Irish exiles ; but when he went on to describe
how, after the battle, the victors went out to bury the
dead, and found some hundreds of their fellow-country-
men amongst the Austriaus, who had fallen under their
own fire, and how they knelt and prayed over the dead,
and then built a mighty cross over their remains, Celtic
fire yielded to Celtic sorrow ; and for the first time in
his life, Luke saw tears on the faces of his audience.
He went on to speak of the Calvaries that were every-
where erected in Catholic countries on the Continent —
by the wayside, on mountain summits, at the corners of
streets; and he expressed great surprise that in a Cath-
olic country like Ireland, such manifestations of faith
and piety were almost unknown. He closed his dis-
course by a homily on death — his own recent bereave-
ment adding pathos to his words — and turned to the
altar, with a full heart.
The first fruit of his sermon was visible in an ex-
cellent dinner. Mary's temper was variable ; and her
moods affected her cuisine. This day, she did not
know whether to laugli or to cry. The picture of
these Irish fellows rusliing straight from their beds at
the foe, and driving, half armed and unarmoured, four
thousand (iermans from the city, tickled her fancy.
Then, the tliouglit of Luke's mother (to whose death he
had delicately alluded) subduetl her ; but she walked
on air all that day ; and Luke saw delicacies whose very
names were unknown to him. And Mary told .lohii
confidentially : —
" I knew tlie masther was always right ; but priests
can't talk out their minds, like common people.''
462 LUKE DELMEGE
There was a vast and sudden change, too, in the atti-
tude of the great bulk of the parishioners. Instead of
the shy, furtive looks — half-frightened, half -respectful
— men walked up to him with a certain gay freedom,
and accosted him. Some ventured so far as to say, with
a cheery smile, " A fine day, Father Luke ! " And the
women courtesied, and whispered : " God bless your
reverence every day you live ! "
The village butcher, who held very strong National
principles, and who was usually taciturn, if not surly,
towards Luke, grew suddenly familiar. And sweet-
breads, and liver, and kidneys began to pour into Luke's
larder. And from afar, poor women brought in their
early turkeys, for which they could get ten shillings a
pair, and the yard became melodious with the cackling.
And now, when he passed the young men on their Sun-
day walks, or going to work, instead of the silent, cold
reverence of old with which they doffed their hats as
they passed by, there was assumed a certain jaunt}^ air
of familiarity ; and with it, a sort of confidential smile,
as if they would say : " Well, your reverence, it was a
good joke — that of those Irish sa7is-culottes, tearing
like mad through the streets and squares of Cremona."
About a fortnight after, as Luke was going out to
say last Mass, he thought he saw something unusual in
the landscape. He rubbed his eyes, and scrutinized
carefully every minute feature, now so well known to
him. At last he discovered the novelty. Beyond the
red tiles of the village roofs stretched the precipitous
slope of woodland and forest in which the Lodge nes-
tled. The Lodge was hardly visible in summer, so
thick was the foliage of beeches, and oaks, and elms.
But there was always visible a white pencil of a flag-
staff, crossed by ayardarm, and netted with white ropes.
The gilt ball on its summit glittered whenever the sun
shone ; and, when the General was at home, the red flag
of England gleamed like a flame of fire against the black
foliage. Sometimes it was the Union Jack, sometimes
the flag of an admiral of the high seas, sometimes one
I
I
CREMONA AND CALVARY 463
symbol, sometimes another ; but always the flag of Eng-
land. And some of the villagers passed it by unnoticed,
and some stared at it curiously ; and some, especially
on days wlien the staff was garlanded by all the Hag
signals in the British Navy, cursed low and deep at the
symbol of their subjection. This day, it was a gleam of
red, against the deep umbers and ochres of the autumn
woods ; and right behind it, and cresting the summit of
the hill, and clearly outlined against the gray sky, was
an immense black cross. Luke rubbed his eyes again,
and called Mary.
" Do you see anything strange there right over the
Lodge ? " he asked.
" Where, your reverence ? " said Mary, smiling, and
looking everywhere but in the right direction. She had
been in the secret for the last fortniglit.
" There," said Luke, pointing. "" There seems to be
something unusual against the horizon-line."
" Oh ! so there is," said Mary, slowly making the dis-
covery. "Tliere's something like a cross."
Tlien Luke saw that Mary was smiling.
After Mass, Luke strolled around the road that swept
through the village and ran behind the General's demesne
even to the summit. On the highest point of the hill
the road cut off the demesne fn)in the farms that were
in the vicinity. And inside a hawthorn hedge and
beyond the General's jurisdiction ^^■as a mighty cairn nf
stones, moss-grown, and lichen-covered, and dating fri)m
Druid times. It was visible f(n- miles around, and was
still known as Knockane-na-Coppaleen, the Little Hill of
tlie Little Horses. No one dared touch it, though it
was Mell known that gold was piled beneath ; for didn't
Farmer Maliony, a hard unbeliever, once remove a few
stones from the cairn to rei)air a ditch, and wasn't he
struck dead on tlie spot ? and weren't the stones brought
back to the cairn by invisible hands ? Yet it couhl hurt
no one to place the all-con(;[uering Sign there — and
there it was, cresting the cairn, an immense cross, witli
the spear and sponge, and a crown of real thorns hang-
464 LUKE DELMEGE
ing in the centre. Luke gazed long at the mighty
symbol ; then, turning round, he noticed that the turf
or grass surface had been removed in regular patches
on the face of the high slope. He moved down, far
down, and then looked upward. Yes ! unmistakably,
in clear-cut letters on the grassy swards, and so large
that they might be read from the far hills of Clare, that
to-day looked near and threatening, were c-ut the
words —
PRAISED BE JESUS CHRIST, FOREVER !
®'
V
CHAPTER XXXV
A LECTURE ON BIOLOGY
It was fortunate for Luke Delmege that this momen-
tary contact with the best side of human nature had
softened his feelings towards men. Because he was
just now face to face with that most deadly temptation
— to despise and shrink from his kind, and to live in
such solitariness of thought as would barelv allow a
margin of time for the discharge of sacred duties.
The mighty abstraction, Humanity, which he had wor-
shipped in the liigh atmosphere of thought, had been
rudely dispelled, and had left only the sordid precipi-
tate of a few wrecked fragments of bones and dust.
And in the awful revelations of the grave he read the
utter insignificance of human life. He began to per-
ceive, too, in his close observation of Nature, that the
same law was everywhere — life springing from the
bosom of deatli, and then chased back into death again
by the operations of some inexorable law. It was witli
infinite pity he saw how, in the s})ringtime of the year,
the buds had scarcely unfolded themselves in tender,
silky leaves, when frost, or caidvcr, or blight withered
and dried up their infantine beauty ; and, on the other
liand, the leaves were hardly changed in colour umhn-
October frosts, when tiny buds shot forth only to be
paralyzed and shrunk under the icy breath of winter.
So, too, in the fairest child, death and (htay made
tliemselves manifest. Scarcely had life begun, when
death stood by the cradle, liis tlionsnnd-winged mes-
senger of disease hovering around that infant form to
arrest its growth and destroy it. The carious teeth
2h 465
466 LUKE DELMEGE
and the anseraic lips of young boys and girls affected
him strangely. A chemist's shop, with all its sights
and smells — its iodoform, and creosote, and carbolic,
the ill-smelling wardens against decomposition and dis-
solution — made him sick. Death and decay haunted
all Nature like a hideous spectre. So, too, in his read-
ing, Luke gave up everything that was merely ephem-
eral. History he could not bear. What was it but
the record of human passion and folly — the amateur
theatricals of a race that must cheat time and ennui
with its battles and diplomacy, and whose stage mim-
icry would be a tragedy, if its unimportance did not
make it ludicrous ? No. There was nothing lasting
but the Idea and the Soul ; and Luke turned away
with loathing from his race and sought earth's only
blessing of peace in solitude and thought. He was
driven farther inward on himself by the attitude of his
brethren towards him. They were kind, but critical.
Their swift, impetuous ways, always seeking action,
action — their emphatic principles, their intolerance of
abstractions, and their insistence on facts ; and all this,
coupled with an idealism that seemed to him utterly
visionary and impractical, alienated his sympathies from
them. He was always unhappy in society, except,
indeed, the society of his beloved pastor, whose suave
gentleness subdued all riotous questioning on his part.
And he haunted the mountains and the streams and the
pine- woods, and came home happy from his association
with the peace of Nature. A day on the lonely moun-
tains, sitting over the rough bridge which spanned the
yellow torrent, with the furze and the bracken waving
around him, and a hare leaping out to wonder at him,
and the whir of the partridge over his head, and the
fresh, clean air wrapping him around like a cool gar-
ment on a fever patient, and the long, lone vistas stretch-
ing away to the hazy hills that crowned the pathway of
the lordly Shannon, was an unspeakable pleasure. But
it was morbid. Not in action alone, or in thought alone,
but in the interplay of thought and action, true life
A LECTURE ON BIOLOGY 467
consists. And Luke was saved from this morbidity
for a time by the opening up of men's hearts towards
him. And when again he was driven back upon him-
self, this generous expansion of his people's affections
always protected him from the temptation of contempt.
Immediately after the events narrated in the last
chapter, he made two gallant attempts to get into touch
with the outer world. He was stung into making the
attempts by some unkind things he had heard. They
were but two simple phrases, but they meant so much.
" Sub nube I " lie only heard it in a whisper ; but oh !
how much it signified ! And that cruel and unjust say-
ing of Lactantius : "Literati non habent fidem ! " so
untrue, yet so easily applicable on the lijDS of the un-
charitable, cut him to the quick, as it magnified the
episcopal warning into a grave censure, which might be
removed by Mother Church, but never by the world.
He determined to assert himself — to come out into the
arena, as he had so often stepped into the palsestrum of
liis college, and show himself for all he was worth.
Tliere were two ways open to him, literature and the
pulpit ; two weapons, the voice and the pen.
He took down his books — some, alas ! mildewed and
damp from want of use — and set to work steadily. He
gave himself full time for careful elaboration ; and in
six weeks he had a paper ready for the press. They
were the happiest six weeks he had spent since liis re-
turn to Ireland. Blessed is work ! Blessed, the sen-
tence : '-In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou lal)our all
the days of thy life ! " He got his essay carefully type-
written, though typing was a costly novelty at the time,
and sent it on to the Editor of a great Quarterly that was
just then setting out boldly on its career as the organ
of Science, Literature, Polemics, and Art, for all that
was cultured in the country. In a few weeks, alas I the
little roll was returned, with this letter : —
"Office of. The Indicator, April 6, 188-.
"^1y peak Ltke : — In conqiliance with your modest reijuest,
and the dictates of the editorial conscience, 1 read your paper from
468 LUKE DELMEGE
i
I
Alpha to Omega. Like the famous critic, who opened ' The Ring
and the Book ' for the first time, the dreadful suspicion crossed my
mind : Have I become suddenly demented ? On the suggestion of
my sub. we read the paper backwards ; and then a great light
dawned. Xothing could give me greater pleasure than to oblige
an old schoolmate ; but if I published your paper, there would be
an immediate demand for auxiliary asylums all over the country;
and the doctors would at last have a tangible cause for the increase
in insanity, instead of tracing it to that liarmless drug, called Tea.
Accepting your theory, however, about the Identity of Contradic-
tories, I accept your paper ; and, in the same sense, you will hereby H
find enclosed a check for £20.
" I am, dear Luke, Yours etc., The Editor.
"P.S. — You will pardon an editorial joke, for auld lang syne's
sake. But, my dear Luke, you are a hundred years behind or a
hundred years in advance of your age. Don't you know we are
just now passing through the 'bread-and-butter' cycle? that we
have hung up Erin-go-Bragh ; and are taking Sidney Smith 's ad-
vice about Erin-go-bread-and-butter — Erin-go-boots-without-holes-
in-them, etc., etc. ? Wi'ite me something practical, thou agricultural
curate — the quantity of nitrogen in a cubic foot of solid guano, how
to get sulphur out of turnips, and sugar of phosphorus out of apples,
or anything that will help on the material prosperity of the coun-
try; but abandon your idealism, and not only for a time, but for-
ever. How I envy you !
O, fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint !
My only chance of exercise is on a piano-stool, which is my tripod;
and on which I make conscientiously three thousand gyrations every
day. And you, on your gallant steed, spurning the earth, and climb-
ing the Heavens ! Ah me ! ! ! "
Luke read the letter three or four times. He was
disappointed ; but he could not be angry. The good-
humour of his old classmate disarmed him. And cer-
tainly it was a good joke, that Luke Delmege, the
methodical, the practical, the realist, should be warned
off from the dangers of a too exuberant imagination.
"There is no end to the human enigma," he said, as he
tied the roll and flung it into the recesses of his bookcase.
Some months after, he was invited to lecture at a great
literary club in the city. The letter of invitation im-
plied that Luke's estrangement from the active life of
the Church around him was extremely unlike all that
they had read about his career in England, and gently
A LECTURE ON BIOLOGY 469
hinted that a persistence in these solitary habits would
infallibly lead to his being considered peculiar and
strange. The subject of the lecture was left to his own
selection, with one proviso — it should be up-to-date.
With all his morbid shrinking from publicity, partly
the result of the secret contempt of men of which we
have spoken, and partly arising from a dread of being
misunderstood, Luke would have declined the invita-
tion ; but that word " peculiar " stung him ; and lie
determined to go, and show the world what he was, and
what he miglit have been. He ransacked his brains and
his library for an up-to-date subject ; and, at last, de-
cided that biology — the latest of the sciences — was
exactly suitable to his own tastes and the capacities of
his audience. He wrought laboriously at his lecture,
determined it sliould l^e his last cast of the dice.
There was a full house ; and a brilliant gathering of
priests and laymen on the platform. The president
happily and generously spoke of Luke's splendid career
in college, and liis after-successes on the mission ; and
he spoke so warmly and so sympathetically, that J^uke
felt all his anger against mankind oozing away ; and all
the bitter tilings that had come back to his ears, all the
more bitter for the translation, began to fade away in
happy feelings of trust and love and gratitude. When
will the world understand the micrhtv magic of kind
words? Luke rebuked liimself. "It is self-know-
ledge," he said, "that has made me uncharitable."
Surely the heart enshrines mysteries and secrets beyond
the power of its own divination !
His young spirits bounded back at this generous in-
troduction ; and he spoke under the intoxication of
stimulated genius. His reception l)y tlie audience, too,
was cordial, almost enthusiastic. His line ligure, a face
animated with the glow of talent and the excitement of
a novel experiment, his clear, well-niodulaifd, ringing
voice, that stmnded quite musical even after the splen-
did chorus of the Orchestral I'nion of the society,
seemed to awaken all present to the fact that tliis lee-
470 LUKE DELMEGE
ture was to be something quite unique in their experi-
ences. Nor were they disappointed. It was a clear,
well-knit lecture, full of facts, as well as arguments ;
and when Luke completed a peroration in which he
welcomed every fact, and scorned every conclusion of
modern science, and declared that the cry of the Church
in every age, most of all in our own, is for " Light !
more light ! that all knowledge may finally expand and
be lost in the Light Supernal," — the audience, mostly
young men, arose, and gave him an ovation that seemed
to console him for all his years of enforced seclusion.
One member after another stood up to express his grati-
fication ; and then — well, then — there was the "little
rift within the lute," that was tingling so musically
in his ears. For one member made a comic speech about
the "blastoderms" and "gemmules" and "amoeba"
which Luke had introduced into his lecture ; and an-
other hinted the suspicion that it was fine, but was it
sound? It was eloquent ; but was it orthodox? Luke
flushed angrily. The president intervened. He took
Luke's part nobly ; and, being a man of vast erudition
and unimpeachable honour, his words were regarded as
final. But the sting remained. And for many months
did Luke puzzle himself with the enigma that the more
closely he studied, and the more accurately he expressed
himself, the more was he misunderstood. He spoke
angrily on the subject once to a lively confrere.
"I'd advise you, Luke," said the latter, "to keep to
Grattan and 6'Connell, or that venerable subject —
The relative merits of a monarchy and a republic, or —
Was Napoleon a greater warrior than Wellington? You
can't trip there."
" But I didn't trip," protested poor Luke.
" Of course not ! of course not ! " said the confrere.
But there was one member of the audience that famous
evening who was utterly disgusted and disedified. Mat-
thew O'Shaughnessy was a retired merchant, who had
accumulated a pretty fortune in the bacon and butter
line ; and, having provided well for his family, he wisely
A LECTURE ON BIOLOGY 471
determined to retire from business, and, with his excel-
lent wife, to spend the twilight of their lives in peace.
He was a very pious man ; kind, and good, and chari-
table, almost to a fault. But he had one imperfection
— only one ; and that, very venial. He was critical,
especially about matters affecting religion or the Church.
He always raised his silk hat — for he was a dreadful
formalist and belonged to the old school — when pass-
ing a priest in the street : kindly, if he met an acquaint-
ance ; ostentatiously, if he met a stranger. But he
would not salute a priest who was cycling. He thought
it undignified and unbecoming.
He sat, on Sundays, a little distance from the pulpit ;
so near, that, being somewhat deaf, especially in the
left ear, he might hear the preacher; so far, that he
might see him, and watch his expression and gestures.
When the Gospel of the day had been read, wliich
Matthew followed word by word from his prayer-book
to see was it correctly rendered, he sat with the audi-
ence, but slightly turned towards the wall, and with his
right hand folded over and pressing down his ear. If
the remarks of the preacher pleased him, he punctuated
them with several nods of the head and half-audible
remarks : " That's good ! " " Bravo ! " "I wouldn't
doubt you ! " H the preacher was weak or irrelevant,
Matthew turned around, wiped his spectacles, and read
his prayer-book. He objected strenuously to " priests
in politics " ; and often asked : " What in the world are
the bishops doing ? "
On the evening of Luke's lecture, Matthew, as an hon-
orary member of the committee, should have been on
the platform with the priests and distinguished laymen,
and grievous was the disappointment of many who had
been anticipating a great treat from Matthew's remarks
on biology. But he came in late — tlie}^ said, purposely
so — and was accommodated with a seat at the furthest
end of the hall. He took it graciously, bowed all around
to the young men, took out his red silk handkerchief
and folded it on his knee, leaned slightly forward, fold-
472 LUKE DELMEGE
ing his right hand over his ear, and listened. Luke
was just saying that scientists had not yet fully deter-
mined whether man was a regenerate and fully-evolved
anthropoid ape, or whether the anthropoid ape was a
degenerate man ; and he instanced experiments that
had lately been made in London on a certain simian,
called Sally, who was made to count numerals up to
ten by placing straws in her mouth. Matthew's face
lengthened, as he listened with open mouth. He
couldn't believe his ears. He looked around cautiously
to see what effect these extraordinary statements were
producing on the faces of the young men around him.
They were preternaturally solemn. He listened again.
This time Luke was using manifestly profane language.
Matthew looked around. The boys shook their heads
mournfully and nudged each other. They then looked
to Matthew for a clew. " I thought so," he said, draw-
ing in his breath sharply. " I knew my sinses didn't
deceive me. Did any mortial man ever hear the like
from a priest before ? " But, then, here was a chorus
of congratulation from president, vice-president, and
committee.
'' I vvouldn't stand it, if I was you," whispered a
young man, who read Matthew's mind as it were a
book. " 'Tis a burning shame, and you're one of the
committee."
But just then the one critic was opening his batteries
on the lecture and expressing grave doubts about the
lecturer's orthodoxy. Matthew was delighted.
'' Good man ! " he whispered. " Go on ! Pitch into
him ! Right you are ! Send it home ! "
He then folded his silk handkerchief with a sigh,
took up his silk hat, and turned round. He saw the
expectant faces.
" Well," said he, " if that doesn't bang Banagher,
I'm — a — I'm — a — street-preacher. What the is
comin' over the counthry at all, at all ? "
He went out into the night. It was a moonlit night,
very bright, and soft and balmy. The streets were
;i
A LECTURE ON BIOLOGY 473
deserted. The audience had remained for the final
chorus. Matthew was jiuzzled, angry, shocked. He
had to relieve his feelings. He addressed Diana, as
there was no one else around.
" Egor ! 'tis a quare business altogether ! We don't
know whether 'tis on our heads or heels we're standin'
with these young men ! Did anny wan ever hear the
like before from the lips of a Roman Catholic clergy-
man ? Egor ! Jim the mule, and Mike the rogue, an'
Sally the ape ! Wasn't the poor 'uman as good as God
made her? An' if He didn't make her as handsome as
me young bucko, wasn't that His business ? An' why
should any poor 'uman be called an ape ? "
Diana looked solemnly down, conscious of her own
beauty, on these microbes of earth, but did not rejjly.
Matthew went further towards home. Then his feel-
ings overpowered him again, and striking the rever-
berating flags with his heavy stick, he again addressed
Diana.
" That was bad enough ; but whin he comminced
cursin' and blasphemin', I thought he'd rise the roof
aff. ' Blast ho ! Jane Ettick,' he says ; ' blast ho ! Jer
]Minahal ! ' Egor ! the ind of the world is comin' !
What will ]\Iary say, I wondher ! "
jNlary had been taking a gentle snooze over the par-
lour fire, while the cat slept at her feet and the kettle
sang on the hob. She woke up on Matthew's entrance,
rubbed her eyes, and said dreamily : —
"Ton my word, Matcha, I believe I was akchally
asleep. How did ye like the lecksliure?"
Mary looked well in her black silk dress, and the
thin gold cliain around her neck ; but Mattliew was
too indignant to heed sucli things just then.
" Lave me alone, 'uman," he said. " Where are the
matayriels ? "
Mary said nothing, but touclied the bell. Slie was
accustomed to these moods. The '"• matayriels " were
brought in, and Mattliew. with sundry grunting solilo-
quies, brewed his tumbler. He then bent forward, and
474 LUKE DELMEGE
placing the tips of his fingers together between his
knees, he said : —
"Mary O'Shaughnessy, you and me are a long time
in this wurruld, and maybe we'll be longer, plase God ;
but of all the demonsth rations and exhibitions you ever
hard of, to-night bate thim all."
He moistened his lips. Mary woke up.
" If it was a Methody, or a Prosbyterian, or wan of
these new acrostics, that I hear 'em talk of sometimes
below there, I wouldn't be surprised. But a Roman
Catholic clergyman, an ordained minister of God, who'll
be standing at the althar to-morrow mornin' — "
Here Matthew's feelings overpowered him. He
threw out his hands in an attitude of horror and un-
speakable disgust, and then moistened his lips.
" What was it about, at all ? " said Mary, to help out
her husband's inability to explain.
" About ? ril tell you, thin. It appears that this
young gintleman was in England ; and there, like here,
the blagards will call names. But what was the manin'
of telling a respectable congregation about Jim the mule,
and Mike the rogue ? But that wasn't all. There was
a poor half-deminted crachure over there, called Sally,
and what did they do wid her, d'ye think ? Brought
the poor 'uraan up upon a stage, and asked her to count
tin. And whin she couldn't, they put sthraws in her
mout', and made her take 'em out, wan by wan, to count
'em. But," continued Matthew, as he laid down his
wine glass, "• that wasn't the worst of the business.
Mary O'Shaughnessy, did you ever hear a priest curse ?"
" Yerra, what's comin' over you, Matcha ? " said
Mary, peering at her husband intently. " Curse ? a
priest curse ? Niver, nor you ayther ! "
" Didn't I ? " said Matthew. " Faix, an' I did. Not
wance or twice nayther ; but every second word from
his mout'."
"If I didn't know you, Matcha O'Shaughnessy,"
said Mary, with some anger, " I'd say you wor dhramin'."
" Faix, I wasn't, nor more nor you this minit," said
f
i
A LECTUKE ON BIOLOGY 475
Matthew. " Egor, I thought he'd rise the roof av me
head. ' Blast yah, Jane Ettick,' he says ; not ' you,' at
all, but ' yah,' wid his grand English accent : ' Blast yah,
Jer Minahal ! Blast yah, Dermody ' — "
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was tap^jing the brass fender
with her slipper in an ominous manner ; and her eyes
were glinting, like the sparks in the grate ; but Mat-
thew, with all the unconsciousness of a fated mortal,
went on, twisting poor Luke's scientific terminology
into horrible profanity. Then the storm broke sud-
denly.
" D'ye know wliat I'm after thinkin', Mr. O'Shaugh-
nessy ? " she said, in an accent of forced calmness.
"Somethin' good, Mary, I'm sure," said Mattliew, a
little frightened and surprised.
"I'm thinkin", Matcha O'Sliaughnessy," said Mary,
beating time with her slipper, " that you lifted yer little
finger wance too often since yer dinner."
"If you mane, Mary," said Matthew, apologetically,
yet sure of his defence, "that I took dhrink, ye were
never more mistaken in yer life. Since the day I took
the teetotal pledge for life from Father Matcha, me
friend, down there in the bowlin' green, exactly forty-
five years ago come this Christmas, on two dhrinks a
day, and whatever the Doctor would ordher as medicine,
I never tasted a dhrop since."
" Thin can't you let yer priests alone ? " cried Mary,
angrily turning around.
" Yerra, is 't me, 'lunan ? " cried Matthew. " Yerra,
rd die for me priests 1 "
" Thin why are you alwa3'S nagging at 'em, an' placin'
'era and faultfindin" with 'em ? Begor, the poor gintle-
min can't please ye, at all, at all. If they wear a liigli
bayver, they're too grand ; an' if they wear a Jurry-luit,
they're demanin' tliimselves. If they're goin' about their
juty in the sthreets, they ought to be at home ; and if
they stay at home, wh}- aren't they walking the sthreets?
If they go to Kilkee or Lisdoonvarna for a bret' of fiesh
a-ir, they're spindin' the money of the poor ; an' if they
476 LUKE DELMEGE
stop at home, they're savin' and miserly. If they take
their masheens an' go out for a whiff of fresh air, afther
bein' cooped up all day in their boxes, pious craw-thump-
ers an' althar-scrapers won't take aff their hat to God's
ministers — "
" Yerra, 'uman, take yer tongue aff me," cried Mat-
thew, in agony. " Sure, I'd lie down in the mud of the
sthreets, and lave me priests walk over me body — "
" Begor," continued Mary, now thoroughly roused,
"wid yere Parnellites, an' yere Indepindints, an' yere
Faynians, there's no respect for God nor man. Ye'U
be soon tellin' the Pope of Rome what he ought to do.
But 'tis only sarvin' 'em right. Manny and manny's
the time I tould 'em : ' Do as the ould priests did —
give 'em the stick acrass the small of their back, an'
they'll respect ye.' But, begor now, the priests of the
Church must take aff their Caroline hats to ivery little
whipster of a girl that comes home from her convent
school wid her rowl of music under her arrum — "
" Go on ! " said Matthew, resignedly, turning round
to his only consolation. " What the Scripture says is
true : There's no stoppin' a burnin' house, nor a
scouldin' 'uman."
"■ An' what'd ye be, widout yere priests ? " continued
Mary, unheeding. " Who looks after the poor and the
sick ? Who goes out into the house where there's
sickness and faver, and browncheeties, and mazles ?
Who gets up yere Young Min's Societies for ye ? An'
yere concerts ? Who's at the top, bottom, and middle
of iverything that's good or gracious — in the
counthrv — "
" Yerra, 'uman, shure I'm not denying that our priests
are good ! " pleaded Matthew, in despair.
" An' there ye are, like a parcel of unwaned childre
wid yere mouths open to be fed. 'Tis the priest here ;
an' the priest there ! An' very little thanks they get for
their throuble afther all. But, believe you me, Matcha
O'Shaughnessy," continued Mary, in a tone of great
solemnity, " an' believe you me agin, there's a day of
A LECTURE ON BIOLOGY 477
reck'nin' corain' ; and manny a poor cracluire, who
hasn't as long a bade as you or your aiquals, may inter
the Kingdom of Heaven afore ye. But take me advice
— let the priests alone ! They belong to God ; an' if
they go astray let Him dale wid them ! "
There was a deep, solemn hush of ten minutes' dura-
tion after this tornado. Matthew was struck dumb.
What can a poor fellow do but bite the dust after a
cyclone ? " Tic-tac," solemnly went the clock on the
mantelpiece. " Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick," went
Mary's gold watch in her belt. At last Matthew raised
himself with a deep sigh ; and commenced to compose
an Eirenicon. When this was ready, he said, in a gentle
and deferential whisper : —
" Mary ! "
There was no reply.
" Mary ! " he said, more loudly.
"Well ?" said Mary, without looking round.
"Mary, I'm makin' a little sup for you."
" You won't," said Mary, crossly.
" But I say I will," said Matthew. " Mary, I've been
noticin' for a long time that you're not look in' quite
yerself. You're only pickin' and pickin' at your males
like a young chicken. Why, you ate no more for your
brekfus thin a child of four. You must see thedoctlior,
and take somcthin' every day for nourishment. Here,
take this ! "
" 'Tis too sthrong," said Mary, making a grimace
over the steaming wine-glass.
"'Tis not too stlirong," said ^Matthew, in a tone of
righteous indignation. "'Twill rouse you up."
" Put a little hot wather in it," said Mary, pleadingly.
"I will not put hot wather in it," said Matthew.
" Is it to make you sick, I'd be ? "
"Well, I'll lave it up there to cool," said Mary, plac-
ing the wine-glass on the mantelpiece.
After a long pause, during which the temperature
settled down to normal, Mary said : —
" That young priest is a cousin of mine ! "
478 LUKE DELMEGE
"What young priest ?" said Matthew, with affected
indignation.
" The young pracher," said Mary.
" Is't Father Delmege you mane ? " said Matthew.
*' Yis," answered Mary. " He's me second and third
cousin be me mother's side."
" An' why didn't ye tell me that before ? " said
Matthew. " Did I iver see such people as women are ?
They draw you out, an' out, an' out, like a talliscope,
until you make a fool of yerself, and thin they shut you
up with a snap. But, faix, an' 'tisn't because I'm say-
in' it to yer face, ye have raison to be proud of him."
"I'm toulcl he's a fine-lookin' man," said Mary.
" Fine ? Fine is no name for him. He's wan of the
grandest min ye ever saw in a day's walk."
" I suppose he'll be coming to see me," said Mary,
*'if only on account of his poor mother."
" D'ye think will he come to-night ? " said Matthew,
in alarm.
" Faix, he might. He might dhrop over afther his
supper."
" I'm better be puttin' these things out of the way,"
said Matthew, hastily removing the glasses. " I'm tould
he hates this, as the divil hates holy wather."
Just then, a tremendous knock was heard at the
Uall-door.
" Here he is! " said Mary, straightening herself up, and
arranging her toilette. " Do I look all right, Matcha ? "
" Never better in yer life," said Matthew. " He'll
be the proud man whin he sees you."
There was a coUoqu}- in the hall ; then a heavy foot
on the stairs. In answer to a rather timid knock,
Matthew shouted " Come in ! " The door opened just
a little, the servant-maid put in her tousled head, and
said : —
" The milkman, ma'am, sez he wants that tuppence
for the mornin's milk ! "
" Bad luck to you and the milkman together," said
Mary, fumbling in her pockets. " Here ! "
I
A LECTURE ON BIOLOGY 479
But Luke did call the following day ; and he was
veiy grand, but gracious, and even affectionate. He
had been learning that in this old land, and amongst
its simple, faitliful people, there were mighty treasures
of warmth and love, for which the cold, steely polish of
other lands was but a poor exchange. And Matthew
and Mary lived on the honour for days afterwards, and
cut out the paragrapli in the paper about "• The Lecture
on Biology," and Matthew went around, and asked every
one, '' Did tliey ever hear the like before ? " and " Why
the mischief doesn't the Bishop bring that grand young
man into the city ? " And ]\Liry placed on her mantel-
piece, side by side with the portrait of tlie Bishop him-
self, I^ike's i)hotograph, gorgeously framed ; and in
answer to all inquiries, she said modestly : —
" Me cousin, Father Luke I "
i
CHAPTER XXXVI
A BOAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
In the cool, gray dusk of his little parlour Luke saw
things in a light somewhat different from their gaudy-
colouring under the gas-jets. The clapping of hands,
and the eager faces, and the flattery had passed away ;
and there remained but the stinging remembrance that
for the third or fourth time in his life he had been
accused of coquetting with heresy. With his clear-cut
ideas on theological matters, he knew right well that
this suspicion could not be sustained for a moment ;
and he was so conscious of his own deep attachment to
every jot and tittle of the Church's teachings that he
grew by degrees very indignant at the shameful assump-
tion. All the applause and enthusiasm were forgotten.
Of the handsome bouquet of praise and adulation offered
him a few nights before, alas ! there only remained a
few withered leaves and the wires that cut his fingers.
" I don't think the game is worth the candle," said
Luke to himself. " Let me calculate the matter nicely."
And he wrote down this calculation neatly and in
the most approved form of book-keeping, thus : —
Dr.
A good deal of anxiety and
deliberation about lecture,
subject, etc.
Six weeks' hard work on en-
cyclopaedias, books, maga-
zines, etc.
Three weeks' hard work at
writing, correcting, revis-
ing thirty pages of manu-
script.
Or.
1. A little flattery.
2. A little applause.
3. A good deal of criticism,
mostly unjust and unin-
telligent.
480
A BOAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
481
Dr.
4. Expense of typing same.
5. Expense and inconvenience
of journey, hotels, bills, etc.
6. The nervous fever of lectur-
Cr.
4. Accusation of heresy.
5. One tiny paragraph in a
local newspaper.
6. Oblivion.
Luke totted up, and then proposed, seconded, and
passed unanimously the resolution : " The game is not
worth the candle."
And Luke said to his soul, " Sleep now, and take thy
rest ! "
Beaten back, then, and baffled once more, it was a
happy thing for him that just now all the flowers of
human respect and affection were opening up their
beautiful chalices in the warmth and sunshine of liis
own smile. And the next few years, — the years of
perfect manhood and strength, and alas ! also of decay,
for now his hair began to be streaked with silver and
the lines deepened about his mouth, — were very hap})y,
and the mighty enigmas of life became no longer too
personal, but only the puzzles of the acadeni}- and the
porch. His illumination was not perfect, and once
again his mighty Master woke him up with the sharp
edge of the sword of trial. But these years of middle
life were very smooth and peaceful, and the prophecy
of Father Martin was well fuliilled. I^uke had found
his America in Kossmore.
He was helped on in great measure by a new experi-
ence. He had noticed, with mixed feelings of ])leasure
and surprise, that the village chihiren were totally
unlike in demeanour and conduct and methods of ex-
pression to any cliildren of whom he had hitherto had
experience. And it shows how abstracted and wrapped
up in liis own thonghts he must have been Avlien it A\as
some months before he was aware of the C(nitrast and
the originating cause. Tlien it was suddenly revealed
to him that the respectful, subdued attitude of the chil-
dren, their reverence in cluirch, their lu-isk politeness
and attention to the aged and inlirm, were very unlike
2i
482 LUKE DELMEGE
the rampant and reckless boisterousness of youth. For
some time further Luke was either indifferent to, or
unconscious of, the cause. Then, one day he came into
school at an unexpected time and was surprised to see
the children ranged around the wall and holding their
arms and heads in different degrees of attention and
reverence. The silence was so deep and the absorption
of the children so great that Luke's entrance was not
noticed, and he heard the master, a grave man of middle
years, saying : —
" Reverence is the secret of all religion and happi-
ness. Without reverence, there is no faith, nor hope,
nor love. Reverence is the motive of each of the Com-
mandments of Sinai — reverence of God, reverence of
our neighbour, reverence of ourselves. Humility is
founded on it ; piety is conserved by it ; purity finds
in it its shield and buckler. Reverence for God, and
all that is associated with Him, His ministers. His
temple. His services — that is religion. Reverence for
our neighbour, his goods, his person, his chattels — that
is honesty. Reverence for ourselves — clean bodies and
pure souls — that is chastity. Satan is Satan because
he is irreverent. There never yet was an infidel but
he was irreverent and a mocker. The jester, and the
mime, the loud laugher and the scorner, have no part
in the Kingdom. These very attitudes you now assume
betoken reverence. They are the symbols of something
deeper and higher — "
Here he saw Luke, though the children's eyes did
not direct him ; and he said, without changing his
voice : —
" Children, the priest is here ! "
The children raised their heads gently, their arms
still crossed on their breasts, and bowed towards
Luke.
"Now," said the teacher, "you will pass into your
desks, and sing
' In the sunshine ; in the shadow.' "
A BOAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 483
The children moved to their places, singing the part
song, not loudly, but sweetly ; and the master turned
towards Luke. A grave, silent man ; his attitude, too,
betokened reverence. He was a man of middle age ;
for his pointed beard was streaked with white hairs.
He was tall and angular in appearance ; but his whole
manner was subdued, not with the instinct of fear and
watchfulness, but with the gentleness of an urbane and
thoughtful spirit. And he was a mystery, which was
another attraction to Luke. He had an only daughter,
a girl of twenty years or thereabouts, living with him ;
but his antecedents were known only to Dr. Keatinge, the
pastor, who had found him out somewhere, and brought
him to Kossmore to take charge of his little school. So
much Luke had heard ; and then dismissed the subject.
It was trivial and commonplace. In his former visits,
too, he had seen nothing remarkable, probably because
he was too much engrossed with his own reflections.
To-day, he was surprised and pleased.
" Where did you find material for that excellent dis-
course ! " said Luke.
" In my own experience, sir," said Mr. Hennessy.
" How have you trained the children so beautifully
in the limited time at your disposal ? " asked Luke,
who knew well the red-tape regulations of the National
Board.
^ It Avould be impossible, sir," answered the teacher.
"But I supplement the day's teaching at night."
" At night ? " said Luke, wonderingly. " I thought
night-schools wen^ tilings of tlie past."
'' We don't call it school,'' said the teacher. '• But,
perhaps, sir, you would come up some evening to see
what we are doing. It may interest you."
" I shall be delighted." said Luke. "• But, do you
often s[)eak to the cliildrcn in the way I have just
heard ? "
"Yes," said the teacher, though this was supposed
to be an assumption of a higher privilege. " I think
the moral training of children the most necessary part
484 LUKE DELMEGE
of education. The National Board provides for the
intellectual department ; there is the mid-day hour for
doctrinal and catechetical instruction. But the train-
ing of youth in moral culture must be left to the
teacher ; and in my humble way, I try to discharge
this duty."
" With your permission I shall come up this even-
ing," said Luke. " At what hour ? "
'^ We hold our little soirees, sir," said the teacher,
smiling, " we dignify them by that name, from seven
to nine o'clock."
" I shall be there," said Luke. " By the way, how
many children on the rolls ? "
" Fifty-six," said the teaclier.
" How many in attendance ? "
" Fifty-six," said the teacher.
In the evening Luke went to the school. It was
well lighted ; and it looked bright and cheerful to eyes
that had just brought in with them the gloom of the
night. The desks were unmoved ; but the school har-
monium was open ; and here and there around the
room full-blown chrysanthemums threw out their col-
oured blossoms of light fragrance and great loveliness.
All the village children were there ; the country chil-
dren alone were absent. The master touched a gong
when Luke entered ; the children stood up respect-
fully ; and, the master's daughter presiding at the
harmonium, they sang a pretty glee in part time — a
composition of the master's. When they were seated,
the master read for them a poem called The House of
Hate. The children then took up their lessons for the
following day, the master's daughter moving gently
through the desks, and guiding their young hands and
minds. Meanwhile Luke and the master were in close
conference. The whole system appealed strongly to
Luke's sympathies and ideas. Here, at least, was
positive, practical work. No note of criticism, or com-
plaint ; no theorizing about great political possibili-
ties ; no flinging of charges ; and above all, and this
A BOAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 485
touched Luke more closely, for it was his own great
weakness, no fretting with enigmas ; but the quiet posi-
tivism of work, ennobled only by the motive, and the
great possibilities it awakened. And it was quiet, un-
pretentious work, unacknowledged by the world and
unseen — the work of great principle and a pure, lofty
mind.
" Why do you insist so strongly on reverence ? " said
Luke. " It seems to be the burden of all your teaching."
" Because I think, sir," replied the master, " that it
is the secret of all religion ; and therefore of all noble-
ness."
" And you think it necessary ? "
"I think it the first necessity for our race and for
our time."
" Our race ? " questioned Luke, with opened eyes.
" Yes, sir. We are always alternating between rever-
ence and irreverence in Ireland. Our literature and
language are quite full of sarcasms, as well as of great
ideas. And sarcasms about the most sacred things.
Great wit and madness are nearly allied. So, too, are
great wit and irreligion."
'^ But now," said Luke, " with all our splendid ideal-
ism there can be but little danger ? "
" No," said the master, "except that one ideal may
supplant and destroy another. All ideals are 0})pi)setl.
At least," he said modestly, " so I have read. Would
you kindly say a word to the children, sir ? " he said,
as the gong again sounded.
"Certainly," said Luke. And he did, generously,
warmly, emphatically. It was work, work, with an
object. And Luke realized that there was something
in life beyond
The little soul for the little that holds the corpse, which is man.
At eight o'clock all work was suspended. And the
remaining hour was devoted to the practice of singing,
particularly the pre^iaration of Church hymns, etc.,
varied with the little glees and part songs. Just before
486 LUKE DELMEGE
nine o'clock the master read a chapter from the Gospel
of St. John, recited one decade of the Rosary, and the
children rose up to depart. The master and his daugh-
ter stood near the door. As the children passed the
latter, they bowed respectfully. The master took each
child by the hand as they passed into the night. There
was not the slightest trace of the familiarity that anni-
hilates all reverence.
" I have read something like it somewhere," solilo-
quized Luke, as he went homewards. " ' Moral culture,'
' reverence,' ' attitudes,' where ? "
But this school was a perpetual wonder and attrac-
tion to him during these years, until at last came the
great cross, and behind the cross — the great illumination.
The aged Canon having cast aside all the other sub-
ordinate anxieties and interests of life retained but his
love for his niece, Barbara Wilson, and his intense and
beautiful pride in the prosperity of his parish. This,
indeed, was more than justified by the happiness of his
peo['le ; and the Canon's parish became the great object-
lesson to his diocese and country. And eminent political
economists came from afar to see the great Sphinx-prob-
lem of Irish contentment solved, once and forever. Only
one held out against the general enthusiasm — one scep-
tic. Father Cussen.
" You're a horrible Cassandra," said one of his con-
freres, "if I may apply the term. You are forever
croaking of ruin in the midst of success."
"Time will tell," said Father Cussen.
The Canon's recreation, in his old age, when he rode
no longer, and cared little for driving, was to stroll
down in the evening to the village post-office, and there
watch, with intense gratification, the vast piles of Irish
agricultural produce that were about to be sent by par-
cel post to England. It was a rare and delightful ex-
hibition. Huge canvas bags containing poultry ; square
boxes full of rich, yellow butter; cans of cream; larger
boxes yet, filled with consignments of eggs, each egg
A BOAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 487
nestling in its own dry fresh moss ; and even small tin
boxes of amber honey — these were the exports that
filled the little office to the ceiling, and made iNIiss
Carey, the postmistress, declare, again and again, to the
infinite delight of the good Canon, that the Government
should, by sheer force of such gentle circumstances,
build a new post-office. One such evening, as the Canon
entered the office, he saw a young man, leaning against
the counter and chatting with Miss Carey. The con-
versation clearly was about the vast resources of the
parish, for the young man, whom the Canon took to be
a groom, for he Avas dressed in riding suit and flicked
his boot with a short whip, was just saying : —
"■And you calculate the net profits from this admira-
ble plan .should be about — how much a year did you
say ? "
" The Canon knows better than I," said the post-
mistress. " He has created the industry." She looked
significantly and warningly at the Canon ; but the
latter took no heed.
"I have carefully — ha — gone into details, sir,"" he
said grandly, "and 1 have found that, season with sea-
son, the net profits of these agricultural — ha — exports
average from fifty to eighty pounds a week."
" You quite astonish me," said the groom. '' I did
not believe tliat such things were possible outside v't
l\(i\<xh\m or Normandy."
This might have shown the Canon that his stranger
was not a groom ; and Miss Carey hummed significantly
as slie stam[>ed the [)areels, and looked at the Canon in
a way that would have paralyzed or petrilied any one
else. But the Canon went on : —
" I assure you, sir," he said, " I depreciate rather than
— ha — exaggei'ate our net income from these indus-
tries. .My parisli has been called 'a hapjty Arcadia" in
the midst of the — ha — howling deserts around."'
"• Tm sure I congratulate you, sir,"" said the stranger,
flicking his boctt impatiently with his whip. '"A noble
peasantry their country's pride " — is it not so ? "
488 LUKE DELMEGE
" You have quoted correctly, sir," said the Canon.
"The peasantry are the backbone of the country."
" It is really so interesting," said the stranger, taking
out a notebook, " and I am so often asked in my — well
— travels about the prosperity of the Irish people, that
I should be glad to have it, in black and white, from
your lips that such an account can be authenticated.
I think you said the net income from these industries
varies from fifty to eighty pounds a week ; that is, from
three to four thousand per annum ? "
" Precisely so, sir," said the Canon. "And, as I have
said already, this is rather under than over the real
estimate."
"It is really most interesting," said the stranger.
" I'm sure I'm extremely obliged for the information.
One favour more. Whom have I the honour of address-
ing^
" The pastor of this parish, sir," said the Canon, with
great dignity. " Canon Maurice Murray."
" Oh, I should have known," said the stranger with
great courtesy. " But I have been absent on my travels
for some years, and I am quite unacquainted with this
interesting place. I have the honour to wish you good
evening."
" Good evening, sir ! " said the Canon, bowing the
stranger out.
"An extremely interesting gentleman," said he, turn-
ing to the postmistress. "What a powerful educational
— ha — factor has travelling become I "
Miss Carey did not reply.
" No letter from Austria or Hungary for me ? " he
asked.
" No, sir ! " she replied. It was the hundredth time
she had to say no ! She almost wept for her aged
pastor.
A few days later there was a scene in a certain agent's
office in Dublin. The clerks saw an interchange of
courtesies between a stranger and their master ; heard
themselves peremptorily ordered from the office ; thought
A BOAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 489
they heard heated language and even profane ; and one
said he heard the swish of a riding-whip and a heavy
scuffle and a fall. But, no, they were mistaken. P'or
Captain Vermont and his agent were, like ]\lr. Kipling's
canonized saints — "gentlemen, every one."
But, when the clerks were ordered back to the office,
the agent was gone ; and there only remained the
stranger, who was dressed very like a groom. And he
was very pale, and trembling with excitement.
"Which of you is head-clerk here?" he said, turning
round.
" I," said a young Scotchman. " Henry Simpson."
"Well, Simpson, you take charge here, until 1 ai)point
another agent. I am Captain Vermont. And when
you are sending out notices for rent on my estates in
Limerick and Kerry — when is next rent due?"
" The twenty-ninth of September," said Simpson.
" Well, stop that reduction of twenty-five per cent.»
and call in all arrears. And, mark you, all of you, no
more — nonsense. By G , I won't stand it." And
Captain Vermont departed.
And so, over happy Arcady, the model parish of
Lough and Ardavine, the shadow fell — the shadow
long threatened, but never feared. For had they not
their mighty Samson, i)atriarch and king ? and was it
not a tradition in the parish, that landlords and agents
scurried about and looked for rat-holes to hide them
from the terrors of his face ? He was indignant. The
old leonine spirit woke within him, when he found his
people in danger. At first he lauglied the threats of
the agent's office to scorn. Call in arrears I Nonsense I
They dare not do it. But, when the rumble of the
smooth mechanism of British law began to be heard
afar off, and writs came to be served on two or three
of the principal parishioners, the Canon saw that busi-
ness was meant. He called his people together, and
told them he was going to Dublin to settle the matter
without further ado. They gave a mighty cheer: and
felt the battle was won. Fatlier Cussen was silent.
490 LUKE DELMEGE
He called his league together ; and bound them sol-
emnly to stand firmly shoulder to shoulder. He then
demanded their receipts from the rent office. They
brought the grimy bundles — yellow, stained, rumpled,
torn. He examined them closely. Quite so ! The
very thing he expected.
'^ Did you pay your March rent ? " he said to one of
the farmers.
"■ To be sure I did, yer reverence," he replied.
" Did you get a receipt in full ? " he asked.
" To be sure I did," the farmer replied. " There 'tis
in your hand, yer reverence."
'' This can't be the receipt," said Father Cussen. "It
is dated five years back."
" 'Tis the last resate I got," said the farmer, thor-
oughly frightened.
" Quite so. And you see there are due five years'
arrears, amounting to over X260."
Father Cussen examined all the other receipts. One
by one was antedated, thus certifying to arrears
due.
The fire that burned so hotly in the aged Canon's
breast on his journey to Dublin, burned up also his
little physical strength. And it was a bowed and
weary man that tottered down the steps of the Shel-
bourne Hotel next morning. The waiter helped him
to the pavement.
" Shall I call a cab, sir ? "
"Oh I no," said the Canon. "I feel quite strong —
ha — quite vigorous ! "
The excitement of entering the agent's office, and
making a mighty stand for his poor people, gave him a
little unnatural vigour, as he asked, in his own grand
way, the group of clerks that were writing behind the
screen : —
" Can I see Mr. Noble this morning ? "
"No," said Simpson, shortly, "you cannot."
"Then when might I have the — ha — honour of an
interview with Mr. Noble ? " said the Canon.
I
I
A BOAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 491
" I suppose," said Simpson, " whenever you have the
honour of meeting him."
" I regard that reply as an impertinence, sir," said
the Canon.
"Now, look here, old gentleman," said Simpson,
coolly, "if you have missed your way, and stra3'ed in
here, the porter will direct you back to your hotel, or
place of residence."
"I'm really — ha — surprised," gasped the Canon.
"This is so utterly unexpected. Perhaps you do not
— ha — know who I am."
" I have not that honour," said Simpson, " and to be
very candid, I don't much care."
"I pass by that gross discourtesy, sir," said the
Canon, "as I'm here on business. My name is Mau-
rice Canon Murray, parish priest of Lough and Arda-
vine."
" Well, Maurice Canon Murray, parish priest of
Lough and Ardavine, would you now state your busi-
ness as briefly as possible, for our time is precious ? "
"I came, sir," said the Canon, "to inquire the mean-
ing or object of this gross outrage on my parishioners."
" What outrage do you speak of ? " queried Simpson.
"This serving of writs, and demand for a wholly un-
reasonable rent," said the Canon.
"You call yourself a Christian clergyman," said Simp-
son, "and represent a legitimate demand for moneys
due, and which, under proper management, would have
been paid at any time for the last five years, — an out-
rage !
"I see," said the Canon, wlio fell his strt-ngili rapidly
ebbing away, "that it is — ha — us(^4rss — to discuss
matters with a subordinatf. Please let me know Cap-
tain Vermont's Dublin address."
" lie has no City address," said Simpson. " His coun-
try address you should know better than L"
"I regret to say — ha — 1 have not — the honour —
of Captain Vermont's acquaintance," said the Canon, as
the room began to swim around.
V
492 LUKE DELMEGE
" Oh ! dear ; yes, you have," said Simpson. " At
least it was you that gave Captain Vermont the happy
information that he was steadily robbed of three or four
thousand a year by your excellent parishioners."
"Me, sir? How dare you, sir? That is an un —
sertion — rantable — wa — please, might — chair —
have ? "
One of the clerks rushed out and placed the falling
Canon in a chair.
" Yes," said Simpson, bitterly and mercilessly ; " and
they would have met their demands were it not for the
interference of disloyal and turbulent priests like you — "
" Stop that, Simpson," said the clerk, who held the
fainting Canon upright in his chair. " Don't you see
the gentleman is fainting ? "
" Me, sir — distur — loyal — turb — "
"What is your hotel, sir, please? and I shall fetch a
cab."
'•'• Shel — tel," murmured the broken voice, as the lips
fell twisted by paralysis, and the right hand lay helpless
at the side.
" The Shelbourne ! " cried one of the clerks. " Quick,
Harris, or we shall have an inquest here ! "
And so the poor Canon, on his mission of mercy, met
the first forerunner of dissolution in an agent's office.
His limp, heavy form was pushed into a cab, and, in an
unconscious condition, he was carried to the Mater Hos-
pital, where he remained many a weary month. And
despair settled down on Lough and Ardavine. They
had the bonfires built that were to celebrate the Canon's
triumphal return, and the League Band that had sere-
naded him so many years ago, and tried to infuse some
patriotism into him, was practising, " See the Conquer-
insf Hero Comes ! " Then the news arrived. Their
king, their patriarch, their mighty champion, was
stricken down in the fight. And what hope remained ?
CHAPTER XXXVII
DISILLUSION
Wearily and anxiously the months passed by in the
parish of Lough and Ardavine. All work was at a
standstill. The people were paralyzed. No one knew,
from day to day, when the dread messengers of the law
would swoop down and commence the work of destruc-
tion. The post-ollice was now empty. The postmistress
was idle. The great export trade of the parish was a
thing of tlie past. Worst of all, the great father and
friend was lying on his bed of sickness in a Dublin hos-
pital. They had not heard from him for some time ;
and tlien liis message was fairly hopeful. He assured
them that the landlord would not proceed to extremities.
He was partly riglit. The case had got into the Eng-
lish press ; for the buyers at Manchester were losing
heavily by the enforced inactivity of their clients in Ire-
land ; and the Canon had written from his sick-bed a
strong letter to the Dublin and London press on this
new instance of injustice and rapacity. And so the
office hesitated to enforce instructions, repeatedly re-
ceived from the landlord in Paris ; and all was wrapped
in surmise and uncertainty.
Father Cussen was savagely exultant. His prophecy
was fulfilled to the letter. He had foreseen the evil
day and was prepared for it. It was sure to come, he
said. Better now tlian later on. One sharp tussle :
and their tenure was secure forever. Only let them
stand shoulder to shoulder, and all the might of Eng-
land could not dislodge them.
Luke went over to Lisnalee. The good old father
493
i94 LUKE DELMEGE
was grievously troubled. Lizzie and her husband were
anxious, but determined. Was there no chance of a
settlement, asked Luke.
" None whatever. The landlord was demanding an
impossibility. That margin of twenty-five per cent, re-
duction just kept them afloat, and gave them heart to
carry on their industries. If they paid that, all the
profits of their skill and labour were sacrificed. And
then, to demand arrears, due over thirty years — the
thing was monstrous I "
Father Cussen said the same, adding: "You see,
Luke, it's all your beautiful law and order I The man
is doing a strictly legal thing; and a strictly brutal
thing. He wants this three or four thousand a year,
which your sister here and the rest are making, not out
of the improved condition of his property, but from
their own industry. He wants it to stake it on the red
at Monte Carlo ; and he must have it, or ruin ! And
the law says. Yes! It is brutal, but strictly legal!
And it will be carried out at the point of the bayonet."
Luke returned to Rossmore with a heavy heart, full
of forebodings.
There was a great mission given in the parish of Ross-
more during the month of May in that year. Like all
missions in Ireland it was well attended. People flocked
from near and far to hear the sermons, and go to con-
fession. The good Fathers had a busy time, and Luke
was kept in the church from early morn till late at night.
This distracted his thoughts, and made him happy. The
closing demonstration — that most touching ceremony
of the renewal of baptismal vows — was a wonderful
sight. There were over fifteen hundred persons in the
large church. The heat was stifling ; but they did not
heed it. Mothers brought their babies from their
cradles, lest they should lose the glory and benediction
of that night ; and they held the tiny fingers around
the wax candles, and spoke their vows even for the
little ones, who had no need of renewal. All felt re-
generated after a good confession and communion ; all
DISILLUSION 495
were happy, with that strange, beautiful sense of light-
ness and peace that one feels after a good sincere con-
fession; all were prepared to live for God, and to die
rather than fall into the hands of His enemy. Luke
was more than happy ; he was buoyant, even enthusi-
astic. He had had a glorious week's work, and he felt
sustained by the mighty tonic. And he knew his good
pastor was pleased and gratified ; and this, too, was a
great pleasure. But there will be always some little
accident to mar great events ; and it occurred this even-
ing. One poor fellow forgot himself; but, notwith-
standing his condition, he had insisted on coming to
the closing of the mission. He kept fairly quiet during
the sermon ; but just before the candles were lighted
for the concluding ceremony, he became troublesome.
Luke saw the commotion, and, gliding down by the
side aisle, he ordered the delinquent to rise up and fol-
low him. The poor fellow obeyed, and came out into
the yard. Luke ordered him home. But this was re-
sisted. The young man stood, with legs wide apart,
and swaying to and fro. His candle, bent witli the
heat, was twisted around his hand, and he was weeping
and blubbering like a child.
" Come now, like a good fellow," said Luke ; " go
home, and no one will miss you."
" I wo'not go home," was the reply. " I wants the
bilifit of the bission ; I do — a."
"How can you gain any spiritual benefit in your
present state ? " protested Luke. " Go home, and go
to bed."
" I wo'not go homo," the poor fellow protested.
''Oh ! oh! to be tuined out ov the House of God, and
the last night of the bission I Oh ! oh ! "
" 'Twas your own fault," said Luke. " You liave
disgraced us all to-night. Go home now, like a good
fellow ! "
"I wo'not go home," he replied, weeping. '• I wants
to go back to the House of God, an' to get the bilifit of
the bission. Oh ! I do — a."
496 LUKE DELMEGE
" You shall not return to the church," said Luke, de-
terminedly. " I cannot have the congregation disturbed
this evening. There, I'll get some one to take you home.
You can sleep it off, and come to-morrow for the pledge.
There, your candle is gone and 'tis all over."
That extinguished candle was decisive. The poor
fellow turned away, ashamed and sorrowful, and went
towards his home in misery.
Luke was very angry. He quite ignored the vast,
pious congregation inside, and the glorious work that
had been wrought during the week. He saw only the
one blot, and that saying, "the bilifit of the bission,"
haunted him during the week. He had worked him-
self into the fine fury of those who are angry and sin
not, by Sunday morning ; and at last Mass on that day
he delivered a fierce invective on the abuse of divine
grace, on the folly of mistaking the means for the end,
on the superstition of supposing that the mission w^as a
light coat of armour, that would save them from relaps-
ing during the year, without any corresponding effort
on their part to cooperate with grace, etc.
On Monday morning he set out on his annual holiday.
It was now ten years since he had left England, and
although repeatedly invited by his old confreres to cross
the Channel, he had alwa5^s declined. He dreaded the
return of his first experience of the contrasts between
the countries. He was now fairly happy ; and he did
not care to plunge again into the fearful despondency
that haunted him during his first years on the home
mission. But now he had cast the past so thoroughly
behind him that he no longer dreaded the experience ;
and he had a secret longing to see once more the place
where he had spent the first years of his priesthood, and
the faces of old friends. He called at the Cathedral.
All was changed here. The old staff had passed away,
removed by promotion or death ; and new faces were
all around him. There were the old dining-room and
library ; there was the table where he was drawing his
map when suddenly ordered to Aylesburgh ; there his
DISILLUSION 497
bedroom. But the Bishop? Dead. The good, kind
old Vicar ? Dead. Sheldon ? Gone to Aylesburgh.
Oh, 3es ! he knew that. That faithful friend had never
forgotten his Irish comrade ; in fact, it was Father
Sheldon's querulous invitation that had conquered
Luke's repugnance to visit England again. Was his
name remembered ? Oh, yes. The story of his struggle
with the Bishop for the Cappa magna had come down by
tradition ; for, whenever a young priest tried to put
that splendid vestment on the Bishop, he was warned,
Remember Delmege ! Oh, yes ! And it was also re-
membered that he it was who had brought around the
lamentable apostasy of Halleck.
" It's an utter and calumnious falsehood," said Luke.
They lifted their eyebrows and looked at one another.'
Luke was glad to get away.
Father Sheldon, really delighted to see his old friend,
received him in English fashion, with cool, courteous
welcome.
" Good heavens ! " thought Luke ; "they're all stricken
into stone. "
liy-and-l)ye Father Sheldon thawed out, and the old
spirit of camaraderie revived.
" The years are telling on us all, Delmege," he said.
'* I'm as bald as Julius Cuisar, and you have more silver
than silk in your locks."
" Everything seems changed hero," said Luke. " I'm
just wondering how I ever liked tliis place."
He looked around and contrasted this place with his
own little home in Rossmore. He thouffiit of his jrar-
den, liis flowers, his books, his pictures, liis horse, his
freedom, the total absence of anxiety about debts, his
sense of freedom from responsibility, the patient gentle-
ness of his people, their reverence, their love.
" How is John Godfrey ? " he asked.
"Dead."
"And Mrs. Bluett?"
" Dead."
" And the Lefevrils ? "
2k
498 LUKE DELMEGE
" Clotilde is married to your friend Halleck. The
others are in the South of Europe, Cap St. Martin, or
some other English hive."
" But Halleck is not here ? " said Luke, somewhat
nervously.
" Oh, no. He gives lectures occasionally at the Royal
Society ; picks up stray apostates from France or Italy,
lionizes them, and then drops them."
" Then he has never returned to the Church ? "
"Never. You put a bad hand in him."
" If I didn't know you were joking, Sheldon, I would
resent that remark. They flung it at me at the Cathe-
dral also. It appears to be the one unfragrant memory
I have left. And Clotilde ? "
"Remains an artist, and haunts South Kensington."
" But her religion ? "
" Oh, she's an 'eclectic' So she says. Which, as you
know, is another and a prettier name for heretic."
" And poor old Drysdale ! Gone too, to his reward.
He was a good man. He never knew how much I rev-
erenced him ; and how grateful I am for his example."
" So he was," said Father Sheldon, rising. " Now,
you'll spend all your holidays here, Delraege ; and get
up one or two of your fine sermons. No heresy, though,
mind."
Luke was going to protest again. But Father Sheldon
continued blandly : " Ah, what a pity, Delmege, you
didn't let me draw that tooth that day by the Serpen-
tine. You would be here with us to-day."
" Thank God for that, whatever," said Luke. " I'll
stroll around, and see if I can recognize any old
faces."
He passed along the High Street, and recalled to
memory the names over the shop doors. He visited
one Catholic house. It was a large commercial estab-
lishment. The shop girls stared at him. Was Mrs.
Atkins at home ? No ; but Miss Atkins could be seen.
Miss Atkins tripped downstairs, and stared. Oh, yes !
she had heard mother speak of Father Delmege, who
DISILLUSION 499
had ministered there many years ago. Perhaps he
would call again, when mother might be at home.
" How did I ever come to love these strange people? "
asked Luke of himself, as lie passed down the street.
"I must have been mesmerized."
He turned from a side street and found himself in
Primrose Lane. It was abominably paved with huge
rough stones, and an open gutter ran down the centre
of the lane to the river. But it was dear to him. He
had visited it in the broiling days of midsummer. He
had slipped over these horrid stones in frosty January.
He had always l)een welcome.
"■ Dead and forgotten here, too, I suppose," he said.
He became aware of loud whispering behind him from
the open doors.
" 'Tis him ! " " 'Tisn't ! " "I tell you 'tis him !
Wouldn't I know his grand walk annywhere ! "
"■ Yerra, not at all. Sure, he's away in the ould coun-
thry ! " "• But I say it is, 'uman ! I'd know him if he
was biled ! "
In an instant every door was blocked. There was a
hurried consultation, some doubtings and fears ; and
then Mrs. Moriarty, rubbing her hands fiercely in her
check apron, burst from her door. Hung lierself on her
knees on the rough stones ; and sob])ing, laughing,
weeping, smiling, she grasped I^uke's hands, covered
them with passionate kisses, whilst her great love tum-
bled out word after word, jostling one another in their
fury of affection.
'" Oh I wisha ! M'isha 1 did I ever think I'd see this
day? Oh I asthore maehree ! pulse of my heart I Oh I
a liundred thousand welcomes this l)lessed day !
Oh! praise be to You, sweet Lord an' Youi- Holy
IVIother ! Oh ! Father, sure we thought we"<l never
see you again I Yerra, come here, Mary McCarthy !
Yerra, what's come over ve all ? Don't ve know vere
own priest ? Yerra, yer reverence, manny and manny's
tlie time Ave spoke of you ! Oil ! Avisha I wisha I
wisha ! and here he is agin ! Yerra, and I forgot to ask
■*"
500 LUKE DELMEGE
ye, how are ye? An' I suppose ye're a parish priest
now in the ould counthry ! " And da cajjo.
" Wisha, yer reverence," said another, " sure 'tis we're
glad to see you. An' here's little Mary, yer rever-
ence ; sure you ought to know her ! 'Twas you bap-
tized her ! "
" And this is Jamesy, yer reverence ! Don't you
remimber, how you said he was winkin' at you all the
time of the christenin', because he had wan eye open all
the time ? "
" Oh, Lor', sure the min will never forgive theirselves
for being away this blessed day. Mike will murdher
us all. That's all about it."
" But, perhaps yer reverence won't be goin' away so
soon ? Maybe the min would have a chance of seein'
ye?"
" I shall remain for a few days with Father Sheldon,"
said Luke. " He has kindly asked me to remain over
Sunday, and to say a few words to my old congrega-
tion."
" Is't to prache, yer reverence? Oh, glory, did ye
hear that, Mary ? Did ye hear that, Kate ? His rever-
ence is goin' to prache on Sunday. Every Prodestan'
in the city will be there ! "
"Wisha, yer reverence, not makin' little of the
priests here, we niver hard a right sarmon since ye
left."
" That's thrue for ye, thin. Sure they mane well,
poor min, but they haven't the flow."
" Look here," said Luke, deeply touched by this
ovation, " ye must all come back with me to Ireland.
That's all about it. Ireland is your motherland, and
she wants ye all."
" We wish we could, yer reverence, a thousand times
over. But where's the use ? We've a little livin' here,
which the bailiffs and the landlords wouldn't give us at
home."
" That's true, too, Kate," said Luke, remembering his
own impending troubles.
DISILLUSION 501
"An' sure they're sayin' the people are all lavin'
the ould counthry, yer reverence, an' flying to Amer-
icky?"
"The fools are," said Luke. "They could live at
home if they liked. But what's become of all my little
Italians? "
" Oh, they're here yet, your reverence," said Mrs.
Moriarty, with a little pitying smile of racial superiority.
Then, going over to the foot of a staircase, she shouted :
" Come down at wance, Jo Kimo. Are ye there, Car-
rotty? Come down at wance, I say, an' see yere own
priest."
" Don't spake about the monkey," she warned Luke.
" Sure, he's dead ; an' the poor man feels it, as if it wor
his child."
And (iioixcchimo and Carita and Stefano came down,
and smiled and wept, and kissed the priest's hand ; and
he caressed them with words of their own beautiful
language ; and went away, feeling in his heart for the
hundredth time the truth of his sister's words : " Love
the poor, Luke, and 'twill make life all sunshiny."
And he wondered how he ever came to love tliis grav,
ashen city; with its lamps and asphalt; and icy for-
malities, except in that one spot, brightened by the
aliens. And he thought with what joy he would get
back to Kossmore, and its mountains, and plantations,
and its pretty cottages, and the dear love of his jieople.
And he resolved to buy a new set of breviaries fur his
dear old pastor, with good large print to suit the oUl
man's eyes ; and a workbox for Mary, that would make
her big eyes twice as large with wonder; and a grand
chibouque for .b.hn, that would be the talk and admira-
tion of the comitryside.
"Come over; come ov(m-," ho said, when bidding
good-bye to Father Sheldon, " Come over, all you Sax-
ons, and we'll show you our green fields, and our glori-
ous mountains, and our seas : and we'll put some of the
love of (xod into your cold Jn'aits."
But Father Sheldon only laughed.
502 LUKE DELMEGE
" No, thank you ! I haven't many years to live ; but
I don't care for a sudden and unprovided death."
And so the friends parted.
" To put the thought of England out of my head for-
ever," thought Luke, as he passed through London, |
" lest the idea should ever revive again, I'll see it at its
worst."
And he went down to the Bank and the Exchange.
Before he realized it, he Avas wedged in by a huge bank
of humanity — a swirling, tossing mass, moved hither
and thither by some common impulse, that seemed to
make them utterly oblivious of each other. Pale-faced
men, all dressed in morning costume, silk hat, morning
dress-coat, gloves, glided along singly or in twos or
threes; but every face wore an expression of intense
anxiety, as men questioned each other, or frantically
dragged note-books from their pockets and jotted down
something with trembling hands. He passed through
into the Exchange. Here again was a swirling, well-
dressed crowd. Groups here and there discussed some
mighty problem ; clerks, with bent heads, jotted down
names and investments ; you heard everywhere : " Santa
Fes," "Orientals," " Kimberleys," "Tanaga Mines,"
" Great Westerns," " Durnley Tyres." It was a horrid
Babel ; and it was made worse by the accents of calm
despair with which one man announced his failure and
his ruin, and the tone of calm triumph with which an-
other boasted the successful issue of some perilous
investment. The air was hot and thick with the breath
of many mouths and the dust of many feet. But they
heeded not. They worshipped at the shrine of the
great god Mammon. Luke stared around for the idol.
There were white marble statues erected here and there ±
to successful worshippers of the past. But there was no ^
idol, no image of the great god himself. No need. He ^..
was enshrined in every heart ; and lo ! here was a vie- ;5|
tim. A young man leaned heavily, as if drunk, against
the wall, his feet wide apart, his hat far back on his
head. He was the very picture of despair. Luke saw
DISILLUSION 503
one gentleman nodding to another, and winking over
his shoulder at the ruined man : —
" Better see Angland safe to his own door ! "
Luke fled from the Mart of Mammon.
The next evening Luke was in Dublin at seven o'clock.
He went out after dinner to finish his Office, say his
Rosary, and make his visit. He strolled into Gardiner
Street Cliurch. The twilight outside was deepened into
gloom within the walls ; j^et he could see that the church
was pretty full with devout worshippers here and there.
He passed up along the central aisle, and got into a
quiet nook under the Lady Altar. He was bent down
for a few minutes in prayer. When he raised his head,
he found he was wedged in a dense crowd that filled the
benches on every side, and left no possibility of escape.
Tliey were of all classes, ages, and conditions of life, as
Luke saw, when in a moment the whole church was
brilliantly lighted, and the great organ pealed forth with
a sweet hymn to our Blessed Lady. He noticed beads
in all hands — fifteen decade beads in tlie liands of the
young girls.
" AVhat's going on ? " he whispered to a venerable
old man by his side.
" A novena for Pentecost," he wliispered.
The Rosary was then recited the moment the red-
robed acolytes had taken their places in a corona around
the liigh altar. After the Rosary a sermon was preached
on the first gift of tlie Holy Ghost — wisdom.
"Who's the preacher?" whispered Luke to his
neighbour.
"Father ,"' was the reply. " A grand man, j-our
reverence ! "
" I'm in Iroh\nd for a surety," thought Luke.
lie was dying for a cup of tea ; but there was no
escape until Benediction was over, at nine o'clock.
Next morning lie presented himself at the same
church to say Mass. As lie passed up the corridor to
the left of the church, he saw a number of men await-
ing confession. They, too, were young and well-dressed.
504 LUKE DELMEGE
in morning costume. Their silk hats and gloves lay
quietly on their knees. They sat quietly, meditatively,
Avith gentle, grave faces. Luke thought of Mr. Hen-
nessy and the village boys. Here was the practical
result of habitual training in reverence. He entered
the sacristy, and, after some delay, received permission
to say Mass. The sacristy door was opened by his
acolyte, and a gush of hot air blew in his face. He
expected to see a few worshippers, here and there.
He stood in presence of a vast multitude. Some
were kneeling, but most were erect and moving
as in an endless eddy, circling around some common
centre. It was the altar rails. They who moved
towards the altar rails looked up, with hands clasped
around their prayer books or wreathed in their beads.
They stared before them, as at some entrancing object
that riveted eye and soul in one absorbing glance.
They who returned bent their faces reverently over
clasped fingers. They had received all that they had
dreamed of and expected. And, as all moved backward
and forward in apparently endless circles, Luke heard
the only sound that broke the reverent stillness : Cor-
pus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodial animam tuam
in vitam aeternam. Amen. With the greatest difficulty,
and following his acolyte closely, he at length reached
a side altar and deposited his chalice. In an instant
there was a rush to the place. Women snatched up
their children as they knelt, and hurried forward. Young
girls quickly took their places around the balustrade.
Young men knelt stiffly erect, with reverent faces, and
in an attitude of mute attention. Old men threw down
their handkerchiefs and bent heavily over the rails.
Then there was the hush of mute expectation of the
mighty mystery wrought at the altar, and the graces
that were to pour like torrents on their souls. Luke
trembled all over at the unusual surroundings — he
thought there was a panic in the church ; then he
trembled under the very dread of great delight. The
moment he had said the last prayer, the crowd rose
DISILLUSION 505
swiftly and hurried away to another altar where another
Mass was being said. No time for idle curiosity here.
The gold must be stamped as minted. Time is precious,
for the heavens are opened this thrice blessed morning,
and the mighty treasury of the Church lies here with
uncovered lids, revealing all its wealth of grace, and all
its opulence of merits ; and swiftly the souls that covet
must dip their hands and depart. And so, unfevered,
but restless as the fur-clad gold-seeker who treads his
painful way over snowy mountains that his eyes may
rest on the valley of riches and the rivers that are thick
with the yellow dust, do these speculators in the banks
of God claim vast returns from His thrice generous
hands of the only wealth they care for or covet. And
here was neither bankrupt nor suicide. They might
dip as deeply as they pleased without peril or the dan-
ger of exhaustion. For are not His mercies without
limit ? And who shall plumb the vast seas of omnipo-
tent generosity ?
" Yesterday I stood in the ]\Iart of Mammon," said
Luke. "To-day I have seen the Mart of Christ. Is this
quite unicjue? or are there other Exchanges in the city?"
He tried. He entered another church in a deep nar-
row lane off Grafton Street — a great vast, gh)omy
church, with all kinds of niches and nooks, wliere a
modest soul might commune freely with God. and
never be seen of men. He would have been even more
interested, had he known that this was the church
where Barbara worshippe<l in tlic far-off days. And
tliis was the porch through which Mrs. Wenham (led
in terror ; and that old woman miglit be Norry, who
was always rattling her beads. Here too were vast
s[)eculators on the treasury of Heaven. To and fro,
to and fro they moved, pra3'ing, weeping, watching.
All but one ! A 3'oung man, also well dressed in fault-
less morning coat, his silk hat and gloves lying on the
seat near him, gazed upwards, as he leaned heavil}' on
the bench rail, at the Face of the gentle Christ. He
seemed like one who had iust awoki' from a trance of
506 LUKE DELMEGE
horrid dreams, and had just begun to realize that he
still lived, and that there were great solemn realities
about him. He seemed to be asking still, Is it all true?
or. Is it all still a dream? But the gentle, vivid faith
of all around him, tlie quiet realization of the super=
natural, the reverent familiarity with which these
young girls placed the ruby candle in the sockets of
the great candelabra, then looked up into the Face of
Christ, and bowed, as if the eyes were wide open and
watching — all reassured him; and, after a long in-
terval, he sighed deeply, then knelt, and buried his
face in his hands, and prayed.
" God send another Piiilip Neri," said Luke, " if he
is not already here."
He should see the Canon, of course. He drove to
the '' Mater," and was ushered into the Canon's private
room. He apologized at once. There was a great
mistake. That venerable old man, his long hair float-
ing on his shoulders, white with the yellow gleam of
an Alp in the sunlight, and the long white beard flow-
ing in two forked plaits on his breast, was not the
Canon. It was Elias come back from heaven.
" I beg pardon," said Luke ; " I have been mis-
directed."
" Ha, my dear young friend, you fail — ha — to rec-
ognize your old friend ? "
"A thousand pardons, sir," said Luke. "I really
did. I took you for one of the greater prophets, come
back to life."
" Ha, indeed ? And is my — ha — personal appear-
ance so greatly changed ? I have scarcely thought of
it here. There were other things — other things ! " said
the Canon, wearily drawing his hand across his brow.
"I've just returned from England," said Luke,
"where I had a brief holiday — "
"• Ha — have you any tidings of my niece — of Bar-
bara ? "
" I regret to say, no, sir," said Luke, sadly. " I
questioned Father Sheldon, who had been so kind to
DISILLUSION 507
Miss Wilson and her brother in EngLand; but he
never heard from or saw Miss Wilson since the inter-
ment of her brother."
" It is strange, and mysterious," said the Canon. " I
fear we must give her up as dead."
Luke was silent for a long time.
" I must congratulate you, sir," he said at length,
"on your rapid recovery. I hardly expected to find
you so well."
"Yes, indeed, I feel remarkably well," said the
Canon, raising with some difficulty the arm that had
been paralyzed. " Thanks to careful nursing, and the
— ha — skill of the medical practitioners here, I hope
soon to be able to return home."
"You may expect a warm, and even an enthusiastic
welcome," said Luke. " It will revive the spirits of
the poor people to see you ; and they need some com-
fort now."
" Oh ! it will be all right ! it will be all right ! " said
the Canon, with his old confidence. " In the face of
public opinion, our — ha — adversaries cannot proceed
further. The P^nglish press has taken the — lia —
matter up ; and English public opinion cannot be
despised."
"Perhaps so," said Luke, despondently. "Somehow,
things over there look so different to me under the
light of experience. I have begun to feel a strange,
passionate attachment to my country and people."
" There's a good deal to be said on both sides," said
the Canon.
" I shall warn the people to look out for your coming,
sir," said Luke, rising. " You may be prepared for a
great ovation."
"I think you may — ha — say, that I shall be home
in a month or six weeks," replied tlie Canon.
He stood up to say good-b}^, but he fell back
wearilj'.
l.iike's last visit was to his beloved sanctuary — the
University College Chapel. This time he did not
(
508 LUKE DELMEGE
reach the altar rails or the side chapel. He was
arrested by the noble bust of Newman that had been
just erected in the side wall. He went over and sat
beneath it, looking up into the fine face, with the
expression of sadness and resignation that was so char-
acteristic of the great Cardinal in later life. And, as
Luke watched the white marble, there came into his
mind that tragic exclamation when the letter of his
elevation to the Sacred College was placed in the
tremljling hands of the great convert: '-'•Thank Grod !
the cloud is lifted at last ! " The most mournful and _
pitiful of all the dim echoes of Eldi^ Elo'i, lamma sabac- ff
thani! that have been torn from bleeding breasts since
that cry startled the darkness of Calvary. And Luke
began to question and inquire.
" Why should a cloud ever have rested on that sacred
brow ? Why are the great and the holy dishonoured in
life ; only honoured in death ? Why are men so cruel
and vindictive towards each other ? What is the dread
secret of man's inhumanity to man ? "
Poor Luke! he can never leave these turbulent ques-
tions alone. Why, and why, and why? As if there
were any key to tlie mighty riddle, except that which
is hidden away somewhere in the folds of God's gar-
ments, and which He never shows until after He has
unlocked the secrets of the grave.
I
CHAPTER XXXVIII
LOGWOOD DAY
Sister Mary of Magdala — let us give her the full
title, for she will not bear it much longer — had now
spent ten years of penitence, subjection, mortification ;
but, oh ! ten years of such supreme hai)piness within
the sanctuary of the Good Shepherd ; and, as the unde-
termined period of the fultilment of lier mighty vow
was approaching its end, her cross became more heavy,
her anxiety more acute. True, she was surrounded,
encompassed, followed by reverence and love, such as
even a great saint might envy, could he feel such an
unworthy emotion, lier sister penitents adored her,
thoug^h she never understood the reason ; the nuns
loved her ; Father Tracey was infinitely kind ; Sister
Eulalie treated her as one of the community ; and
Laura, her little patient, followed her with eyes of
speechless devotion and affection. But that dream !
that dream !
It had now become a Avaking dream, and was espe-
cially insistent in the Convent Chapel. For when
Sister Mary sat down there in the little sanctuary to
the left, where her sister penitents were gathered
together at j\Iass or Benediction, slie would feel her-
self carried out in s[)irit into tiie choir-stalls, where the
sixty white-robed Sisters were singing Vespers or mutely
liearing ^lass. And, sometimes, when the mighty organ
rumbled, and the great seraphic voices arose in some
glorious Tanfum erijo or SaJntarU ! she distinctly
heard her own voice carried out and al)ove all the
others as it struck the gilded ceiling and the decorated
609
510 LUKE DELMEGE
walls, and then fell down in a whispered echo, and hov-
ered around the monstrance, where the Divine Lover of
her and of all was hidden. Then with a violent start
she would wake up and look around, and behold with
a little shudder her own dread abjection. And then
again she would rebuke herself sternly amidst her tears
for her involuntary treason to her mighty vow. Had
not the Eternal kept His contract, and whj^ should she
repudiate hers? Had not the All-Merciful snatched
her brother from the pains of hell and the deep pit, and
why should she repine for a few years of such sweet
penance ? If God had sent Louis — poor dear Louis —
to hell — oh ! the thought was too dreadful ; and she
would go out on the wings of resignation and clasp,
like her great patroness, the nail-pierced feet, and cry,
'•'-Elegi! elegi! I have chosen to be a despised one in
the house of my God rather than dwell in the tents of
sinners ! " And then there would be peace. But the
waking dream of the white, spotless robes and the veil
of honoured espousals and the organ and the choir, and
herself amidst it all, would recur again and again ; and
the very respect and love, of which she now found her-
self an object, only intensified the vision.
One such day Sister Mary was in the Infirmary, tend-
ing on Laura Desmond, now a hopeless and helpless in-
valid. She had done some trifling little service to her
patient, and the latter drew her down with her arm and
whispered : —
" Won't you ever tell me who you are ? "
" What difference, dear, does it make, so long as we
love one another ?"
" No ; but I should love you more, only that some-
times I am afraid of you."
" Why should you be afraid, dear ? I am but one
like yourself, only perhaps more sinful before God."
" You are not," said the patient, quietly.
Then taking up her prayer book, she opened it. Sister
Mary helping, and took out a little picture.
" Do you know what it is ? " said Laura.
LOGWOOD DAY 511
"Yes, dear — a Sister of the Good Shepherd."
" I shall not die easy till I see you in that dress," said
Laura ; " that is, if you do not put on something even
better."
Sister Mary shook her head, and, after a little while,
when Laura slept, she went over to the farthest southern
window and took up her book to read. The Holy Moun-
tain now seemed very near. She did not know that she
had to pass through the deepest and darkest valley of
humiliation before she reached the shining summit.
On this same day Luke Delmege was in the city, in
obedience to a peremptory summons from the Bisliop.
Before he left Dublin for home, he satisfied a lonir-felt
desire to see his Alma Mater once more. He went
down to Maynooth b}' an early train, hoping to be able
to pass through some of its best-remembered spots, the
Chapel, his own old room, the circular walk, etc., un-
noticed. When he entered the great gate, beneath the
old Geraldine Keep, it struck him for the first time that
sphinxes were placed to guard the portals of the greatest
Catholic college in the world.
" Strange that I never noticed such an anomalous, or,
perhaps, significant circumstance, during all my college
years ! " he said.
All around was still as death. For, if academic peace
is to be found on earth, it is within the hallowed pre-
cincts of Maynootli.
" Tliey have all gone to breakfast," he cried, looking
at his watch. '' I shall have the Senior Chapel all to
myself. I shall see the place where I lay prostrate the
morning of my ordination. I shall recall my vows, my
emotions, my resolutions. I have seen so much hitely
to cast me into the past again, and to compel me to
retrace my steps, that is, my ideas and principles, back
to the fresh insi)irations of the most hallowed and
peaceful days of my life."
He entered the narrow porch at the northern side,
touched his forehead with holy water, and again, for
512 LUKE DELMEGE
the third time these last few days, felt a breath of hot air
fanning him, and found himself in the presence of a great
multitude. He had forgotten that it was Whitsuntide.
The church was full ; the very drama of his own ordi-
nation, that most sublime of the Church's ceremonies,
was being reenacted before his eyes. Quietly and un-
observed he stole up the short aisle, the students cour-
teously yielding place, and saw the broad floor of the
choir between the stalls carpeted with prostrate human
forms, over which the white and red and gold of the
chasubles gleamed. There was an awful stillness as the
Pontiff stretched his hands over the prostrate Levites.
Then there burst on the stupefied senses of Luke that
glorious hymn, the Veni Creator Spiritus, that mighty
epithalamlum of the priesthood, which, in some peculiar
sense, too, seems to be the royal anthem of this college ;
for, heard for the first time by the young, raw student,
as it is rendered by six hundred voices at the opening
of Retreat, it haunts him all through his college course ;
and, heard for the last time at his ordination, it accom-
panies him, tlie rhythm of supreme, melodious sanctity,
during all his priestly life. And Luke, enchanted, in-
toxicated by all the sweet associations of the past and
all the tender environments of the present, could only
watch and study the air of rapt recollection and happi-
ness that suffused the faces of the young priests with
the oil of gladness, and compelled him to pray, deep
down in his heart, not for himself, but for them, that
the Holy Spirit might keep fresh forever in their hearts
all the sacred inspirations of that day, and never allow
them to be uprooted by the false maxims of the world,
or withered and faded under the deadly breath of custom
or compromise.
He slipped out quietly from amongst the students,
the young cadets of the great army of Christ ; took a
rapid run around the ball-courts and the great circular
walk that stretches far up amongst the mighty elms
and sweeps around by the Grand Canal ; lingered for
a moment by the little cemetery, where slept many of
LOGWOOD DAY 513
his old professors, and, entering the corridor once more,
found liiniself at once on the scene of liis old triumphs
— the Fourth Year's Divinity Hall. Ah, yes! there
was the very desk at which he sat ; there the pulpit,
beneath which he pulled his soutane over his knees so
often, and annihilated his antagonist with a Sic argu-
mentaris, doctissime Dominel He sat down, and bury-
ing his face in his hands, he tried to recall old faces
and associations. Alas ! the old faces had faded away
in the far mists of memory ; but the old associations
came up, looming dark and threatening from the
past, to U[)braid him with his treason.
"My reason tells me," he cried, "that my life has
been flawless and immaculate.. My conscience, some
higher power, declares my life to have been a failure.
Where, and in wliat measure? "
And the ghosts of the past said : —
" In this, that you have mistaken, as you have been
already told, the blue and green fireworks of the world
for tiie calm, eternal stars. You have groped for light,
and beheld darkness ; Ijrightness, and you have walked
in the dark. You have groped for the wall, and like
the blind you have groped, as if you had no eyes ; you
have stumbled at noonday as in darkness; you have
been in dark places, like dead men."
And Luke answered and said : —
"Yes; l)ut wherefore, and how?"
And the answer came : —
" In that you measured your college and your country,
ay, even your Cliureh, by tlie measure of a false civili-
zation. You judged your motherland, as all \(nu' fel-
low-countrymen do who go abroad, by the false standard
of modern progress ; you found her wanting and despisiMl
lier. Now, what has the world profited you? ^^he lialli
given you little for your apostasy. Ami for your own
people you have been a crackling of thorns under a
pot."
Luke was glad to hear the noise and laughter of
the students in the corridor. Anything to escape that
514 LUKE DELMEGE
reverie, that synod of accusing ghosts. He opened the
door and rushed out. Groups of students in threes
and fours were wheeling along, file after file, each group
clustered around a newly ordained comrade, who trod
on air and spurned the sandy flags. Group after group
stared at Luke and passed by. Then, a young Levite
detached himself from his batch, and coming over defer-
entially, he asked : —
" I beg your pardon, sir ; but are you Father Luke
Delmege? "
" Yes," said Luke.
" Luke Delmege, that was First of First f'
" Yes," said Luke, blushing at the old honour and at
its remembrance.
" The diocese was speaking of you only yesterday
and recalling all your triumphs, and one of us from
Limerick thought he recognized you. Won't you
come see them ? "
" By all means," said Luke. And he did. And
they made him the centre of an admiring circle, and
told him, half shyly, half familiarly, how well he was
remembered in his own college ; and round and round
they swept, linked arm-in-arm, until a professor, rush-
ing down the library stairs near the refectory, caught
sight of Luke's face, hesitated, advanced. The stu-
dents doffed their caps and retired ; and the professor,
linking his ai'm in Luke's, drew him on to the supe-
riors' corridor, murmuring all the way : —
" Luke Delmege, Luke Delmege, whom we gave up as
lost ! Why? why ? how many years since you left us? "
" Seventeen," said Luke, very happy.
" Seventeen ? " murmured the professor, unlinking his
arm and looking at Luke. " Seventeen years away from
us, and never condescended to visit us? You deserve
to be turned out, neck and crop, from your Alma Mater ! "
He was brought into the refectory, where he met some
old comrades and some of his old professors. He was
surprised at the familiarity with which these latter were
treated; surprised that they accosted him familiarly;
LOGWOOD DAY 515
surprised that they ate and drank like mortals. They
were the Dli Majores of his youthful worship — the gods
that moved in a different and loftier sphere. It is the
awful reverence of youth for its superiors — an instinct
that no good man ever wholly lays aside.
Luke was overwhelmed with kindness. He said he
was returning home to-morrow, Wednesday.
" Nonsense ! No vacation ever terminated on
Wednesday. He was expected home on Saturday at
midnight ; and there in Maynooth he should remain
until the last train started ! "
And he did remain ; and drew up the entire past
witli all its happy reminiscences, met old classmates
and talked of old times; challenged disputations here,
where at last he felt he was on congenial soil and would
not be misunderstood ; recalled old debates and theses,
and formulated any number of new plans for the social
and intellectual regeneration of Ireland.
It was a happy man that passed out on Saturday
morning between the sphinxes on the gates.
" They did well who placed ye there," he said. " Life
is a mighty riddle. And I have been a fool in trying
to solve it — a fool in more ways than one; but most
of all in my silly imitation of that old dyspeptic cynic
who ridiculed the controversy about 6fxoiovaio<i and
6/xoovcno<; all his life, and admitted in his old age that
on that one letter depended the whole fabric of Chris-
tianity."
But Luke was happy and strong. He needed it.
Greater revelations of the possibilities of sanctity in
the Church, and greater personal trials were yet before
him.
He found a cold, stern letter from the Bishop await-
ing him when he returned home — a summons, officially
worded, to repair at once to the city and present him-
self at the episcopal palace. Wondering what new
accusation was laid against him, and searcliing his con-
science in vain for a delinquency, he presented himself
^
516 LUKE DELMEGE
I
before his Bishop. The Bishop was cold and stern as It
his letter. 4
" Sit down," he said. Luke sat, wondering.
" Now, Father Delmege," said the Bishop, " I have |
tolerated a good deal from you, but my patience is •"
nearly exhausted. I passed by that imprudence on %
your first mission, because you acted consistently with
the statutes, although you might have acted more pru-
dently ; I also contented myself with a gentle repri-
mand when you, I dare say innocently, introduced a ^
system of proselytism into your parish. I have also |
not noticed your singular habit of introducing into
your sermons rather painful contrasts between the
customs of our Irish Church and those which obtain,
under happier circumstances, in other more favoured
countries. Even your very perilous observations at
your lecture in the city some months ago I left unnoticed,
because I knew you could do no harm there. But now
I hold in my hand a melancholy report of a sermon
delivered by you, immediately after the last mission in
your parish, and in which, if I am rightly informed,
you denied the sacramental system and denounced the
use of the ordinary means sanctioned by the Church
for the sanctification of the faithful, and insisted on the
individual power of self-sanctification, apart from the
ordinary channels of divine grace — "
" Might I ask the name of my accuser ? " said Luke,
faintly.
" I cannot give it, unless the matter proceeds to an
official investigation and trial. Your parish priest
writes to say that he is quite sure you have a satisfac-
tory defence ; but then, Dr. Keatinge is always inclined
to take an easy and optimistic view of things."
" My only defence, my Lord," said Luke, " is to deny
the allegation infoto. I see clearly what originated the
report. A poor fellow, intoxicated, came to the closing
ceremony of the mission. I took him from the church
and bade him go home, for that he could derive no
benefit from the renewal of vows in his then state. I
LOGWOOD DAY ' 517
made the incident the text of my discourse the follow-
ing Sunday. I warned the people not to confound the
means of sanctification with the end — not to repose in
external observances, but to look within ; and to use
tlie Sacraments and sacramentals willi a view to their
own sanctification, and not as finalities that wouhl
operate miracles without co-operation on their part — "
"That puts a rather different complexion on the
matter," said the Bishop, softening. "■ I should ])e
surpi'ised that one who ol^tained such distinctions in
his college course should fall into sucli a lamentable
blunder. Have you any further observations to make ? "
"None, my Lord," said Luke, in despair. " M}"
college distinctions have availed me but little. I am
a weary and perplexed man."
He bent down his head on his hands in an attitude of
hopelessness. The little gesture touched the Bishop.
He gazed down for a long time at the stooped figure
and the head where the snows of life's winter were now
fast gathering. Then he gently touched Luke.
" You'll spend the day here, and dine with me at S.ve
o'clock. No ! no ! " he continued, as Luke strove to
excuse himself, " I shall take no excuse. I want to see
you more closely."
" I have been nearly a month from home, my Lord,"
said Luke, anxious to get away, " and — "
" Now, now, I make it a matter of obedience," said
the Bisliop. " You won't find me so crusty and disa-
greeable as you think. You"!! have a few hours in the
city ; but be here })unctually at five. By the way, I
want you to take a letter from me to Father Tracey.
Do you know him ? "
"I regret to say I do not," said Luke. "Years ago,
Avhen I was wiser than I am now, I had determined to
make his acipiaintance, but unfoitunately I missed the
opportunitv. I shall be very ghul to get the cliance
now."
"You sliall have it," said the Iiisliop. '• I wisli I
could break through his humility, and hold him up as
518 LUKE DELMEGE
a model to the diocese. But his example is telling in
a quiet way."
Luke took the letter, and made his way to the hospi-
tal where Father Tracey served. He found he did not
reside there, but in a side street. He passed down
through a shabby lane, eagerly scanning the houses to
detect some indication of a decent residence. He nar-
rowly escaped a deluge of purple, dirty water, which an
old woman was flinging from a doorway, right across
the footpath, into a dirty channel close by.
" I beg your reverence's pardon a thousand times,"
she said. "I hope a drop didn't tetch your reverence."
She examined with some anxiety Luke's fine broad-
cloth.
" Not a drop, my poor woman," he said. " But it
was a close shave. Can you tell me where Father
Tracey lives ? "
" Here, yer reverence," she said, piloting Luke into
the kitchen. " But Fm afraid he'll hardly see you to-
day. This is Logwood Day."
" What is Logwood Day ? " asked Luke, with curi-
osity.
" VVance in the six months," she replied, " we have
to steep his ould clothes in logwood to make thim some-
way dacent. That's the first bile I threw out. We're
now giving 'em the second." She pointed to the huge
pot ; and Luke, bending over, saw a grimy black mass
swimming in some dark red liquid.
" And has he but one coat ! " he asked.
" Only wan, yer reverence. He won't dress himself
dacently like iverybody else. ' Fm more comfortable,'
he says, 'in me ould duds.' And faith, Fve enough to
do to keep him from givin' away thim same to every
poor man that calls. That is," slie added, " if they'd
take 'em."
" Well, take him up this letter from the Bishop,"
said Luke, " and say a priest would like to see him."
After a long interval she reappeared at the top of
the stairs and called down : " Ye may come up, yer
LOGWOOD DAY 519
reverence ; but mind tliim stej^s, and don't lane too
heavy agen tlie banister."
The ante-room into which Luke was ushered was
miserable enough. It served as a bed-room ; and,
though clean, it was denuded of every stick of furni-
ture, except the wooden chair, the wash-stand, and the
simple pallet where the old man sought his often-broken
repose. He passed into the inner rf)om. The old man,
dressed in a green soutane, stood up, and, without ask-
ing his name, greeted liim warmly, and asked him to be
seated, while he broke the seal on tlie Bishop's letter.
The contents must have been pleasant, for the old man
smiled.
'• I liave for a long time cherished the idea," said
Luke, " that I should wish to make your acquaintance.
]\Iy sister at the Good Shepherd Convent has again and
again asked me to call, but one circumstance after
another prevented me."
"" Then you have a sister at the convent ? " said tlie
old man, nervously, fussing about and showing not a
little trepidation.
" Yes, Fatlier — Sister Eulalie — you know her? "
"God bless me, you don't say so," said tlie old man.
rising up and greeting Luke again warmly. ".\nd
vou are Luke Delmege, the great theologian and
lecturer ! "
"' Mv name is Luke Delmege." he said meeklv.
" AVell, I heard of you long before I saw you," said
the old man. " God bless me I And you are Luke
Delmege ? "
••'I have had a rather bitter trial to-day," said Luke.
" 1 was summoned before the Bishop to repel a most
calumnious accusation."
"God bless me, now ! And what did you say?"
"Of course I defended myself," said Luke, "and I
think I satisfied the IVishoj) that I had said or done
nothing wronir. But the stinir remains."
The old man remained silent, looking steadily at
Luke. The latter grew embarrassed now.
520 LUKE DELMEGE
" You seem to think I have been wrong," he broke
out at Last. " What can a man do but defend him-
self?"
" God bless me ! quite true, quite true ! But he
could say nothing, you know, my dear."
"And remain silent and condemned under a fright-
ful accusation ? No theologian binds a man to that,"
said Luke.
"Of course not, of course not," said Father Tracey.
" But I think, well — I'm not sure — but I think our
Lord was silent before His accusers, my dear. And He
was justified by His Father ! "
"That's very true. Father," said Luke, twisting around
on the hard chair ; " but these things are written for
our admiration, not for our imitation. At least," he
continued, noticing the look of pain on the aged face,
" I heard a distinguished man say so very many years
ago."
And then the old man opened up to Luke's wondering
eyes, out of the treasures of his own holy experiences,
the riches of knowledge that come not to the learned,
but to the simple — the wisdom of the child and the
angel, of Bethlehem and Calvary. And just as a clever
artist shifts his scenery so that light falls behind light,
and scenes blend into scenes, yet are absolutely distinct,
so did this old man show to the wondering Luke how the
mighty empire of the Precious Blood permeates and
leavens the entire world, and holds undisjjuted posses-
sion only where its laws and maxims are fully acknow-
ledged. And that elsewhere, wliere that most agreeable
and fascinating amusement of men — the neat mortising
and fitting in of the world's maxims with the Church's
precepts — is practised, there the shadows are deeper
and the lines that bound the empire fainter. And
Luke also learned that the one central decree of the
empire is : Lose thyself to find all ; and that the old
familiar watchword of self-renunciation and vicarious
suffering was in reality the peculiar and exclusive pos-
session of Christianity and the Church. And he looked
i
i
LOGWOOD DAY 521
back over his own life and saw that his soul was naked
and ashamed. Then he flung aside the riddle.
" Let nie see but one or two examples, and it is enough
forever," he said.
There was one before him. The other, even more
noble, more divine, he was about to see.
He bade the old man an affectionate farewell, and bent
his steps towards the Good Shepherd Convent to see his
sister. The lay-sister who answered the door told him
that his sister would be engaged for some time in the
Orphanage ; but that, if he would kindly wait till
Vespers were linished, he could see Reverend Mother.
On second thoughts, she invited him into the outer
sacristy, where he could assist at Vespers. He saw for
the first time the beautiful choir ; he saw the sixty pro-
fessed Sisters, the white veils, the postulants standing
in the choir-stalls ; he heard the Magnificat chanted by
these young daughters of Jerusalem ; the poetry, the
beauty, sank into his soul.
"•Ah!" he said, "if this were all religion, what a
poem Christianity would be ! "
He quite forgot the pause that is essential to melody
— the chords in the minor keys that are the essentials
of all harmony.
The choir broke up, and the Sisters passed swiftly to
their duties. He heard a rustling behind him, and a
voice : —
" Sister Eulalie will be engaged for about half an hour.
Father. Perhaps you would like to see the institution
in the interval?"
" I shall be very pleased," said Luke.
She led him into the corridor, full of flowers and
fragrance; thence by a rapid transition into the first
workroom. He was face to face with the Magdalcns.
The shudder that touches every pure and fastidious soul
at the very name crept over him as he saw the realities.
The awful dread that the siglit of soiled womanliood cre-
ates in the Catholic mind, so used to that sweet syml)ol of
all womanly perfection — our Blessed Lady — made him
522 LUKE DELMEGE
tremble. It was only for a moment. There was noth-
ing repulsive or alarming here. Seven or eight long
tables, running parallel to each other, filled the room ;
and at each table, eight or ten women, ranging from the
young girl of fifteen to the woman of sixty, were silently
occupied in laundry work. All modern appliances to
save human labour were there. The workers were
neatly dressed, and happy, if one could judge by their
smiles. No human imagination, however powerful,
could associate these eager workers with the midnight
streets, the padded cell, tlie dock, the jail, or the river.
It was a happy sisterhood, working in perfect silence
and discipline. And over all there presided a young
novice, in her white veil, who stood calmly working,
like her poor sisters, taking up now a white cuff, now
a collar, and giving her gentle instructions.
" It is the old mechanism and perfection I once
desired," thought Luke ; " but the motive power is
love, not fear."
They passed into an inner room. Here was miracle
number two. The Cistercian silence no longer reigned;
but over the boom and buzz of vast machinery came a
Babel of voices as the workers fled to and fro.
" Yer blessin', Feyther," cried one ; and in a moment
all were on their knees for Luke's benediction. And
then, with easy familiarity, these poor girls took Luke
around, and showed with intense pride the mighty
secrets of the machinery ; how steam was let on and
shut off ; how the slides worked on the rails in the
drying-room, etc. And, moving hither and thither
amongst them, in an attitude of absolute equality, were
the wliite-robed Sisters, their spotless habits carefully
tucked, for the floor was wet, and they laboured and
toiled like the rest.
" 'Tis the commonwealth of Jesus Christ," said Luke.
And dear old Sister Peter came forward, an octoge-
narian, and showed him all her treasures and her pretty
little oratory, with all its dainty pictures.
" How long have you been here ? " he asked.
LOGWOOD DAY 523
" Fifty years, yer reverence, come Michaelmas."
" Then your purgatory is over," said Luke.
" I don't want purgatliory, nor heaven ayther," she
said, "as long as (ilod laves me with the Sisthers."
The Sister and Luke passed out of the steamy atmos-
phere and the rumble of the machinery into a narrow
corridor, which led to the boiler-room and engine-
house.
" I should like you to see our new boiler," she said ;
" ril run on and tell the engineer to have all ready.
This is our Infirmary. Perhaps you would like to see
it. There's but one patient here."
She opened the door, and pointed to the bed where
Laura was lying. He went over at once, and, leaning
over the sick girl, said a few kind words. Then look-
ing around, he saw another ligure over near the soutliern
window, her face bent down over the book she Avas read-
ing. He thought it would seem unkind to pass lier by,
so he went over and said cheerily : —
" Convalescent, I suppose ? "
She rose up, trembling all over. Then a blush of
untold horror and shame flushed her face and forehead
as their eyes met ; but only to give place to a pallor
deejier than that on the faces of the dead. He started
back as if stung, and cried : —
"Great God I Barbara ! ^liss Wilson ! "
" Hush ! " she said softly, placing her trembling finger
on her lips. "That poor eliild is watching."
" But what ? wliat ? wliat ? " ho stammered. '' What
in (iod's name is this mystery ? AVhy are you here '! "
" God's will. Father," she said simply.
"Of course," he said, in an excited manner ; "but in
what, in what capacity? Are you infirmarian ?"
" No," she said, casting down her eyes.
" And how long have you been here ? " he cried, his
eyes wandering vaguely over her blue penitent's dress,
and searching the calm depths of her face.
" Ten years," she said, in a low tone. " Ever since
Louis died."
524 LUKE DELMEGE
" Ten years ! And your uncle and father searching
all Europe for you ! What is this horrible mystery ?
How long are you professed ? "
" I am not a professed Sister, Father," she said
bravely.
" Then you are a nursing Sister attached to the city
and coming in here — "
She shook her head. Her heart was breaking with
shame and sorrow, as she plunged deeper and deeper in
the valley of humiliation. He drew back, as the hor-
rible thought flashed across his mind, and he recalled
the dress of the Magdalens. She saw the little gesture
and flushed again.
"■ I am afraid to ask further," he said coldly, and with
reserve ; " but do you belong to the community ? "
" No, Father," she said bravely — it was the " Con-
summatum est" of her agony of ten years — "I am a
penitent."
She was looking out over the trees and shrubs, look-
ing with eyes dilated, like a consumptive's, her temples
still flushed, and her face drawn and strained in agony.
He, too, looked steadily through the window. He
scarcely concealed the loathing with which that reluctant
confession filled him for this young girl, standing there,
apparently so calm. The shudder that he felt on en-
tering the laundry where the Magdalens worked, and
which gave way instantly before the sublime spectacle
of their resurrection, now filled him with tenfold hor-
ror. Here, he thought, there Avas no excuse. Neither
ignorance, nor poverty, nor heredity to palliate the
shame. He was side b}' side, not with a sinful woman,
but with a lost angel. The transformation was perfect.
He thought he read it in her face. There was — there
could be — no resurrection here. He j)aused for a mo-
ment to consider what he would do. As he did so,
the vision that he had once seen in the garden of
the Schweizerhof came up before him, the vision of the
wrecked soul and its guardian angel. The thought was
too terrible. His memory of that one night tempted
LOGWOOD DAY 525
him to stretch out his hand and say a kind farewell to
one he should never see again. But one side glance at
tliat ill-made, coarse, bulky dress of penitence deterred
liim. He bowed stiffly and said " Good-day ! " with a
frown. Barbara continued staring blindly through the
window. Then slowly, as her heart broke under the
agony, her hot tears fell, burned her hand, and blistered
the book which she held.
As Luke passed Laura's bed, she beckoned to him.
" Would yer reverence tell me," she said, " on yer
word of honour as a priest, do ye know tliat girl ?"
"Yes," he said sharpl}- ; " I know something of her."
" Would ye tell me, yer reverence, once and for all, is
she the Blessed Virgin Mary ? "
" No," he said shortly ; " she is not ! "
" Than' God an' you," the poor girl cried. " I struck
her wance with them five fingers. I saw the print of
'em this minit on her face whin she blushed. Than'
God, I now die aisy."
The Sister, wlio was awaiting him in the corridor,
was surprised at the change in his manner and appear-
ance.
" Can I see the Reverend Mother, Sister," he said
impatiently, "and at once?"
"• By all means. Father," she replied ; "come this way
to tlie parl(»ur."
What occurred at that momentous interview we are
not privileged to know. But Luke Delmege came forth
a changed and a shamed man. He knew tlien tliat all
the sublime supernaturalism, with which he had been
brought face to face for the last few days, had touched
the summit in that heart which he liad left torn ami
bleeding in the lulirmary. He had seen wliat lu' wanted
to see — the supreme examjile of self-al)aiul()nment ;
and he knew then that heroic sanctity, as taught by the
Church and the Saints, was no myth.
He had gone far down towards the entrance lodge
before he thought of his sister. She had seen him pass
lier by, but was afraid to accost him. She felt that he
526 LUKE DELMEGE
knew all ; that the secret of the King, so faithfully
kept for ten years, was no longer a secret. She called
out "Luke," just as he thought of her. He came back,
dazed and blinded. She had a hundred things to say
to him ; but now her lips were closed, as she stood,
niched in a clump of laurels, and looked at his wild
eyes and his drawn face. He stood before his little
sister for a moment, and the thought came back of her
warning the evening he dined at the Canon's ; and
Margery's rash judgments then, and his own rash judg-
ments an hour ago, clashed together. He placed his
hands on his dear little sister's shoulders, beneath her
black veil. He would have given all the world to kiss
her. But he felt he dared not. The glamour of the
unseen world was round about him, and he was afraid.
Margery said faintly : —
"■ Oh ! Luke I what's the matter ? What has hap-
pened ? "
He stooped down, and, snatching up hastily the white
ivory cross that hung from her rosary, he kissed it pas-
sionately, and, without a word, strode out into the city.
CHAPTER XXXIX
MARTYRDOM
As Luke Delmege returned home the following day,
he was a prey to anguish and remorse such as rarel}''
visit souls, except those who are called to the high
planes of thought and trial. The sudden contrast be-
tween his own life, flawless and innnaculate, but com-
monplace and unheroic, with the life of that humble
priest, stripped of all things for Christ's sake ; and llic
sharper contrast with the sublime heroism of this 3'oung
girl, tilled him with that poignant self-contempt, which
line s(juls feel when they contemplate the lives of the
saints of God.
" I have been troubled with problems," he said.
"Here is the rjrcat solution — Lose all to find all."
Even the great kindness of the Lisliop, which augured
great things for his future, could not dissipate the
thought. Nay, it intensified it.
" I have been in touch with great souls," he said.
"Now, let me see, can 1 be worthy of them. Can I see
that great old man again without compunction ; and
that young saint without shame? Surely, heroism and
heaven are for me, as for them I "
He commenced at once. Bit by bit, every superflu-
ous article of furniture was secretly disposed of, until
his bedroom became as bare as that old bedroom on his
first mission, where he had sat and meditated in de-
s[);iir. And, excc])( one or two artiidcs. souvenirs of old
friends, he denutlcd in like manner his little parlour,
saving only his books. Then he begged for a cross.
527
528 LUKE DELMEGE
"Cut, burn, and destroy." He placed no limit to God's
judgment. He asked for the unknown ; and shut his
eyes. And the cross came.
One morning he had a letter from Father Cussen say-
ing that all preliminaries had been arranged, notices had
been served on the Board of Guardians ; and it was
almost certain that the evictions in Lough and Ardavine
would commence during the ensuing week. Further-
more, it was suspected that an example would be made
of the leading Nationalists ; and that, probably, Lisna-
lee would be visited first. A few days after, a second
letter told him that the evil day had come. A com-
pany of soldiers had been drafted into the village, and
the police were concentrating in a neighbouring town.
He made up his mind to leave that day, and go to Sea-
view Cottage to await events. Whilst he was read-
ing these letters, he noticed that Mary was lingering in
the room, under one pretext or another. She poked the
grate assiduously, arranged and rearranged the two vases
several times, until at last Luke said : —
" Well, Mary, what's up ? "
Mary, trembling very much, faltered out : —
" I was thin kin' to be afther asking your reverence to
get another housekeeper."
" Oh, you are anxious to leave me ? I thought you
were fairly happy here, Mary."
" And so I was, your reverence," said Mary, biting
the lace edging of her apron, and studying the pictures
carefully.
"Then why are you leaving? Do you want higher
wages ? "
" Ah, 'tisn't that at all, your reverence," said Mary,
with a frown.
" Well, surely you're not going to America with the
rest ? "
" Yerra, no ! your reverence," said Mary, biting her
apron more furiously.
" Well, I mustn't try to discover your secrets," said
Luke. " You have your own ideas — "
MARTYRDOM 529
" Yerra, 'tis the way I'm goiii' to be married," blurted
out Mary.
" Married ? " cried Luke, as^liast.
" Yes, your reverence ! Wliy not a poor girl get
married if she gets the chance ? " said Mary, with a
pout.
" Oh, to be sure, to be sure," said Luke. " But I
hope, my good girl, you are making a good choice. You
deserve a good husband."
" Indeed'n he is a dacent boy enough," said Mary.
" He doesn't drink, I hope ? " asked Luke, anxiously.
'' Ah, not much, your reverence. No more than
anybody else."
" Because you know, Mary," said Luke, kindly, '' that
the worst thing a young girl ever did is to marry a
drunkard in the hope of reforming him."
''Ah, he's not as bad as that at all, your reverence,"
said Mary.
" Do I know him ? " asked Luke.
" Yerra, you do, of course," said INIary, blushing
furiously,
" Does he belong to our parish? "
" Yerra, of course, lie does, your reverence," said
Mary, with a little giggle.
"•I won't ask further — " said Luke, turning away.
" Yerra, 'tis John, your reverence," said Mary, now
scarlet with confusion.
" John ? Avliat John ? " said Luke.
" Yerra, your John, your reverence," said tlio poor
girl.
'' What ! tliat ruHian ! " cried Luke, in ilisniay.
"Ah, he's not," said Mary, pouting. " lie's a dacent
poor boy enough."
" \Vell, marriages are made in liiMven, I sujipose,"
said Luke, resigiu'illy. '• Hut I thought you and John
were always quarrelling."
" Ah, we used make it up agin," said Mary.
"Of course, you ])lease yourstdf, Mary," said her
master at length. *• But it would be very embarrassing
2m
530 LUKE DELMEGE
and awkward for me, if you were to leave just now.
I expect within the next few days that my father and
sister will be thrown upon the world ; and they have no
shelter but here ! "
" Don't say another word, your reverence," said Mary.
" If it was for seven years, John must wait."
But John didn't see the force of this unnecessary jDro-
crastination. And there was another big row in the
kitchen.
" An' you won't ? " said John, as an ultimatum.
" I won't," said Mary, determinedly.
" Well, there's as good fish in the say as ever was
caught," said John.
" Go, an' ketch 'em," said Mary.
But John relented after some hours' meditation.
" An' 'tisn't for your sake," he said, " but for the
masther's. It would be a quare thing if we wor to lave
him in his throuble."
So Luke went down to Seaview Cottage to await
events.
He had not long to wait. The following morning,
as they sat at breakfast in the neat little parlour front-
ing the sea, there came to their ears a low wailing
sound, that apj)eared to be caught up and echoed by
similar sounds here and there across the country.
" Some steamer going up the river ! " said Father
Martin. " That's the foghorn, and the echoes along
the shore. Run out, Tony, and tell us what she's
like."
Tony soon returned.
" There's no steamer in the channel," said Tony ;
"but the people are all running here and there up
towards Ardavine."
" 'Tis the signal of the eviction," said Luke, rising.
" Let us go ! "
" Sit down, man, and eat your breakfast," said Father
Martin. " You have a long fast before you."
But Luke did not sit down again. The home of
his childhood and manhood, the dream of the London
MARTYRDOM 531
streets, the vision that hovered ever before his eyes,
even in his moments of unfaithfulness, was about to
vanisli in liame, and smoke, and red ruin. How could
he sit down calmly and eat ? He gulped down a cup
of tea, and waited impatiently for Father IMartin.
They drove up rapidly, to find that the terrible pro-
ceedings had already commenced. As they passed with
ditlficulty through the vast, surging crowd, that swayed
to and fro with excitement, they saw the red dotted
line of soldiers, who formed the cordon around the
house ; and within the cordon was the black square of
police, who were to guard the bailiffs from violence.
The soldiers, standing at ease, gazed sullenly into the
mouths of their rifles, never liftinsr their heads. It was
dirty, unsoldierlike work, and they were ashamed.
Their young officer turned his back on the whole dis-
mal proceeding ; and lighting a cigarette, stared out
over the landscape. The priests briefly saluted Father
Cussen, who was trying by main strength of arm to
keep back the infuriated people. He had barely time
to whisper to Luke : —
" I wish we had all your coolness to-day. There will
be bad work ; and well want it."
He struck the liand of a peasant lightly, as he spoke,
and a large jagged stone dropped on the ground.
Luke and Father Martin l)egged leave of the Resident
Magistrate to approach the house, and give such con-
solation, as they might, to the poor inmates. It M'as
retuscd courteously. No one could pass inside the
cordon. They stood on the outskirts, therefore, and
watched the eviction — Father Martin, anxious and
sympathetic ; Luke, })ale with excitement, his eyes
straining from their sockets, his face drawn tight as
parchment. Li dramas of this kind — alas I so frequent
in h'cland — the evicted as a rule make a show of hos-
tility and opposition to the law. Sometimes, the bail-
iffs are furiously attacked, and their lives imperilled.
When the keen, cruel hand of the mighty monster is
laid upon them, the people cannot help striking back
532 LUKE DELMEGE
in terror and anger — it is so omnipotent and remorse-
less. But, in this case, the beautiful faith and resigna-
tion to God's inscrutable will, which had characterized
the life of old Mike Delmege hitherto, and the gentle
decency of his daughter and her husband, forbade such
display. And so, when the bailiffs entered the cottage
at Lisnalee to commence their dread work, they were
met silently, and without the least show of opposition.
It was heartrending to witness it — this same cold,
callous precision of the law. The quiet disruption of
the little household ; the removal, bit by bit, of the
furniture ; the indifference with which the bailiffs flung
out objects consecrated by the memories of generations,
and broke them and mutilated them, made this sensi-
tive and impressionable people wild with anger. In
every Irish farmer's house, the appointments are as
exactly identical as if all had been ordered, in some far-
off time, from the same emporium, and under one in-
voice. And when the people saw the rough deal chairs,
the settle, the ware, the little pious pictures, the beds
with their hangings, flung out in the field, each felt that
his own turn had come, and that he suffered a personal
and immediate injury. And Father Cussen had the
greatest difficulty in restraining their angry passions
from flaming up into riot, that would bring them into
immediate and deadly conflict with the forces of the
Crown. As yet, however, the inmates had not appeared.
There was an interval of great suspense ; and then Will
McNamara, a splendid, stalwart young farmer, came
forth, the cradle of the youngest child in his arms. He
was bleeding from the forehead ; and the jDcople, divin-
ing what had taken place, raised a shout of anger and
detiance, and rushed toward the house. The police
moved up hastily, and Father Cussen beat back the
people. But they surged to and fro on the outer line of
the cordon ; and the young English officer tln-ew away
his cigarette, and drew in the long thin line of the sol-
diers. In a few moments Lizzie came forth, holding
one child in her arms, and a younger at her breast.
MARTYRDOM 533
Following her was her husbaiid again, still bleeding
from the forehead, and with two fricyhtened children
clinging to him. Lastly, Mike Delmege appeared. The
sight of the old man, so loved and respected in the par-
ish, as he came forth from the dark framework of the
cottage door, his white hair tossed wildly down on his
face, and streaming on his neck, and his once stalwart
frame bent and broken with sorrow, roused the people
to absolute fury. They cursed deeply between their
teeth, the women weeping hysterically ; and a deep low
moan echoed far down the thick dark masses that
stretched along the road and filed the ditches on either
hand. For over two hundred years the Delmeges had
owned Lisnalee — a grand race, with grand traditions
of an unstained escutcheon and an unspotted name.
And, now, as the last member of the honoured family
came forth, an outcast from his fathers' home, and stood
on the threshold he should never cross again, it seemed
as if the dread Angel of Ireland, the F'ate, that is ever
pursuing her children, stood by him ; and, in his person,
drove out his kindred and his race. The old man stood
for a moment hesitating. He then lifted his hands to
God ; and kneeling down, he kissed reverentially the
sacred threshold, over which generations of his dead
had been taken, over whicii he had passed to his baj)-
tism, over which he had led his young trembling bride,
over which he had followed her hallowed remains. It
was worn and polished with the friction of the centu-
ries ; but so l)itter a tear had never fallen on it before.
Then, raising himself up to his full height, he kissed
the lintel of the door, and tiien the two doorposts. He
lingered still ; he seemed loath to leave. And the bail-
iffs, growing impatient, pushed him rudely forward.
Weak and exhausted, the old man stumbled and fell.
An angry scream broke from the people, and a few
stones were flung. And Luke, mIio had been watching
the whole melancholy drama with a bursting heart, broke
away from Father .\iartin, and forcing his way beyond
the cordon of soldiers, he rushed toward the house,
534 LUKE DELMEGE
crying in a voice broken with sobs and emotion,
" Father ! Father ! "
As a river bursts through its dam, sweeping all before
it, the crowd surged after hira, breaking through every
obstacle. The police, taken by surprise, fell away ; but
a young sub-inspector rode swiftly after Luke, and get-
ting in front, he wheeled around, and rudely striking
the young priest across the breast with the broad fiat of
his naked sword, he shouted : —
" Get back, sir ! get back ! We must maintain law
and order here ! "
For a moment Luke hesitated, his habitual self-re-
straint calculating all the consequences. Then, a whirl-
wind of Celtic rage, all the greater for having been pent
up so long, swept away every consideration of prudence ;
and with his strong hand tearing the weapon from the
hands of the young officer, he smashed it into fragments
across his knees, and flung them, blood-stained from
his own fingers, into the officer's face. At the same
moment a young girlish form burst from the crowd,
and leaping lightly on the horse, she tore the young
officer to the ground. It was Mona, the fisherman's
sunny-haired child, now grown a young Amazon, from
her practice with the oar and helm, and the strong, kind
buffeting from winds and waves. The horse reared and
pranced wildly. This saved the young officer's life.
For the infuriated crowd were kept back for a moment.
Then the soldiers and police charged up ; and with
baton and bayonet drove back the people to the shelter
of the ditch. Here, safely intrenched, the latter sent
a volley of stones flying over their assailants' heads,
that drove them back to safe shelter. In the pause in
the conflict, the Resident Magistrate rode up and read
the Riot Act.
" Now," he said, folding the paper coolly, and placing
it in his pocket, " the first stone that is thrown I shall
order my men to fire ! "
It is quite possible, however, that the people would
have disregarded the threat, so infuriated were they ;
i
i
MARTYRDOM 535
but their attention was just then diverted by a tiny
spurt of smoke, that broke from the tliatch of Lisnalee
Cottage. For a moment they thought it was an acci-
dent ; but tlie smell of burning petroleum and the
swift way in which the flames caught the whole roof
and enveloped it in a sheet of fire undeceived them.
It was tlie irrevocable decree of the landlord. It was
the sowing with salt ; the fiat that never again should
bread be broken or e3'elid closed on that hallowed spot.
The solemnity of the tragedy hushed people, police,
and soldiers into silence. Silently they watched the
greedy flame eat up thatch and timber, and cast its
refuse into a black, thick volume of smoke, that rolled
across the sea, which darkened and shuddered beneatli
it. Then, there was a miglity crash as the heavy
rafters fell in, a burst of smoke, and llame, and sparks;
and the three gables, smoke-blackened, llame-scorclied,
stood gaping to the sky. Father Cussen took advan-
tage of the momentary lull in the fierce })assioiis of the
people to induce them to disperse ; but they doggedly
stood their ground, and sent shout after sliout of exe-
cration and hate after the departing bailiffs and tlieir
escort. And as they watched the latter moving in
steady, military formation down the wldte road, a
strange apparition burst on their sight. Across the
valley, where the road wound round by copse and i)lan-
tatioii, a carriage was seen furiously driven toward
them. The coachman drove the victoria from a back
seat. In the front was a strange and imposing ligure,
that swayed to and fro with the motion of the carriage,
yet kept himself erect in an attitude of dignity, and
even majesty. His long white hair, yellowed and abnost
golden, was swept back upon his slioulders by the land
breeze ; and a white beard, forked and parted, floated
and fell to tlie waist. He held his hand aloft with a
gesture of warning. With the other he clutcluMl the
carriage rail. The priests and people were bewildered,
as they stared at the apparition. Some said it was the
landlord, for they had never seen that gentleman ; and
536 LUKE DELMEGE
with the eternal hope of the Irish, they thought he
might have relented, and was coming to stop the evic-
tion, and reinstate the tenants. Some thought it was
supernatural, and that the great God had intervened
at the last moment, and sent them a Moses. But they
were not disappointed, nay, a great light shone upon
their faces, when, on cresting the hill, the Canon's
coachman was recognized, and, by degrees, the old
familiar face of power and dignity beamed on them.
There was a mighty shout of welcome, that made the
soldiers pause and turn backward. The people, mad
with delight and a new sense of hope and protection
from the presence of their mighty patriarch, crowded
around the carriage, kissed his hands, knelt for his
blessing, told him that if he had been in time, Lisnalee
would have been saved, etc., etc. Slowly the carriage
forced its way through the thick masses that surged
around it. The old man saw nothing. His eyes were
straining out to where the peaked burnt gables cut the
sky. Then, when he came in full view of the horror
and desolation — the broken household furniture, the
smoking ruin, the evicted family, lingering in misery
around their wrecked habitation, saw the old man bend-
ing over his grandchild in the cradle, and the wound
on the forehead of its father, he groaned aloud, and
with a despairing cry, " My people ! oh I my people I "
he fell back helpless in his carriage, and covered his
face with his hands.
A few days after Luke Delmege received a summons
to appear before a special court that was to sit in the
Petty Sessions room at Ardavine, to answer to a charge
of obstructing the police in the discharge of their duty,
assaulting a police officer, etc.
In the afternoon of that day of trial, Barbara Wilson
was summoned to the parlour of the Good Shepherd
Convent. The Sister who summoned her took 'her
young charge gaily by the hand, and led her, wondering
and trembling, along the nuns' corridor to the large
reception room in fi'ont of the Convent. With a
MARTYRDOM 53'.
bright, cheery word, she ushered Barbara into the par-
lour, and closed tlie door. There were two in the room
— the Bishop and the Mother Provincial. The former,
advancing, placed a chair for Barbara, and bade her be
seated. Barbara sat, her hands meekly folded in her
lap, not daring to lift her eyes, but filled with a sweet
emotion of mingled apprehension and hope. She knew
that the crisis of her life had come. The Bishop looked
at her keenly and said : —
" Miss Wilson, the secret of your sojourn here, in the
character of a penitent, is known. You cannot remain
here any longer I "
" ]My Lord ! " she said, trembling, " I have been very
happy here. Could you not let me remain ? "
'' Quite impossible," said the Bishop. " In fact, Tm
not quite sure that the whole thing has not been irregu-
lar from the beginning. You must now resume your
proper station in life."
" I am very helpless, and quite unfit for the world,
my Lord," said Barbara. The dream and its realization
seemed now totally dispelled. " What can I turn to
now, especially as my past is known ? "
" Oh, you can easily assume j'our proper place in
society," said the Bishop. " You are young ; life is
before you, and you may be very happy yet."
" My Lord," said Barbara, weeping, " if it is happi-
ness I seek, I shall never know such happiness again as
I have experienced here. But I know all now. I
was murnniring against my cross, and dreaming of
other things; and now God has taken away my cross
and my happiness forever. O Mother, dear Motlier,
plead for me, and lot me go l)ack again ! "
" Jmpossible, child," said Mother Provincial, but with
a tone that brought Barbara to her knees in a moment.
Slie buried her face in the Mother's lap, crying passion-
ately.
"Oh, Motlier, you can, you can. Ko(']i me here!
I'll do anything, anything you like : but don't send me
out into the world, the dreadful world, again. Oh my
538 LUKE DELMEGE
Lord," she cried, " I saw things once, that I never care
to see again — one dreadful night when I lost poor
Louis in London, and sought him, up and down, for
hours. And, oh! I found heaven here, and I didn't
know it. And God is punishing me dreadfully. O
Lord, dear Lord, give me back my cross, and I promise
never, never again to repine, or revolt against it ! "
The thought of facing the great, hard, bitter world
had never occurred to her before, until now, when the
door of her happy home was opened, and she was bade
to depart. All the nervous fear of an inexperienced
soul, and all the horror of one which has been in the
world, but not of it, combined to fill her with a strange
dread, which became almost hysterical. In her great
agony her white cap fell, releasing the long, rich tresses
that now flowed down, tossed and dishevelled, and
swept the ground. And the Bishop thought, that if
the picture could be transferred to canvas, it would
make a "Magdalen" such as no painter had ever
dreamed before. But he remonstrated, reasoned, argued,
pleaded. What would the world say ? what would even
good Catholics think ? what reflections would be cast
upon the Church, her discipline, her teaching, etc. ?
But the silent, prostrate figure made no reply. And
the Bishop went over to study carefully a picture of
the Good Shepherd, which he had seen a hundred
times.
After an interval. Mother Provincial said, looking
down on Barbara, and smoothing with her hand her
long, fine hair : —
'' My Lord, I think there is one condition on which
we could keep Miss Wilson here ? "
Barbara lifted her face. The Bishop turned round
rapidly.
" What is it ? " he said, without a trace of dignity,
and with very red eyes.
"If Miss Wilson could care to change this dress,"
said Mother Provincial, touching the blue mantella,
" for the habit of the Good Shepherd — "
MARTYRDOM 539
" Oh, Mother, Mother ! there's my dream, my
dream ! " cried Barbara, in a paroxysm of sur})rise and
delight. " O Lord, dearest, sweetest Lord, how good
art Thou I and how wicked and unbelieving have I
been ! Oh, my Lord I " she cried, turning to the
Bishop, with clasped hands, " there was hardly a night
in wliich 1 did not dream I was a Sister of the Good
Shepherd ; and 1 thought our dear Lord Himself clothed
me with His wounded hands ; and I used even touch
the gaping wounds with my fingers, as He said : ' Arise,
and come : the winter is past ! ' But oh I the agony
of waking and finding it was all a dream. And then,
I used reproach myself with being unfaithful to my
vow ; and I used pray ; but oh ! with such a faltering
heart, ' I have chosen, I have chosen, to be an abject in
the house of my Lord ! ' And now, here is my dream
realized. Oh, Mother, I shall never, never distrust my
dear God again ! "
"Very well, Mother," said the Bishop, trying to
steady his voice. " There's one clear sign of a vocation
whatever, that this young lady has been thinking of
your white habit so long. Now, can she make her
novitiate here ? "
" I think not, my Lord," said the Mother Provincial.
" I shall send her to Cork, for many reasons."
" Well, then, the sooner the better, I jiresume," said
the Bishop. "There's a train at 5.20. Will the young
lady have time to change her dress in that time ? Very
well. My carriage will be at the Convent door at a
quarter to five o'clock. And, as 1 have some business
to transact in Cork, I shall have the honour of escorting
jNIiss Wilson to her new home."
"Mother," said Barbara, "I'm stu[)id with delight.
Can I say good-bye to my — to the penitents?"
" No ! " said the Mother, " you must enter on your
obedience at once I "
" Not even to poor Laura, Mother ? "
" Well, ves, when you have chancred vour dress," said
Mother Provincial, with some hesitation.
540 LUKE DELMEGE
It was a happy parting, that between Barbara and
the soul she had saved : for it was only for a time.
And it was a hapi3y little soul, that moved down
amongst the lilies and azaleas of the nuns' corridor,
escorted by Sister Eulalie, who whispered : —
" If only Luke were here now, how happy he would
be ! "
And out from behind doors and recesses and flower
pedestals, rushed ever and again some white-robed
figure, who flung her arms silently around the young
postulant, silently kissed her on the face and niouth,
and silently vanished. And as she rolled along in the
Bishop's carriage she thought : " To see uncle and
father now would be heaven. But no ! not till I am
clothed. Then they'll see me, and rejoice. Oh ! how
good is God ! "
As they entered the Cork train, there emerged from
a train that had just run in on the opposite platform
a strange procession. First came a detachment of
police, with rifles and full equipments ; then a batch
of poor peasants and labourers, evidently prisoners ;
then a young girl, with a plaid shawl around her head ;
then a priest, with his arm in a sling. Barbara caught
her breath, and could not forbear saying aloud : —
"That's Father Delmege, my Lord ! "
" So it is ! " said the Bishop, who had been watch-
ing intently. "Take your seat, whilst I go to see
him ! "
And so, as Barbara passed from her martyrdom
rejoicing, Luke entered on his.
He had been duly arraigned before the constituted
tribunals of the land, and had taken his place in court.
He would gladly have gone into the dock with his fel-
low-prisoners ; but the law, always polite and courteous
and inexorable, would not allow it. It was a wonder
that he was not invited on the Bench to try himself.
When the magistrates entered, all present uncovei'ed
their heads but the prisoners. They wished to protest
against law, and legislators, and executive alike.
I
MARTYRDOM -541
" Take off your hats ! " shouted the police angrily.
The prisoners refused ; and one of the constables,
roughly seizing one of the young men, dashed his hat
furiously on the ground.
" Remove your hats, boys," said Luke, from the place
he occupied near the Bench. "Respect yourselves, if
you cannot respect the Court."
The young men doffed their hats immediately. It
was almost pitiful, this little protest of defiance ; pitiful,
by reason of its very impotence.
The Court proceeded to try the cases, with calm,
equable formality, each case being individually handled
to show complete impartiality. Every one in court
understood that the conviction was a foregone conclu-
sion. But everything should be done regularly and in
form ; though every prisoner felt the merciless grasp
of the law upon him. And so the proceedings moved
steadily on to their conclusion, like well-oiled macliin-
ery, smooth, harmonious, regular, irresistible. The
magistrates consulted for a few minutes and then
announced their decisions. The poor peasants and
labourers were sentenced to terms of imprisonment,
varying from three to six months, but always accom-
panied with hard labour. When ^Fona's turn came,
she was sentenced to six months' imprisonment without
hard labour. She stood in front of the dock, looking
calmly and defiantly at the Bench. Her eyes alone
blazed eontem{)t and determination.
" I want no favours from ye," she cried, as her sen-
tence was announced. " Ye are ininiies of me creed
and country."
" In consideration of your sex and youth, we dispense
you from hard labour," said the presiding magistrate,
"•altlioiigh your offence was a most serious one, and
might liave imperilled the life of the officer — "
"He struck a coward's blow," said Mona, "an' it
was right that a Avoman's hand should chastise him."
The magistrates were [jassing on to the next prisoner,
when she again interrupted : —
542- LUKE DELMEGE
" Will ye gV me the hard labour ? " she said. " No
wan shall ever say that I showed the white feather."
" Then we change your sentence to three months, and
hard labour," said the magistrate.
" Thank ye," she said, pulling the shawl again over
her face.
'"• We have taken into account, Mr. Delmege," con-
tinued the magistrate, courteously, " your position, and
the excellent character you have hitherto maintained.
We also took into account that in one sense, the grave
assault of which you were guilty, and which might have
led to lamentable consequences, was possibly owing to
the great excitement that unhappily accompanies the
operations of the law in this country. We, therefore,
are of opinion that the requirements of the law and
justice shall be satisfied by asking you to enter into
your own recognizances to observe the peace for twelve
months."
Luke arose, pale and weak. His right hand was
badly swollen, and he still was in danger of blood-
poisoning.
" I am sure, gentlemen," he said, " you do not intend
it ; but I can hardly regard your decision as other than
an insult. There has been nothing alleged in my
favour to extenuate the oifence, or mitigate the severity
of the law. I am more guilty than these poor fellows
and that poor girl. If there be any reason for clem-
ency, let it be extended to her. She has an aged
father, and a sick sister at home — "
" No, Father Luke," said Mona, " I want no mercy
from the government of England. Ill go to jail, with
more joy than I'd go to me weddin' ; an' God and His
Blessed Mother will look afther Moira and father."
Then she broke into hysterical weeping.
" It is an extremely painful duty, but we are unwill-
ing to proceed to extremities in such a case. If j^ou
can see your way, Mr. Delmege, to accept our decision,
I assure you it will give us great pleasure," said the
magistrate.
MARTYRDOM 543
"Once more, gentlemen, I appeal to your clemency
on behalf of this poor girl," said Luke. " Prison life is
not suitable for the young."
"Don't demane yerself and me, yer reverence, by
askin' pity from thim," said INIona, with flashing eyes.
" Sure we're only goin' where all the hayroes of our
race wint before us."
" Once more, Mr. Delmege," said the magistrate, " will
you enter on your own recognizances — "
"Impossible, gentlemen," said Luke, sitting down.
" Then it is our painful duty to direct that you be
imprisoned for three calendar months from this date,
and without hard labour."
" And so you're a prisoner ? " said the Bishop, after
he had blessed the crowd of kneeling prisoners, and
given his ring to little Mona to be kissed. " I expected
it. Take care of that nasty wound in j^our hand. I
hope the doctor will send you straight to the iiifirniary."'
" Don't fdl my vacancy, my Lord," said Luke, " at
least till I return. ]\Iy father has no other shelter
now."
" Never fear," said the Bishop. " I'll send a tempo-
rary substitute, with special instructions to Dr. Keat-
inge."
"Thank you, my Lord! " said Luke.
"Well, good-byel We'll see you sometimes in ynur
hermitage. By the way, do you know M'ho's accom-
panying me to Cork ? "
" No, my Lord I " said Luke, wonderingly.
"You might have heard of ]\Iiss AVilson, the niece of
Cantm jNIurra}- ? "
" To be sure, I know her well," said Luke, eagerly.
"She has had a strange history; but I'll tell you
some other time. These fellows are growing impatient.
She's about to commence her novitiate as a postulant of
the (lood Shepherds in Cork."
"Oh, thank (lodi " said Luke, so fervently that the
Bishop wondered exceedingly.
1%
CHAPTER XL
REUNION
" Sorrow gives the accolade! " Yes. The blow is
sharp ; but the quickening is very great. It was just
what Luke wanted. All great souls covet ]3ain ; and
Luke's was a great soul, though he was unconscious of
it ; and though he had been striving to stifle during all
his life his sublime aspirations, and to sacrifice them on
the modern altar of mere commonplace and respecta-
bility. Circumstances, or rather the Supreme Mind that
guides circumstances, had now brought him face to face
with suffering and even shame, and he exulted. For,
if there is a glory in the prison, and a sunlight on the
r.caffold, nevertheless, the very thought of personal re-
straint, and the sense of loss of man's highest preroga-
tive, liberty, bring with them a deep humiliation; and
the sharp knighthood of the sword is forgotten for a
moment in the vulgar grasjD of the jailer. Then comes
the reaction ; and the sense of exultation ; and the keen
embrace of pain has a quickening and vivifying power
over soul and nerves not yet strained and unstrung by
selfishness.
Then again, Luke found he was an object of respect-
ful solicitude to all around him. The doctor instantly
placed him in the infirmary. His right hand was swol-
len to an alarming extent ; and it was only after the
lapse of some weeks that the dangerous symptoms
subsided.
" If that hand shall ever get hurt again," said the
doctor, "I won't answer for his life."
These days were days of depression for Luke — or
544
REUNION 545
moments of depression in hours of deep thought. Left
completely to himself, his mind ran over the events of
his life in detail. There was little with whieh he could
reproach himself. Yet, he was unsatisfied. Then, from
time to time, odd phrases that had fastened on his
memory would come up at most unexpected times, and
plague him with their persistency. His verdict on
Barbara Wilson ten years ago in the Schweizerhof :
"She's not mortal; she's a spirit and a symbol — the
symbol of the suffering and heroism of my race " —
came up, again and again, doubly emphasized now by
all lie had heard and seen of her years of renunciation
and suffering. And his thoughts passed over from the
symbol to the symbolized ; and the strange expressions
used by so many priests about Ireland surged back upon
his memory.
" What would the Jews have been if they had not
rejected Christ? "
" We have to create our own civilization ; we cannot
borrow that of other countries."
" We are the teachers of the world ; not the pupils
of its vulgarity and selfishness."
One night, in the early weeks of his imprisonment, he
lay awake in pain, tossing from side to side in great
agony. His mind was unusually active ; and the sud-
den thought seized him to sketch a visionary future for
his country, founded on this ideal of simi)licity and
self-renunciation. As liis thoughts worked onwards,
and built u[) this airy commonwealth of Christ, the pain
Avas completely forgotten ; and he fell asleep early in
the morning. The doctor found his tempei'ature much
higher on his morning call; yet he declared him some-
what better.
" Doctor, I want something badly," said Luke. " Can
I have it ? "
'' By all means," said the doctor. " What is it ? "
" Pen, ink, and plenty of foolscap paper," said Luke.
"Not yet," said the ddctor. "I presume you have
not yet learned to write with your toes."
2n
546 LUKE DELMEGE
It was so much the better, because Luke had time to
think and develop his ideas more fully, before he com-
mitted them to paper.
Then the pain and sacrifice met with their immediate
reward. There was no demonstration on his release
from prison. He was an unknown factor in politics.
Even in Rossmore there was no ovation. It was felt
that he was above such things. But, during his impris-
onment, every kindness and attention was lavished on
his father and sister and her children, who had to be-
come his guests in his little home. And the same silent,
gentle sympathy flowed around him when he returned.
Mary wept hysterically, and kissed his hands passion-
ately ; and wept still more when she saw his face drawn
and pale from much suffering. John said : —
"Bad luck to the government and the landlords!
Wondher they let him out alive ! "
Every kind of shy, pathetic question was put to him
by this sympathetic people ; every kind of gentle, unob-
trusive benevolence was shown him. They could not
presume too far upon this grave, silent man ; but they
spoke their mute love and admiration in a hundred ways.
Yet things were a little tightened in economical matters
sometimes. Will McNamara had gone to America ; but
the father and Lizzie and the children were there. And
children must have bread, and meat, and clothes, too.
Nature says so, and must not be denied.
One day Luke was walking down the village street
in his silent, abstracted way, when he heard a voice
challenging him, and rather defiantly : —
"What's the matther wid me mate, yer reverence?"
He turned round, and came face to face with the
village butcher, Joe Morrissey. Joe seemed to be
angry. There had been for a long time a certain
want of sympathy between Joe and the "Cojutor."
For Joe was a Nationalist, and an extreme one. He
had been out in '67 ; had cut the telegraph wires
between the Junction and Limerick ; and had been
one of the last to part from the young Irishman who
EEUNION 547
gave up his life gallantly for his country in the woods
near Shraliarla. And he had taken it as granted
that this polished, well-dressed young priest, who was
always preaching the virtues of the Anglo-Saxon, —
their thrift, punctuality, etc., and consequently empha-
sizing the defects of his own countrymen, — could not
be a Nationalist or a patriot. His opinions changed
a little after the sermon on Cremona ; and had now
completely veered round after the scene at the evic-
tion and the subsequent knighthood of the jail.
"• I beg your pardon, Mr. INIorrissey," said Luke,
humbly, for life's events had made him very humble.
" I want to know, yer reverence," said Joe, clapping
his broad knife across the palm of his hand, " what's
the matther wid my mate that you're reflectin' on it?"
^ I'm sure I'm (|uite unconscious, Mr. ^lorrissey,"
said Luke, quite puzzled, "of having said anything
derogatory — "
"• Look at that for mate," said Joe, unheeding, and
slapping with the knife the joints that hung in the
open window. " Is there the likes of that in the
County Limbrick? Look at that for lane, rc^l and
juicy; and that fat, rich and cramey; and what's a
po(jr man to do whin his clergy and tlie heads of liis
Church — "
'• Don't mind him, yer reverence," said jNIrs. Mor-
rissey, coming out, and wiping away with her check
apron the tears that were streaming down her face;
'' he doesn't mane what he says, yer reverence — "
"Will ye hold yer tongue, 'uman ? " said Joe,
angrily; "can't you let me talk wliin a gintleman
comes into the shop? I say, yer reverence, 'tis a
shame that our clergy should be turnin' their backs
on their daeent parishioners, and sindin' for their
mate to Limbrick and elsewhere, whilst — "
" Never mind liini agin, yer reverence," interposed
Mrs. Morrissey, still weei)ing. " What he manes is, that
every Saturday, wid God's blessin', for the future, a leg
aud a line (^loin} will go down to you ; and, sure, some
548 LUKE DELMEGE
time or other, you can paj^ us. And &ure if you never
did, God is good."
Joe had gone out in his indignation ; and was look-
ing up and down the street, in a very determined man-
ner. Luke came out, and was about to ex^aress his
gratitude when Joe stopped him.
" There's jest wan favour I want to ask yer reverence,"
he said.
" To be sure, Mr. Morrissey, if I can possibly grant
it," said Luke, in wonder.
"Oh, begor, 3'ou can," said Joe, cheerfully. " Since
I wos the height of that," he said, stooping down and
putting his open palm within six inches of the ground,
" no one ever called me anything but Joe. Me father
called me Joe ; me mother called me Joe ; me brothers
and sisters called me Joe; tin schoolmaster called me
Joe, whin he didn't call me, ' You d — d ruffian ! ' Whin
I grew up, and got married, me wife called me Joe ; and
whin God sint the childre, wan be wan, begor ! they
never called me annything but Joe. The youngster inside
in the cradle knows me as well as yer reverence ; and
faix ! he never calls me ' daddy,' but Joe. And to tell
you the truth, yer reverence, whin you call me Misthei
Morrisse}^, I don't know who you're talking to. Would
it make any difference to yer reverence to call me Joe,
like all the nabours ? "
" Certainly not, Mr. — Joe," said Luke, deeply
touched, and stretching out his hand. " God bless
" 'Tis dirty," said Joe, hastily rubbing his hand on his
breeches, "but 'tis the hand of an honest man."
And Joe had the reward of his generosity. It came
quickly, and in its most attractive form. That is, the
little incident gave him the opportunity — the dearest
that can fall to the lot of an Irishman in this world — of
making a good joke. And so, when he sat that evening
on the leaden ledge of his open window, and lit his pipe,
he was a happy man.
" Begor," he said to the group that always surrounded
REUNION 549
his establishment, " 'tis the best thing that occurred
for nianny a h)ng day. 'INIind the pinnies,' sez he, 'an'
the poun's will take care of theirselves.' Hal ha I ha!
' Look out for a rainy day,' sez he, ' an' make hay while
the sun shines.' Ha ! ha ! ha I ha ! Begor! the poor
man wint to a bad schoolmaster whin he began to tache
himself. For, faix, he hasn't even a butcher's pinny to
bless himself wid."
*' How could hu have it ? " said a bystander, " whin
he gives it to this, that, and. the other wan. Begor,
the Bank of England wouldn't sthand it."
" Look here, hones' man," said Joe ]\lorrissey, taking
the pipe out of his mouth, "that's all right ; and 'tisn't
me as is goin' to find, fault with him. But, what did
he want talkin' to us about savin' money, whin he
wasn't savin' it himself ; and all about English ways,
whin the man has an Irish heart, no matter how he
consales it ? That's what kills me. Sure, the ould
sayin' is thrue — Do what the priests tell ye ; but don't
do what the priests do theirselves."
So public opinion surged around Luke in these days
of trial. For now, Lizzie and her little children had to
go away. The strong, brave young farmer had got a
job in the docks of New York; and had paid tlieir pas-
sage. And, with breaking hearts on both sides, they
parted with all they held dear on earth, and exchanged
the free, pure air, the sweet waters, the rushing winds,
tiie rustling trees, the murmuring seas, and freedom
and happiness, for a flat in the tenement house in the
great city, and the fever and the fret of a ]iew life.
Ah, me ! will it ever cease — this dread transformation
in lives tliat were never created but for the sweetness
and purity, the silence and the holiness of sini})le
rural environments? And one day, old Mike Delniege,
'' heart-broke afther the little childhre," bowed his
head, and was gathered unto his fathers.
Then there came a great void in Luke's life. He
shrank ever more and more into himself ; and without
being in the least degree moody or reserved, he de-
550 LUKE DELMEGE
tached himself from all human things ; and wrought
in simple earnest love towards the Divine. But the
few ties which circumstances had created for him, —
spiritual ties that grew all the stronger by reason of
their unworldliness — drew him from time to time from
his hermitage, and maintained for him that perfect
poise between the world and God, which would other-
wise have been broken by a morose asceticism or a too
great leaning over to the creature. And so he kept up
a constant and mutually edifying correspondence and
intercourse with Father Tracey and Father ^lartin ;
and sometimes he found himself in a closer and more
intimate friendship with his Bishop than he had ever
dreamed of.
And one day, he found himself the happy intermedi-
ary in a little scene in the Canon's drawing-room, which
seemed to him a beautiful and divinely appointed de-
nouement in the little drama in which he had been not
always a successful actor.
The good Canon had had a relapse after the exciting
scene at the eviction, and had sunk into a condition of
extreme helplessness. One side was hopelessly para-
lyzed ; and he had to be wheeled from room to room
in a bath-chair. The tolerant legislation of the Irish
Church reflects strongly the charitable bias of the peo-
ple's minds ; and allows an aged pastor, "• who has borne
the burden of the day and the heat," and who is dis-
qualified for further work, to retain his parish and pres-
bytery to the end, in sturdy independence. And it
was very beautiful and edifying to see the broken and
enfeebled giant, rolled in and out to his little church,
where he spent the greater part of his declining days.
The little children used fight for the honour of rolling
back across the gravelled walk their aged pastor. They
had lost all fear of him now, even of the great snowy
beard that swept down on his breast. And still the
people came to consult him in their troubles, and to
talk of the golden age that had been. And so calmly
and peacefully his days glided on to the great sea, over
1
KEUNION 551
TV'hich he looked without fear, or terror, or misgiving.
One thing only troubled this calm evening of life —
the mystery that hung around his beloved niece. Her
strange history had been carefully concealed from him,
until all should be ripe for revelation.
He was dozing calmly one summer afternoon, when
Luke was announced. The latter had often called to
exchange ideas with his old pastor, and to relieve the
monotony of his illness. The Canon was not surprised,
therefore, only deeply pleased at the announcement.
" Ha, my dear young friend," he said, '' you caught
me — ha — napping. Take a chair, and sit down with
me for a while. Somehow, old times seem to have come
back most vividly this — a — afternoon."
He was silent for a time, his mind busily gatliering
up the broken threads of the past. Luke sought to
divert his attention by telling of his own experiences.
" My sister and her husband are doing well in New
York," he said. " I have had a letter lately, asking had
any one taken Lisnalee."
"That is not very likely," said the Canon. " Lisna-
lee remains a monument, and forever — well, we must
not be resentful. But — the events of that — ha —
miserable day had one good effect. Tlie horror lias not
— ha — been repeated; but the people are anxious,
frightened, dispirited. They know not when the evil
spirit will come again."
"• Yes," said Luke, mournfully ; " the golden age of
my poor parish is passed forever.
" Yet," he said, brightening up, "the world is not all
a hopeless and helpless place ; nor life altogether an
insoluble ]irf)l)lem."
"You have lu'urd — ha — something- that nii<:hl excite
your hopes, and — ha — sympathies ? "
"Yes, sir," said Luke. "I have heard something that
deeply concerns me, and — "
" I hope my conjecture is correct," said the Canon,
listlessly ; " and that his Lordship has yielded to my
repeated — ha — solicitations ; and, consulting for your
552 LUKE DELMEGE
unique circumstances, advanced you to a — ha — bene-
fice ? "
" It is not quite that, sir," said Luke, feeling his way
nervously. For now the drawing-room was opened as
gently as if only the summer breeze had stolen in and
touched it with a light finger. " It is a something that
also, if you will pardon me, may also concern you."
Luke was never so nervous before ; not even on his
first student visit to that dread presbytery. He thought
the great clock on the mantelpiece quite impertinent in
its noisy ticking.
" Alas ! " said the old man, feebly, " very little con-
cerns me now except that one great event. I did
think, indeed, —perhaps you will esteem it — ha — a
harmless vanity — that the Bishop might have — well
— offered me the Archdiaconate, before I died. But
that was not to be ! That was not to be ! "
" The diocese thought he would have done so," said
Luke, watching the door, intently ; " but the Bishop
looks mostly to the young. He would, however, have
given any honour to our old friend. Father Tracey, I
believe ; but that great saint will have none of these
things."
'■' I haven't always agreed with that excellent but —
ha — rather eccentric clergyman," said the Canon ;
" but I dare say he is right — quite right ! "
" What I am referring to, however, sir," said Luke,
now in a state of desperation, "is something that con-
cerns you even more deeply — something that has been
the thought and dream of your life."
The old man seemed sunk in a kind of stupor ; but
something in Luke's words seemed to wake him up to
a new life ; for he started, and asked in an excited
whisper : —
" Barbara ! "
It was the question he had been asking for twelve
weary years. He now dreaded to hear again the
eternal answer — No ! And his face pleaded eloquently
against it.
REUNION 553
" You know something ? " he said. And Luke said,
" Yes ! "
" It is a strange coincidence," said the Canon, his
face lighted up with a new emotion, " that just as you
were announced, this afternoon, I was dreaming of
Barbara. I suppose it is senile weakness, or the mental
debility arising from my condition ; but in a half-doze
I thought I — ah — saw my dear niece entering just as
long ago she used — ha — sweep into this drawing-room
with such easy grace and dignity. Ah me ! those were
happy days, did we but know it. But you were about
to say — ha — my dear young friend, that you had some
news from 15arbara. There is that — ha — singular
delusion again. I fear, my young friend, that my
intellect is becoming weak. It's a singular delusion,
but now I think, of course, it is only an hallucination,
that there in that doorway — ha — whai — my God ! — "
Ah, yes ! dear old soul, this time there was no delu-
sion ; for a figure of light did stand in tlie dark frame-
work of the door, clothed all in white, save a tiny thread
of blue ; and that figure of light did tremble all over
under the sweet, tremulous dread of shocking with too
sudden bliss tlie frail old man. But now there Avas no
time for further concealment : and with a little gLad
cry of delight and pain, Barbara, clothed now in tlie
Avhite, beautiful habit of the Good Shepherd Nuns, was
at her uncle's feet, and was kissing his two withered
hands passionately amid her tears. I>uke had done his
part well ; and had quietly gone out, leaving uncle and
niece togetlier.
He went down to the old hut by the sea-shore to visit
his old friends, to sa^' a kind word to poor Moira, who
was wasting away slowly in consumption, and to ex-
change the account of his prison ex})eriences witli Mona,
his fellow-martvr. When he returned to the drawincf-
room, Barbara still sat at her uncle's feet ; the old man,
with a look of rapture on his face, was toying with her
white scapulary, and nuirmuring something that sounded
like, Sans tache !
554 LUKE DELMEGE
Ah, yes ! spotless and immaculate, and with all the
purity of a fire-tried soul, she had passed under the
mighty yoke of Christ, who had put his own stole of
suffering around her. But, strange to say, though now
enrolled in the glorious band of Virgins, who follow the
Lamb, whithersoever He goeth, and sing the canticle -
none other can sing, there were hours and days when |p
the thought haunted her with a sense of pain and fear,
that perhaps after all the day of trial was sweeter than
that of victory ; and that, like Alexis of old, it would
have been better, or more glorious, to have died a
reputed Magdalen. For saintly souls, like this, are
ambitious. They want the highest and the noblest.
The martyrdom must continue to the last breath ; nor
do they care to yield up their souls but in a sigh of
pain and the agony of dereliction. But then, here too,
the Supreme Law, God's Will, was manifested ; and
beneath it she sheltered herself when regrets for the
lost nobility of perpetual pain reproached her. And
hence when, in the ecstasy of this reunion, which was
the one thing that nature demanded, the thought re-
curred : Would it have been better otherwise ; or if
this meeting with the beloved one had only taken place
on the far, eternal shore ? she brushed aside the thought
as a temptation, and gambolled around the dear old
presbytery as a child. And she showed her companion-
sister all the wonders of the place — the dairy, where
she had — indeed she had — made butter ; and the
poultry — the same old identical Orpingtons and Dork-
ings which had won so many prizes for dear uncle ; the
flower-beds, alas ! now not so neat and perfect as when
her gentle hands had tended them. And "here," she
said, '' Father Delmege stood, leaning on that mantel-
piece, the evening he sang that fierce, rebel song ; and
I, a giddy young girl, raced down after him along that
footpath that runs to the gate, and begged him to
look after Louis in England ! Ah ! poor Louis ! if he
were only here now ! " i
And the happy Barbara wiped away a tear with her
i
REUNION 555
plain cotton handkerchief. And then, after tea, these
birds should shake out all too prematurely their wings
in the great clock ; and the deep gong tolls out, like a
bell of doom, the hour of six — and then — the parting,
as of all things else on earth, for Luke had to drive the
nuns to tlie evening train for Limerick, where they
would get one night's lodging before going back to the
novitiate.
CHAPTER XLI
A PROFESSION SERMON
Then, after another brief interval, the great day
arrived, the day that was to witness the consummation
of great hopes, a far foreshadowing of the final Vent,
sponsa mea ! It is doubtful whether there is any
moment in the life of mortals so full of pure and per-
fect bliss as that which marks the takinof of the final
vows of profession. Around the marriage feast there
hangs some shadow of fear and anxiety for a future,
which at best is problematical ; and the eyes that watch
the happy couple, stepping out, hand in hand, from their
fellows, to walk the ways of life in a new partnership
so exclusive and so responsible, are filled with a vague
anxiety and foreboding ; and the sunlight is broken in
the prism of tears. But at a profession ceremony there
is neither parting, nor sorrow, nor fretful fear ; only
the calm intoxication of a too great joy, for the spouse
is given into the arms, not of man, but of God. And
hence the profession morning of Barbara Wilson broke
with a promise of a glorious day ; and the very atmos-
phere seemed to hum with Halleluiahs — the glad echoes
of all the music that filled the hearts of sisters, priests,
and penitents. For the latter knew now all the pathetic
heroism of their former sister ; and if they regretfully
parted with the assumption that the great Mother of
God had been amongst them, they comforted themselves
in the assurance that at least one of her saints had been
their gentle companion during ten eventful years. And
it mitigated their shame and remorse to think that a
556
A PROFESSION SERMON 557
pure soul had shared their lot. Her heroism had been
a second absolution.
That little cliapel, then, to the left of the high altar,
was filled that morning with a curious, happy, loving,
eager throng of penitents ; and the very idea that one
of their number was about to be raised to tlie glory
of the white habit, and a place of honour in the choir
stalls, filled all with a kind of personal pride and exulta-
tion. And so they whispered and watched and jjointed
and conjectured, until the great organ rolled out its
mighty volumes of sound, and the opening hymn an-
nounced the advent of tlie Bishop and his assistants.
Then, after the preliminary ceremonies. Mass com-
menced ; and, after tlie Gospel, Luke Delmege knelt for
the episcopal blessing, and ascended the predella of tlie
altar.
Luke was by no means nervous. He had long since
acquired so thorough and perfect a command of thought
and utterance, that lie knew a breakdoAvn to be impos-
sible. Yet, he felt all the solemnity of the occiision ;
and he was about to depart from the usual style of pul-
pit utterances, and pass from abstractions to the con-
crete facts of his own life and the workings of his own
conscience. For, although that life was immaculate,
and that conscience unrebuking, he felt that an amende
was due to God and his own soul for the one fault —
that he had failed to grasp his vocation to soar unto the
highest : and as a penalty of that infidelity that his life
had been dragged "along on a broken wing." Now,
such an unveiling is at all times embarrassing ; and,
especially, as it now broke through the thick folds of a
reserve that was almost liaughty, and sliowed the world,
wlio only deemed him an unaj)i)r()a(hable and coldly
perfect character, an estimate of self th'^it shrunk into
the smallest dimensions under the light of great humil-
ity and sublime contrasts. He felt, also, that he had to
enunciate principles that would seem so large for human
effort as to appear affected and extreme by their very
difficulty ; and he luul to synthesize and compare reli-
558 LUKE DELMEGE
gion and philosophy in a manner that would seem to
ordinary understandings the outcome of pedantry and
vanity.
He took for his text : —
" At that time, Jesus said to His disciples, * If any man will come
after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.
Whosoever shall save his life, shall lose it; and he that shall lose his
life for my sake, shall find it.' "
" The divine peremptoriness and the seeming contra-
diction in these words," continued Luke, "would yield
a,nother proof, if proof were needed, of Christ's divin-
ity. 'Never man spake like this man.' An earthly
philosopher, a Grecian sophist, would either promise
vast things to his followers, as the adversary tempted
the hungry and weary One in the desert ; or, if he
affected truth, he would teach it in abstractions, and
leave nature to cut its easiest path toward happiness.
But the great Divine Teacher laid down the minimum
condition of being His disciple in that stern command,
Deny thyself ; and He appended the vague, and appar-
ently contradictory, promise, that ' whosoever shall lose
his life, shall find it.' It is strange, that men not only
were not scandalized at His words, but readily accepted
them as doctrinal truth and infallible promise ; and
the half-educated publican and the totally illiterate
fisherman rose up hastily to follow a Teacher who de-
manded so great a sacrifice for so problematical a reward.
And stranger still it is that, generation after genera-
tion, souls are to be found who, fascinated by the very
arbitrariness of this command, rise swiftly to the high
levels of sanctity which it connotes ; and, passing
beyond the dictates of a protesting self-love, or the
still more dangerous platitudes of a compromising
world, find themselves suddenly in that desert where
the Hand of their Master is as a shelter of a rock, and
the sound of His voice as the murmur of running
waters. Such a sacrifice we are witnessing to-day,
such relinquishment of youthful desires and ambitions.
J
A PROFESSION SERMON 559
such a calm severing of ties that bind as closely as the
silver cord of life, such a renunciation and self-aban-
donment, sucli sacrificial vows written and sealed on
parchment in the presence of the King, yet more truly
written and sealed with the heart's blood, as if to meet
the theological condition of destruction and consump-
tion. But there is a peculiar and individual feature in
the circumstances of to-day's immolation that lends to
it a special significance, and from which I shall be par-
doned if I deduce a special meaning, and perliaps a
wider and far-reacliing application. You will have
noticed that my text implies, not only the idea of Re-
nunciation, but also the idea of Sacrilice. ' Deny th}--
self ! ' ' Lose thyself ! ' This is the command. In
the great generality of religious professions, the first
precept ah:)ne is insisted upon ; the latter idea of sacri-
fice, particularly vicarious sacrifice, seldom enters.
The Church deems the absoluteness of the former as
embracing and containing the latter. But, in the pres-
ent instance, it is at least a ])eculiar feature, that the
life of vicarious sacrifice should be terminated bv vows
of renunciation ; and that the latter, which generally
denote the incipience of a life of self-denial, should, in
this case, mark a tei'minution of a sacrifice so great,
that, like the connnund to the patriarch of old, only the
Supreme Will couhl impose it on one of its best-beloved
creatures. It happened thus. The good Sister will
j)ardon the details, because they show how steadily and
invisibly God's hand is ever moving through His
creation.
Here Luke narrated all the details of Louis' errors.
and liis sistt'r's devotion, and contiiiucMl : —
"Tiicn the soul of the beloved one was in great [leiil.
His life was doomed. The danger of eternal damna-
tion, from being remote, became proximate. Nothing
but Omni[)otenee was between that soul and hell. In
the mighty agony of a sister's soul, whieii alone seemed
to yearn after the lost one, a sudden inspiration dawned.
^60 LUKE DELMEGE
That soul had just shuddered, in the involuntary shrink-
ing of pure minds, from the very name that, if symbolical
of love, is also suggestive of forgiven sin. And the Most
High, in His secret and ineffable designs, decided that
this should be the sacrifice. The price of the brother's
soul was to be tlie sinless shame of the sister ; he was
to be saved through the voluntary ignominy of an im-
maculate and spotless victim. It is the reflection in
miniature of that mighty oblation made by our great
Brother, Christ ; just as this latter was foreshadowed,
almost in the words I am using, by the greatest of the
Hebrew prophets. There was, of course, the dread,
the human trembling before the altar ; but then the
soul spoke through the firm will ; the sacrifice was
accepted, the brother's soul miraculously snatched from
the flames ; and the sister, unknown to all but God,
passed from the bright world into the hiddenness of
this asylum ; and here lived, to all outer appearance, a
Magdalen, with all the outer marks of humiliation, her
sinlessness only known to God and the good priest who
represented Him.
" Whilst all this was in progress, another life ran on
in parallel lines ; but alas ! with what a chaos between
them ! A young priest had rejected a similar inspira-
tion to a life of absolute sacrifice communicated at the
moment of his ordination, had descended from the
heroic to the commonplace ; and there, his instincts,
still active and alive, were fascinated by the very watch-
words on the lips of the world, which were the daily
maxims, reduced to daily practice, of the saints. ' Re-
nunciation," 'sacrifice,' ' abandonment of self,' ' the inter-
ests of the race,' ' the sacred calls of Humanity,' here
were words forever ringing in his ears, and calling,
calling to some liigh, mystic life, far removed from
selfish ease or the cravings of ambition. Alas ! it took
many years to teach him how hollow was it all — that
there was no God in Humanity, except the God who
embraced Humanity to raise it almost to the Godhead ;
A PROFESSION SERMON" 561
nor were the sublime doctrines of renunciation and
sacrifice practised except by the lowly followers of tlie
one Divine Man. Yet, this was the eternal craving of
the liunian soul ; and as the young priest moved along
in the painful path of wisdom, he saw how human phi-
losophy, with a dark lantern in its hand, went painfully
groping along the tortuous mazes of the human mind,
to emerge in the full light of the Gospel, yet witli dark-
ened eyes ; for the sublime word ' llenuncialion ' he
found in the last note in the music of the greatest of
modern poets ; and the divine contradiction, ' lie that
will lose liis life shall save it,' he found to be tlie ulti-
mate of one of the greatest of modern philosophers.
But what have ideas, however suljlime, to do with the
conduct of modern life? Action, and men of action,
rule tlie modern world. Ideas ruled the vast worlds of
Oriental mysticism, until they culminated in tlie sub-
lime realities of the Christian reli<2U(»n ; l)Ut the Oeci-
dental bias is toward materialism, and its one great
dogma — the Eternal I. I>ut that which was so
familiar to the sages of old, which is found in labour and
much pain by the great moderns, who agonize in tlie
birth-throes of monsters, is easily grasped by the little
ones who seek wisdom in simplicity ; and are fain to
follow as guides those who, divinely ordained, teach,
not in tlie jjcrsuasive words of human Avisdom, but in
the direct interpretation of plain language, more than
philosophy can discern, or learning fathom, or fancy
conceive.
" And so, the young priest, coming back to his native
land, dreamed he had a message to his race. He would
inaugurate a new era ; he would bring his generation
into touch with all modern ideas of [>rogress ; he would
introduce a new civilization in place of an old and
effete system. The idea was a generous one — only it
rested on a* wrong jirinciple. Or rather it sought to
build without princii)le — the great underlying prin-
ciple of man's dualism — ideas and action, matter and
2o
562 LUKE DELMEGE
form, soul and body ; each with its interests, each with
its destiny. He had heard it said, and said with some
show of authority : ' Seek men's souls through their
bodies ! Make a happy people ; and you make them
holy ! Sanctity follows earthly prosperity ; and in
riches are to be found the secrets of great grace ! '
He hardly believed it. Yet he would make the experi-
ment. He was warned : This people must create their
own civilization. There is no use in appealing to
purely material and mercenary principles. If the spir-
itual air-ship of Irish aspirations must be anchored in a
kind of mild materialism, remember always that the
latter is but an adjunct. And so the people rejected at
once his suggestion to move on to happiness in the
lines of modern progress. To his plea for prudence
they answered, Providence ; for human foresight, they
placed divine omniscience ; for thrift, charity ; for
advancement, humility ; for selfishness, generosity ;
until he began to feel he was clipping the wings of spir-
its, and bringing down to the gross earth souls destined
for the empyrean. He then found himself face to face
with the problem, How to conserve his race, and their
old-fashioned ideals at the same time ?
" In searching for this, he stumbled into an error, and
found a solution. He thought it was a first principle
that nations work out their own destinies, and that
character forces it way to conquest. He made no
allowance for a nation's environments, for dread sur-
roundings through which no purely human energy can
cut a path to long-deferred, ever-vanishing, yet still
realizable, ideals. He saw the confirmation of this idea,
he thought, under his own eyes, in his own native
place — the Ireland which poets have dreamed of, and
for which patriots have died. Under the vivifying
power of a great personality, the people rose up to seize
the possibilities within their reach ; and moving on to
great spirituality, they seized at the same time every
opportunity of advancing themselves materially. And
they succeeded. Whilst all around was a desert, here
A PROFESSION SERMON 563
was a land flowing with milk and honey ; and the
dwellers on the barren mountains looked down with
envy on the smiling plains of Arcady. Alas ! the ele-
ment of permanency, tlie element of security, was ab-
sent ; and one day, under a touch of evil, all the beauty
and happiness vanished in smoke and flame and ruin.
And, as the two illusions disappeared — that of Irehind,
built from its ruins on jjurely material and selfish prin-
ciples ; and that of an Ireland, Ijuilt without the foun-
dation of security and independence, the young priest
M^oke uj) suddenly to the vision of his country, develop-
ing under new and stable conditions her traditional
ideas ; and becoming in the face of a spurious and
unstable civilization rocked to its foundations l)y revo-
lution, a new commonwealth of Christ. The possibility
of sucli an event had been vaguely hinted at by priests,
who evidently were struggling to evolve coherent ideas
from a mass of sensations and instincts, rigliteous and
just, but j-et unformed. It was foreshadowed by the
manner in which the people, luitrained and illiterate,
groped after and grasped the highest principles of
Christian civilization ; it was foretold by tlie energy
with which men contemned the mere acquisition of
wealth, and felt asliamed of possessing it ; it was out-
lined in the simple, human lives, with all their S[)iirtau
severity toward themselves, and all their divine benefl-
cence toward others. It took shape in the sharp and
violent contrasts presented by the fierce rivalry for
wealth that animates the citizens of the world's great
metropolis, ami the milder, yet not less energetic, emu-
lation for grace that was witnessed in our own capital
— a contrast as great as that which distinguished tlie
bandit of tlie A})ennines, surrounded with barliaric
pomp, from 'the poor man of Assisi.' And finally, it
was personified in the example of a humble and hidilen
priest, who long ago had denuded himself of all things
lor Christ's sake, and chosen all that was lowly and
hard to human nature, before all that was pleasant and
attractive ; and the still moi'c picturesque example of a
564 LUKE DELMEGE
young girl who voluntarily embraced humility and
suffering, and found in her cross the satisfaction of all
earthly desire, the perfection of all earthly happiness.
It was the old story, wliich we read so often, of days
far distanced from ours by time and change — of souls
who brushed with the tip of their wings the fire of
Hell, and then soared aloft even unto Paradise.
" There can be no question," continued Luke, " but
that such a life of heroism and self-sacrifice is closely
symbolical of our beloved country. It argues a disbelief
in the divine economy to suppose that our martyrdom
of seven hundred years was the accident of human
events, uncontrolled except by their intrinsic possibili-
ties and ultimate developments. That this long cycle
of suffering is to close even now is as certain as that
our young postulant has put off the robes of penance
and humiliation, and put on the garments of gladness.
Her future it is easy to forecast. She will move down
the valleys of life with an eternal song of love and
gratitude in her heart, passing from hour to hour, from
thought to thought, from deed to deed, and gathering
from each some sweetness that will be dropped in the
bitterness of chalices which some have yet to drink.
It is as easy to forecast the destiny of Ireland. She
will never adopt the modern idea of placing all human
happiness, and therefore all human effort, in the desire
of purely natural splendour, and sink down into a nation
of money-grubbers and pleasure-seekers, becoming at
last, not an island of strength and sorrow, but a Cyprus
for voluptuousness, and a Lydia for effeminacy. But
she will strike the happy mean, and evolve her own
civilization by conserving her ideals, whilst seeking
after the practical. For it is certain that the traditions,
the thoughts the instincts, the desires, the very passions,
of this people tend towards the supernatural. And
this must be the germinal idea — the primary and pal-
mary principle in her future development — the corner-
stone of the mighty building which the hands of her
A PROFESSION SERMON 565
children are tingling to raise, the keystone in that Arch
of Triumph, beneath which lier crowned and garlanded
heroes will pass unto the jubilee of her resurrection.
" Sister Barbara, I make no apology for having made
your life a symbol of your country's destiny, and not
merely a subject of a barren discourse. I make bold
to continue the parallel to the end. I interpret your
thoughts very faintly, if I do not perceive that now
and again, whilst accepting the decision of the Supreme
Will, your thoughts revert to, and linger lovingly upon,
the hours you spent with your crucifixion. I never
doubted that, even on the sunlit morning of tlie Resur-
rection, such generous souls as John and ^Magdalen did
revert with some tender longing to the darkness and
gloom and sorrow of Calvary, and the love that went
forth to the agonized One, and flowed back in a stream
of sanctity to their own hearts. Perhap:^, indeed, you
have sometimes dreamed that it might havc been greater
and more noble, if you had borne your shame even unto
tile eternal o'ates, and allowed the hands of Christ alone
to take from your liead the crown of thorns, and i»lace
thereon the golden fillet of His love. Such ideas are
the heritage of your race. I, too, shared them once.
]^)iit, led by purely utilitarian ideas, I flung aside the
call to heroism, and descended to the L'ommon[)lace.
Let wise teachers beware of brinsring down the mind of
tlie entire nation to a conunon level of purely natiiial
and)ition and purely materialistic success. However
necessary for the masses such eflorts may be to save
the race from extinction, it is not tlie specific genius of
our people. That soars higher : and material prosper-
ity must not be the ultimate goal of our race; but only
the basis of the higher life. The world was never so
nuich in need of thinkers and saints as at present. It
never needed so much to see the embodiment of the
positive teaching of Christ, not the nebulous reflection
of that teaching in tlie wisdom of latter-day philosopliy,
as now. One such example as that which we have
566 LUKE DELMEGE
before us to-day would be a powerful lever in lifting
up the ideas of the world from the rut into which they
have fallen ; and you might have a thousand such ex-
amples amongst so generous a people if the higher life,
with its struggles and glories, were placed before them.
Nor have I the least doubt, that, like the gentle regrets
after her cross that mingle with happier feelings in the
heart of the professed Sister of to-day, when the Resur-
rection day shall have dawned for Ireland, when her
valleys are ringing with music, and her exiled children
have come back, bearing the many and beautiful sheaves
garnered in the harvests of the world, many of her
chosen souls will look back with regretful eyes on the
days of her gloom and martyrdom ; and, escaping from
the Hosannas and the palms, will ascend her lofty moun-
tains and create there once more Golgothas of vicarious
suffering for the entire race. For unto the end of time
there will be >in, and sins demand retribution and atone-
ment, and it -5 not the sinner but the saint that makes
it. And men, to the end of time, will be consumed with
selfish desires ; and selfishness must find its constant
corrective in Renunciation. And where, in all the
wide earth, can this sublime philosophy of Christ be
practised, if not here ? And where shall the divine
contradiction. Lose, that you may gain ; Give, that you
may get ; Die, that all may live ; — be verified, if not
amongst the people that has held its hands to heaven in
an agony of supplication for twice three hundred years ?
Where shall the fatal sin of self be extinguished, if not
amongst the race which has given to the world in its
apostles and martyi-s the highest examples of divine
altruism? And where shall the final law of love be
established, if not where all that is holy and most pure
stoops to all that is sordid and stained ; and blends, in
the alchemy of charity, sin and purity, shame and pity,
so perfectly, that, as in the example before us to-day,
men fail to discern beneath the outward shows of life
the sinner and the saint, the fallen and the unfallen,
the lambs that never wandered from the fold, and the
A PROFESSION SERMON 567
sheep that strayed in the forlorn and unlighted deserts
of Sin and Death ? "
When the ceremony was over Luke sought tlie soli-
tude of the convent grounds, to calm the emotion under
which he had laboured. He cared little what verdict
would be passed on that sermon. Me only knew that
he wished to reveal himself — to make a clear, noble
confession of his own shortcomings ; and he felt he had
only half succeeded. He knew he dared not liave spoken
more plainly, lest lie should shock sensibilities too deli-
cate and tender not to be respected ; yet lie also frit
that he had wrapped up his thoughts so well in a cloud
of words that his feelings were but half revealed.
And this was really the case. For at the de/rinnr,
very various were the opinions expressed about th^ ser-
mon. One said it was all " rhetoric," a word that has
come to mean uiiutterable things in Ireland, i-'atln r
Tracey, who looked (juite spruce in the newly dyed
coat, called over Sister Eulalie, whose eyes were red
from weeping, and asked her in a whisper : —
"That was a grand sermon, my dear, lint my poor
brains could not follow it. What was it all al)out /
Why, my child, you have been crying I Ciod bless my
sold, crying, and on such a day ! "
Sister Eulalie answered not ; l>ut went away weeping
all the more.
Matthew O'Shaughnessy, who, as a great benefactor
to the convent, luul always the privilege of an invita-
tion to these ceremonies, said to a priest across the
table : —
" That was the grandest discoorse I ever hard, by me
friend. Father ]-,uke."
'' What was it all about ?" said the i)riest, without a
smile.
••Eh? About?" said Matthew, bewildered. "Tell
him what 'twas' about, Mary. Fm a little hard of
hearing."
But Mary, with her woman's quick intuition, divined
568 LUKE DELMEGE
how matters stood ; and said, with a good deal of
dignity : —
•' What would it be about, but the young lady's
profession ? "
" Of course," said Matthew, who, as the Bishop en-
tered, stood up in an attitude of adoration, and sought,
in a most humble, deprecatory manner, to catch the
Bishop's eye.
Then Barbara came in, led by the Mistress of Novices,
and passed up along the ranks of visitors to kiss the
episcopal ring, and get once more the episcopal blessing.
Then, turning swiftly around, she saw, for the first time
in twelve long years, her father's face. It was now
framed in white, and deeply furrowed by care and the
labours that are needed for ambition. It was stern,
too ; for all the explanations made by the Mother Pro-
vincial and the priests failed to convince the man of the
world that there was not a terrible cruelty and injustice
inflicted upon his child. But something — the swish
of her white habit, the rattle of lier beads, tlie swift
grace of her movements, or the radiance that shone
from her features, unnerved him ; and, with a little sob
of pleasure, he clasped his child to his heart, and kissed
her face before all the people. Lady Wilson was more
conventional and reserved. She felt she had been ill-
used ; but, in a spirit of Christian meekness, she was
willing to forgive. Each priest stood up, as Barbara
approached, and touched her hand reverently. She sat
for a long time near Father Tracey, who was much em-
barrassed at the honour, and said, " God bless me ! "
several times.
When the guests were dispersing in the great hall
outside, the Bishop said aloud : —
"Where is Father Delmege? I missed Father Del-
mege I "
Luke was found with some difficulty, and came forward.
" That was a fine sermon, Luke," said the Bishop.
" Thank you, my Lord," said Luke. Then, with a
little malice : —
I
I
A PROFESSION SERMON 569
"I hope there was no latent heresy in it? "
" No. But don't print it ; or some fellow will ferret
out something heterodox by the aid of a dictionary. By
the way, here's a letter for you. You needn't read it
till you return home. Good-day ! Come see me, when-
ever you are in the city."
" He'll be in St. John's in a week," said Matthew,
winking at Mary. " Tliat's his appintment."
"•And St. John's isn't half good enough for him,"
said iNIary.
But Matthew for once was wrong. It was not to a
curacy, but to a benefice that Luke was now appointed
— to the neat, compact little parish where he spent the
few remaining years of his life. Here, divesting him-
self of all things, he lived the life of an anchorite — a
grave, gentle, loving man ; and happy in having nothing
and possessing all things. Revered and beloved b}- his
own people, it is not surprising that he acquired the
character of being somewhat eccentric among his breth-
ren. But this he did not mind. He had found peace
by abstracting himself from passing and fading things,
and fixing his thoughts on the unfading and eternal.
One little luxury, as we have seen, he allowed himself
— that of lookijig out, as a disinterested, if perplexed,
spectator, over " the beautiful madhouse of the earth "
and
]\Iii.sinp; the woes of men,
Tlie ways of fate, the (loctrines of the books,
The lessons of tlie creatures of the brake,
The secrets of the silence whence all come,
The secrets of tlie gloom whereto all go,
The life which lies between, like that arch flung
From cloml to cloud across tlie sky, which hath
Mists for its niasonrv and vapoury piers,
Melting to void again which was so fair
With sapphire hues, garnet, and chr\soprase.
CHAPTER XLII
AFTERMATH
Here we bid farewell to Luke. But some readers of
his life's history may yet feel a kindly interest in the
souls with whom he was brought into most frequent
contact, or who exercised, consciously or unconsciously,
some influence upon him. With most of these the author
was obliged, in the course of his work, to enter upon
terms of friendly intimacy, in order to glean the particu-
lars that he has ventured to offqr to the public. A 11, with-
out exception, had a kindly word for poor Luke ; most
gave his memory the more eloquent tribute of a tear.
Father Martin, at first very crusty and rather abrupt,
probably from great sorrow, developed into a most kindly,
and, needless to say, most intelligent adviser and editor.
That little parlour at Sea view Cottage became quite
familiar to the author ; for here they discussed, argued,
reasoned, planned the scope and argument of the book.
Tiny and Tony, too, now pretty grown, became intelli-
gent and decidedly interesting guides. It was they
who led the narrator to the sloping ledge of rock where
Father M^ade had heard the cry of Allua! across the
waters ; and there, yes, indeed I there was tlie identical
curl upon the placid bosom of the great estuary, where
the jealous sea challenges its mighty invader.
" I can swim to the current," said Tony, with a
triumphant glance at his sister.
" You got cramps, and you'd be drowned only for
me," said Tiny.
" I can ride a cycle, standing on the saddle," said
Tony, unabashed.
570
AFTERMATH 571
" An' I can ride side-saddle with one pedal," said
Tiny.
" I'll tell you what it is," I interposed ; " I shall
stroRoiy recommend your guardian to apprentice the
two of you to the next third-class circus that honours
Ardavine with a visit." I meant to be sarcastic; but
the project was warmly taken up.
" Oh ! the very thing," said Tiny.
" I sliall ride bareback," said Tony.
" I can jump through a paper hoop," said Tiny.
" You tried, and fell, and broke your nose, and cried,
like a girl," said Tony.
" Tony," I said, " this is unchivalric and unfraternal.
Let us return."
I did not visit the Canon. I sliared Luke's nervous-
ness ; but, unlike Luke, I failed to conquer it. But I
saw Father Cussen. He is now quite entlinsiastic about
his })ari.sh priest. We visited the ruined ccAtage of Lis-
nalee together. It is not a very unusual sight in Ireland
— that gaping ruin, the pointed gables, the nettles, the
fire-scorched hearth, alas ! which will never shed a ruddy
glow upon happy faces again. Far down on the rocky
shore is the fishernuin's cal)in, where ^b)na still lives ;
and, amidst all changes of death and ruin, there is the
eternal sea I Calmly it sleeps under the eye of God.
It is one of the many tilings that make you detest tlie
doctrine of evolution, and lly back to a direct Crea-
tion: "God also said: Let the waters that are under
the heaven be gathered togetlier in one })hice. And it
was so done. And the gathering together of the waters
He called Seas. .Vnd (iod saw that it was goo(L"
" Will the McNamaras ever come back, do vou think?"
I asked.
" They certainly will," Fatlu-r ( ussen re})lied. " And
what is more — we'll liave the old state of things back
again, as sure as God is just, when landlordism is dead
and — "
"Hush!" I said, "I should have to put that down
to be loyal to my readers ; and it would sound Ijadly.
572 LUKE DELMEGE
However, you made the evil thing abstract and imper-
sonal."
"They say the ghost of old Mike Delmege haunts
this place," he continued- " He has been seen wander-
ing around here on moonlight nights, his gray hair
tossed wildly on his shoulders, as on that awful day.
I'd wish he'd go to Paris, and haunt the silken curtains
of that — "
" Is Mona married ? " I interrupted charitably.
" Not yet. She has had a hundred offers, since she
proved such a little heroine ; but she says she'll never
marry until '■ the ould stock ' come back to their right-
ful inheritance."
" A faithful little soul," I said.
" Yes. But she thought poor Luke was entirely too
polite to the magistrates at that trial. They were all
expecting a tremendous philippic from him."
" That was hardly his way," I replied.
" Of course not. I think he was right ; though I
am not quite sure if I would have taken it so tamely,"
said Father Cussen.
I had a most delightful interview with Dr. Keatinge.
He was one of those beautiful old priests who see good
in everything and every one — a perfect optimist, as if
he had been transported hither from one of those de-
lightful planets on which sister suns are ever shining.
There was no Night for him, nor blackness, nor sin.
All was Day, and light, and grace. He was enthusias-
tic about Luke.
" A perfect character, my dear young friend — a
noble character, with eternal aspirations after what is
True and Right and Just."
" But a little perplexed ? " I said.
" All good men are perplexed," he replied, " until
they make up their minds to one fact — the necessary
imperfection of all human things, until complemented
by the perfection of the divine. Then all is right. It
was the impatience at imperfection that annoyed him.
But he was tolerant, exceedingly tolerant, for example,
with that eccentric youth."
AFTERMATH 573
" John ? " I exclaimed.
" Yes," said the Doctor, a little disturbed.
" Wliat has become of that hopeful ? " I cried.
'' 1 have him," said the Doctor ; and I thought his
face fell.
1 was silent. After a little while, the good old priest,
looking shyly at me, said in a rallier embarrassed way,
" Perliaps you would like to see him ? "
" By all manner of means," I replied. "■ Is he mar-
ried ? "
" He is," said the Doctor.
John came in reluctantly from the garden, when told
he was wanted. He never liked to be "wanted." It
foreboded trouble or anxiety. His face Avore that fur-
tive, friglitencd, suspicious look, that used to make
l>uke wild ; l)ut it cleared off into the sunshine of a
smile when he found it was not a policeman, but only
an old acquaintance that desired to see him. Never-
theless, lie did not lay aside his habitual caution.
'' How are you, John? Yni glad to see you well?"
I said, hiilding out my hand.
John touched my hand with the tips of his fingers.
-' Vm ver}- well, yer reverence," said John.
" And so you're married ? " I said.
" I dun know, yer reverence," said John.
"What, you scoundrel." J said, "you don't know
whetlier you're married or not?"
" Begor, I believe I am, yer reverence," he said,
smiling sheepishly, and scratching his heail.
" jNIary, of course ? " I said.
" Begor, I l)elieve it is, yer reverence," he said, witli
a grin.
" I liope you're steady now with tliese responsibilities,"
I conjectured.
" Oh, I am, yer reverence," he replied. "■ She'll tell
you herself."
"You know how anxious FathiT Luke was about
you," 1 said : " and how glad he'd be to know you
were doing well."
574 LUKE DELMEGE
" Ah, thin, manny's the good advice the poor masther
giv me," said John, with just a little emotion, " if only
I tuk it^" he added.
" How am I to find out Mary's house ? " I inquired.
" I must see her."
" Oh, 'tis aisy enough," said John, with a broad grin ;
"you'll know it among all the nabours' by the flowers."
" Your favourite flowers ? " I conjectured.
" Begor, yes, yer reverence," said John.
He seemed to linger as if he wished to say something.
"You wouldn't mind doin' me a little favour, yer
reverence ? " he said.
" Certainly not," I replied.
" Would you mind sayin', yer reverence," he con-
tinued, '' that the baby is the dead image of herself ?
It puts her in wondherful good humour ! "
" But is it ? " I asked.
" Well, some say it is ; and some say it isn't," said
John, with a puzzled look. " But sure that makes no
matther."
" An' you won't be offended ? " I said.
" Oh, begor, I won't," said John, " if it plases her-
self."
It was not difficult to find John's house. Afar off, it
blazed in colours against the more modest drab appoint-
ments of its neighbours ; and when I came quite close
to it, I was blinded with the splendours of the much
despised, but gaily painted favourite of this great gar-
dener. Nasturtiums of every colour, orange, red, deep
maroon, purple ; and striped and spotted in every im-
aginable hue, flaunted their glories all around garden,
window, and door. Two beds of dwarf nasturtiunn
filled the little plots in front of the house ; and from
their centres, two rose trees, in full bloom, but looking
very much ashamed of themselves, were propped by
little canes, and languished and faded in the midst of
their more picturesque and hardier brethren. But
these latter plebeians forced their strong tendrils every-
where, and threw out in splendid profusion their beau-
AFTERMATH 575
tiful bells. What music they would make, if God had
given them tongues, that would swing in the breath of
the breezes !
Mary was bending over her fire-place, when I drew
the bolt of the half-door. She came forward, with a
hot blush on her face from the lire and the surprise.
'' I was up at the Doctor's, iNIary," I said, " and met
John. Do you know what the fellow told me? "
" I don't know, yer reverence," she said.
" lie told me he didn't know whether he was married
or not."
" He's the bio'Efest omadhaun from here to Cork," said
Mary, with a frown. "I do' know what to tliink of
him ; or how the Docthor has patience wid him."
"However," I continued, "he told me I should find
the house by the flowers ; and there was no mistake
there. You have the neatest cottage in Rossmore,
within and without."
I looked around ; and it was pretty. The tiled floor
was spotless ; the brass candlesticks and ])ewter vessels
shone brightly ; a canary sang out its little welcome in
the window, and tried to drown our voices with its shrill
piercing notes; the kettle sang merrily on the range.
Tlie wliole was a picture of comfort.
"The Cicncral," I said, "could lind no fault here."
" I wouldn't lave him," said Mary. " He kem wance
to tlie dure ; but no farther."
"Boiling water?" I suggested.
" Not as bad as that, yer reverojice," said ^lary, laugh-
ing. "Hut lie kem, and looked in, and said: 'I am
very much plased to see your cottage kep' so nate,' sez
he. 'I'm thankful for yer good o]Hiiion,' sez I. 'I
shall tell the missis and Miss Dora,' .st-z he, 'that this is
a moral (model) cottage, an' Til have 'em put down yer
name for the next distribution of prizes for nateness
and claneness,' sez he. 'Ye needn't,' sez I. 'It isn't
for prizes I'm workin' day and night, but because it is
the right thing to do ; and 'twas what the nuns and the
priests taught us.' He looked cross at this. ' 1 hope
576 LUKE DELMEGE
ye keep no fowl here,' sez he. ' That's me own business,
sez I. ' Did ye get yer rint on Saturday niglit? ' sez I.
'I did,' sez he, shamefaced like. 'Thin,' sez I, 'what
brings ye thrapezing around here, instid of mindin' yer
own business ? ' With that aff he wint, an' he never
kem near since."
" Do you mean to say that you talked up to a land-
lord like that ? " I asked.
"An' why not?" asked Mary. "Didn't the masther
tell us, a hunder' times that we wor as good as they,
ivery bit, that we wor all the same flesh and blood — "
" He would be glad to see you so happy now," I said;
"and all his lessons so carefully carried out."
" So he would, yer reverence," said Mary, with a little
sob.
As I looked around, my eye caught some pink em-
broidery in a corner. There were little bits of lace and
edging on a deep background of pink calico. I looked
at Mary.
" It isn't ? " I said inquiringly.
" It is, yer reverence," said Mary, with a smile and a
blush. " Won't you give her your blessing ? "
I went over and gazed admiringly at the little bit of
humanity, that was blinking its black eyes, and groping
with its soft, tiny fingers, for the mystery of the world
on which it was embarked. Dear God ! it was turned
out perfectly from Thy adorable hands, even down to
the little pink finger nails.
" I don't want to flatter you, Mary," I said, " but it's
the dead image of you."
" Oh, law, yer reverence," said Mary, with a smile of
pleasure, " sure every wan says she's as like Jolin as two
pays.''
" Like John ? " I exclaimed indignantly. " Nonsense !
She's no more like John, than — than" — the metaplior-
ical faculty failed me, until my eye caught a tendril that
was pushing a yellow blossom over the half-door — '• than
a rose is like a nasturtium. Not that I'm disparaging
the latter," I interjected. " So it is a young lady ? "
I
AFTERMATH 57*1
" It is, yer reverence," she said.
" Miglit I ask her name ?" I said.
" Well, thin, 'tis a quare wan enough. At laste, we
niver had it in our family," said JNlary. " I wanted to
have her called JNlary after the Blessed Virgin ; but the
Docthor said, ' No ! call her afther yer late masther's
pattern saint,' sez he, 'and call her Ijarbara.' And sure
it sounds quare, yer reverence, like them haythens and
blacks we hear about in the Annals."''
" Barbara (jlavin ! " I repeated. " It sounds well ;
and I may tell you, Mary, the Doctor Avas right. It is
the name of one of the sweetest saints in the calendar,
wlio died some centuries ago ; and another dear saint,
who is still living. May your baby take after both ;
and she Avill be happy ! "
This a|)p('ared to satisfy Mary ; so I had less reluc-
tance in asking was John fond of the baby.
" Fond ? " said Mary. " He's dying about her. He
thiidvs of nothing, morning, noon, or night, but the baby.
And when she has a little fit, you'd think he'd go clane
out o' his mind."
" And he's keeping all right ? " I asked.
" He is, your reverence ; but 'tis the baby agin. Whin
John has the fit on him, he's moody and sullen like for
days. 'Tis the thirst, you know, comin' upon him. Thin
I gets wan of the boys to come in, be the wiiy of no harm,
and say, 'John, that baby is as like you as two pins.'
John says nothin', till they go oul. Thin, lie ups and
takes the baby out of her cradle, and (huigles her, and
kisses her ; an' 1 know tlie fit is over him."
" God bless that baby," I cried. "• She's doing a hard
thing, playing a doubh' pait, and doing it successfully."
"Would your reverence like to see our little i)ar-
lour ? " said Mary.
"To be sure," I exclaimed. And it was worth see-
ing. I recognized some of Luke's little belongings
which he left to his faithful servant : and over near the
window, looking to tlie north, wliieh I believe is tlie
right location for neutral light, Mary, with true artistic
2p
578 LUKE DELMEGE
taste, had placed an easel, and on that easel was a pic-
ture. I took it up. It was the oil painting of Olivette
Lefevril — the scene of the skeleton ship from "The
Ancient Manner." And over the mantelpiece were
Mary's two heroes, Robert Emmet and St. Antony ;
and between them, in the place of honour, was a gor-
geous photograph of Luke Delmege. I went over.
" 'Tis the masther," said Mary.
" So it is," I said. " You have put him in good com-
pany, Mary."
"• Not too good for him, yer reverence. He was
aiqual to them all."
1 don't know what that "all" comprised; but I said
as I parted from Mary : —
" At least," I said, " he has a noble immortality.
Mary, you are a good girl. God bless you I "
"An' God bless you, too, sir ! " said Mary.
I should call on Father Tracey. When I entered
his humble lodgings, and saw them stripped of every-
thing but tiie barest necessaries, the old spirit of joking
came over me, and I was going to say : —
" I hope you have complied with the statutes, and
made your will. Father I There will be serious litiga-
tion about your assets — "
But the holiness of the old man stopped me. And it
was not that holiness that brings its burning-glass to
bear on the naked, quivering nerves of your soul, and
lights up all its multiform diseases ; but that humble
sanctity that places itself at your feet, and gently pro-
claims its superiority by the abasement. I
He, too, was enthusiastic about Luke.
" He was not known, my dear, he wasn't known, ex-
cept to the Bishop and myself. Ah, my dear, the world
is full of saints, if we could only find them out."
" I am writing Luke's life," I said, " and I thought
you could give me some lights."
" Is't me ? God bless me, what do I know ? But
say, he was everything great and good ; and would
have been a Bishop, if he lived."
AFTERMATH 579
I stole the old man's beads. I couldn't help it. The
axle of this weary world would not creak so loudly, if
the oil of gladness, poured from such humble hearts,
were lavished more fi-eely.
Lastl}^ 1 visited the well-known scene of Luke's
latest ministrations. This was easy enough, for it was
quite close to me. It was a lovely summer evening as
I drove into the village. The present incumbent was
not at home ; but I i)ut up ni}' horse and trap at his
Iiousc, and strolled leisurely up to the church wliere
Luke is buried. As I entered, there was a whispering
in the gallery overhead ; and the little village choir,
seeing a i)riest, thought they should manifest some ])iety
and good works. They sang. Nearer, my God, to Thee!
I listened ; and it sounded very sweetly and very ap-
propriately there in that calm, summer twilight.
Tlioiigli, like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness conies over me,
y\\ rest a stone;
Yet in my dreams I'd be
Nearer, my (iod, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee.
I went up (juii'tly to say a prayer over ^^'here he
slept. A jx^or woman, her frayed shawl drawn over
lier head, was leaning on the Communion rails, right
over Luke's grave. Her hands were clasped around
her little child, who sat on the broad ledge of the rails,
and kicked and crowed, and tried to take the beads
from hei- mother's hands. The woman was playing
aloud. I gently said : —
'•^ Wliere is Father Delnn'ge buried?"
"There," she said, ])ointing to the floor. '•' ^Liy the
heavens be his bed to-night ! "
"You knew him?" I asked.
"(iood right I had to know him," she replied. "'Look
at thim, yer reverence," holding up the ehild"s ehuljby
leg, "thim's the last he give me and mine — (iod be good
to him, me darlin' priest
t "
580 LUKE DELMEGE
Sister Eulalie may rest easy now. The poor did love
him indeed.
I passed into the sanctuary, and copied for my readers,
there in the summer twilight, the Latin inscription on
the marble slab in the wall. It runs thus : —
HIC • JACENT
OSSA
ADM • REV . LUCAE • DELMEGE
OLIM • IN • SUO . COLLEGTO • LAUREATI
NUPER • HUIUS • ECCLESIAE • RECTORIS
NATUS • OCT • 12 • 1854
OBIIT • NOV • 20 • 1898
AMAVIT • LABORAVIT • VIXIT
REQUIESCIT
It is Father Martin's composition. I should have
liked to add another word, but I couldn't find the
Latin for it ; and in any case Father Martin wouldn't
allow it ; for he would never admit that Luke was per-
plexed about anything. Poor Luke ! It's all the same
now ! He has long since found in the vast mirrors of
the Infinite the solution of tlie Great Enigma.
i
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below
m
UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY f ACIUTV
AA 000 379 650 5
UNIVER^TT'v ,f ^XLIFORMIA
LIBRARY