TheApoleof 
 
 By E. Temple 
 Thurston
 

 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN
 
 THE 
 APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 BY 
 
 E. TEMPLE THURSTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 1905
 
 Copyright 1904, 1905, by 
 E. TEMPLE THURSTON.
 
 AS WORK OF MINE 
 
 APART FROM ANY RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCES 
 IT MAY RAISE 
 
 9 iirMralr Una Sunk 
 
 TO MY WIFE 
 KATHERINE CECIL THUBSTON 
 
 2228815
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Celibate 1 
 
 % 
 
 BOOK II 
 The Man 123 
 
 BOOK III 
 The Woman 179 
 
 BOOK IV 
 The Law 
 
 BOOK V 
 
 The Sacrament 295 
 
 BOOK VI 
 
 The Inevitable 327
 
 BOOK I 
 THE CELIBATE
 
 " Before thou makest a vow prepare thyself; and 
 be not as a man that tempteth the Lord." Ecclesias- 
 ticus xviii. 23. 
 
 " But I say to the unmarried and to the widows; it 
 is good for them if they continue, even as I. But if 
 they do not contain themselves, let them marry. For 
 it is better to marry than to be burnt." 1 Cor. vii. 
 8, 9 (translated from the Latin Vulgate). 
 
 "Yet in face of this gloomy, uninviting fact, voca- 
 tions fail not, crowds still seek the perilous office. 
 This as actual fact is worth investigating. Why do 
 they seek it so eagerly and in such numbers ? Priests 
 were never more numerous. 'Seminaries' abound 
 and are filled. Oh, various are the motives, etc., etc., 
 as is easy to analyze, taking human nature and con- 
 ditions of toilsome life into account. Half of the 
 candidates never realize to the full extent what they 
 are facing." "Discourses" by an Irish priest in 
 America.
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 " BLESS me, Father, for I have sinned." 
 
 And then again, when the priest had pulled aside 
 the little shutter, through whose mouth the forgiving 
 hand of God is stretched 
 
 "I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary, 
 ever virgin, to Blessed Michael, the archangel, to 
 Blessed John, the baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter 
 and Paul, to all the saints and to you, Father; that 
 I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, deed and 
 omission through my fault, through my fault, 
 through my most grievous fault." 
 
 The supplicant finished his " Confiteor " with a 
 deeply-taken breath as the priest leaned forward on 
 his seat, inclining his head in listening attitude 
 towards the latticed grating. 
 
 It was late in the evening of a Saturday. Except 
 for the feeble flickering of a few candles that burnt 
 timidly in the large stand before the Altar of the 
 Virgin, and the constant, steady, glimmer of the red 
 sanctuary light facing the tabernacle, the chapel 
 was a mass of heavy shadows, toning down by imper- 
 ceptible degrees into an impenetrable blackness 
 where the need of an open space forbade the light. 
 
 To one coming in from the outer world the silence 
 at first would have weighed as heavily on the ears 
 as would the gloom of shadows on the eyes; but 
 
 3
 
 4 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 gradually, as the senses became accustomed to the 
 stillness, the sibilant whisperings of supplicant and 
 confessor would have made themselves audible with a 
 mysterious insistence. No one did come in from the 
 outer world, however, and, except for the occasional 
 passing and repassing of the woman who kept the 
 chapel in order, they were alone. Her entries were 
 not frequent, and she wore slippers of a noiseless 
 kind the kind which by reason of poverty are worn 
 to a pathetic thinness of soles. Every time that 
 she passed in front of the High Altar she paused, 
 turned her head in its direction, and with a swiftly 
 accomplished genuflexion, walked on into the sacristy. 
 
 By the time that the supplicant had concluded the 
 confession of his sin for it was one alone that had 
 occupied his mind when he had entered the confes- 
 sional the door of the sacristy closed with a 
 muffled noise ; the chapel woman had gone home to 
 her tea, leaving priest and man by themselves in the 
 House of God. 
 
 Leaning back on his cushioned seat the priest 
 listened thoughtfully to the last words of the man's 
 confession, and a slight expression of sensitive con- 
 tempt, mingling almost imperceptibly with religious 
 pity, caught up and twisted one corner of his mouth. 
 
 The tale that had just been told to him was one 
 that he had heard before from other lips, in other 
 fashions. Not many times certainly, for morality in 
 the wilder and extreme country parts of Ireland is 
 maintained at a high standard by reason of that 
 innate spirit of almost ignorant simplicity which 
 pervades everything.
 
 THE CELIBATE 5 
 
 Had he heard it more often, might it be possible to 
 say that that expression of sensitive contempt would 
 have given way entirely to that of religious pity? 
 It cannot certainly be guaranteed. The city breeds 
 that which the country cannot sustain ; and moreover 
 the nature of a man is not content to wait for him 
 outside the door of a confessional. 
 
 He had heard it before, but not quite under the same 
 circumstances, and it is after all by the circumstances 
 of our sins that we must be judged, by the motives of 
 our virtue that we must receive reward. But to 
 Father Everett, in his inner judgment the judgment 
 that is inseparable from the man circumstances had 
 no weight whatsoever in just this one sin alone, to 
 the confession of which he had been listening. 
 
 Having put one or two questions to the penitent he 
 began to talk to him, opening his mind with that con- 
 fidence of speech which is possessed only by one who 
 feels deeply on the subject which he is condemning or 
 extolling. 
 
 "My child," he said slowly, "if your spirit is 
 willing but your body weak, God hath ordained the 
 holy sacrament of matrimony; in which, if a man 
 cannot rely on his own strength, he may enter with- 
 out incurring the wrath of the Almighty." 
 
 A thought of his means crossed the mind of the man 
 kneeling on the other side of the latticed grating, 
 and he looked wistfully up to the roof of the con- 
 fessional, waiting for the priest to continue. 
 
 *' Whenever I hear such a confession as this, " the 
 Father proceeded, " I quote the words of St. Paul : 
 * But I say to the unmarried and to the widows : it is
 
 6 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 good for them if they so continue, even as I. But if 
 they do not contain themselves, let them marry. For 
 it is better to marry than to be burnt. ' ' 
 
 " But, Father, I hope to marry her some day. At 
 present it's impossible. I haven't the means to keep 
 a wife." 
 
 "Was it with that promise you seduced her?" 
 asked the priest coldly. 
 
 "Father " the young man paused on the word. 
 
 This was the lenient priest, whom in a country 
 village he had hoped to find. From time to time in 
 the city where he came from, he had delayed his con- 
 fession. His moral strength was not sufficient to 
 enable him to meet the scorn of a priest experienced 
 in the sins of the world. But now, when chance had 
 brought him into the country, he thought that he 
 had found his opportunity for an easy confession. 
 
 "Father there was no conscious seduction," he 
 said, his disappointment altering markedly the tone 
 of his voice. "We were weak both of us. When 
 those moments come one forgets to count the cost; 
 then it is past and all one's faculty for counting is 
 intensified." 
 
 A look of hardness, of a lack of appreciation, 
 passed across Father Everett's eyes. Here lay an 
 opportunity, an instance in which the power of will 
 that God had given him, a celibate, could be used to 
 advantage upon the sin of this creature who knelt 
 beside him. It was not a subject that could be 
 preached upon without misunderstanding from the 
 altar steps. In the confessional alone was such a 
 theme appropriate. He pulled aside the curtain
 
 THE CELIBATE 7 
 
 which concealed him from the chapel, and finding 
 that no others were waiting for their confession to 
 be heard, leant back again on his seat and folded his 
 hands in momentary prayer. 
 
 It so happened that this was a subject which he 
 had considered frequently which most celibates do 
 consider frequently. When he was a boy at May- 
 nooth, before his vows were taken ; when he was a 
 priest in the silence of his rooms, it was a question 
 that had often applied itself to him for considera- 
 tion, and he fancied that he had looked at it from 
 every point of view. 
 
 To scarcely a sterner or less lenient confessor could 
 this young man have come ; for those who have 
 studied the laws of nature from a world of books are 
 not over-ready to forgive nature's shortcomings out- 
 side the covers. 
 
 "The sin remains," Father Everett said after the 
 long pause that followed the penitent's last words. 
 " No man is born a fool who cannot count the costs 
 before and after. When those moments come, you 
 say, one forgets to count the costs. Do you never 
 think of the moments that come previous to all these ; 
 those in which one is given time to think, time to 
 consider and time to make one determine to resist ? " 
 
 The suppliant endeavoured in the darkness to make 
 out the features of the priest through the latticed 
 grating. 
 
 "There are such moments, Father," he said. "I 
 am not trying to lessen my offence by denying their 
 existence. But one does not always realize them. 
 One does not always see what they are leading to
 
 8 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 and stop to consider within oneself, determining to 
 resist the crisis when it comes. " 
 
 "Do you mean ?" began the priest quickly. 
 
 " I mean, " hurriedly interposed the young man, " I 
 mean that such temptations come in a moment, in one 
 flash when one least expects them. " 
 
 "Do you mean," repeated the priest inexorably, 
 " that no thought of such a result entered your mind 
 before before you saw her the girl, on that oc- 
 casion ? " 
 
 The young man hesitated, then coughed nervously, 
 clasping and unclasping his hands on the rest before 
 him. 
 
 " No more, Father, than what enters naturally into 
 every man's mind with regard to the girl whom he 
 intends to marry." 
 
 " So you think every man's mind is weighed by that 
 thought before he marries ? " The voice of the 
 priest was hard. 
 
 " It is only natural, Father. " 
 
 " Natural ! " The note of the ascetic was in his 
 voice. "My son, we share our passions with the 
 beasts of the field ; but it is not natural to the human 
 being to make himself like them. When first man and 
 first woman were created they lived happily together 
 in the garden of Eden. Their passions were dor- 
 mant. They beheld each other and were not 
 ashamed ; their senses were not touched. They were 
 mere creatures, children of God. The devil tempted 
 those dormant passions of the woman which God had 
 designed to lie fallow she fell, and so originated all 
 sin. All sin, you see, came from the gratification of
 
 THE CELIBATE 9 
 
 a passion. Had it not been gratified, then there 
 would have been no sin. " 
 
 " Why did God create mankind and womankind with 
 a passion, Father, that was not meant to be gratified, 
 that was not meant to be employed ? Where was 
 the need for its existence ? " 
 
 The priest nervously arranged his stole about his 
 shoulders, and there was a pause making the silence 
 about them intense. 
 
 " The Almighty God is a God of Mysteries," he said 
 at length, having murmured one short, fervent prayer 
 that he might be enabled to answer aright. "The 
 Almighty God is a God of Mysteries," he repeated. 
 "And it is only by'faith that the mysteries of this life 
 may be accepted and taken as a reason in themselves. 
 You have not faith, my son. There lies the root of 
 all your sin. Pray, pray that you may obtain faith, 
 and all these lusts of the flesh shall be taken from 
 you." 
 
 Faith the supplicant looked wearily about him 
 faith was like a spurious coin to a blind man. Only 
 when it came to keeping the wolf from the door would 
 he find that it bent between his fingers. 
 
 "Then you do maintain, Father," he said, "that 
 such thoughts, let alone the deeds that are the result 
 of them, are not natural ? " 
 
 " Natural in that they exist," said the priest, " but 
 far from natural when we encourage them, giving 
 them a place to grow and mature in the mind. They 
 are just like weeds, my child, of which we might say 
 it is the result of nature that they grow in our 
 gardens. But can one give the excuse, of a garden
 
 10 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 whose fairest flowers are overrun with thistles, that 
 it is natural that such things should be ? No ! 
 We take a hoe and we dig them up, one by one by 
 the roots, so that only the flowers may have full 
 liberty to grow there. Every mind is a garden, and 
 in the shed of all natures the Almighty God has put 
 the hoe of faith with which we can root out the weeds 
 of our nature." 
 
 "But thoughts grow quicker than weeds and their 
 roots are deeper." 
 
 " I do not see that," said the priest sharply. 
 
 "Yet a weed begins to grow and for the first few 
 days the strength of one's fingers will pull it up. In 
 a week a piece of stick will be needed to probe to 
 the roots ; then finally, the steel of the hoe. With a 
 thought, it comes in one moment and it comes full- 
 grown. It comes from objects, the sight or touch of 
 which will bring it into sudden and vital existence. 
 And once it is in our minds it is a step, a long step to 
 a result." 
 
 Father Everett took out his handkerchief and nerv- 
 ously wiped the sweat from his hands. This man 
 who had come to confess belonged evidently to a class 
 with whom he had never come into contact before. 
 He had taken up his first duties as a curate in this 
 little village only some two years before, and in all 
 his experience of supplicants, though he knew it to 
 be comparatively a small one, he had met with none 
 who had not taken his decision as final and the law 
 of the Church. This young man was truly of a 
 different class from that to which he was accustomed. 
 He had scarcely uttered one sentence of his confes-
 
 THE CELIBATE 11 
 
 sion before Father Everett realized that he was a 
 member of that new generation whose reason is the 
 great obstacle to its faith. In the many villagers 
 who, Saturday after Saturday, came to make their 
 confessions to him, the priest had always found tacit, 
 childish obedience, implicit and servile belief. But 
 then he always expected it, and therefore it usually 
 escaped his notice. But now in comparison with 
 the difficult instance of this young man, he became 
 aware how easy that childish obedience was to deal 
 with. 
 
 In all that he had said with his mild, patient voice, 
 Father Everett had found nothing that he could 
 really take objection to. Yet this fact of being put 
 upon the test and made to run the gauntlet of simple 
 questioning was one that jarred upon his nerves and 
 brought him to that state of neurotic irritability 
 which he felt difficult to control. 
 
 In a pious, generous way, he felt that the fault lay 
 within himself. Yet what had caused his irritability 
 was the knowledge that had it been any other appli- 
 cant for absolution, any such as he was accustomed 
 to, he would not have been submitted to this necessity 
 of answering the questions that were put to him. 
 
 With it all, moreover, as a pastor of men's souls, he 
 told himself that the matter was by no means ex- 
 hausted until he could convince this young man to 
 his, the right, way of thinking. There was, he felt 
 instinctively certain of, something behind all that he 
 had heard ; some force that, still predominating in 
 the penitent's mind, was a goading influence to the 
 persistence of his point of view. So, with a worthy
 
 12 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 sense of his duty towards God and this sinful son of 
 mankind at his side, he set himself with a sigh to 
 probe still further to the root of the evil. 
 
 "My son," he said, when all these thoughts had 
 passed through his mind, " I feel that there are still 
 other things, other considerations, that have weight 
 with you. Much as I grieve to say, I am confi- 
 dent that my arguments have not convinced your 
 reason." 
 
 He made no little sacrifice when he volunteered this 
 admission. It was not a small thing in his mind, 
 that he, a chosen priest of God, should humble himself 
 so far as to acknowledge that his arguments were not 
 convincing. But different circumstances demand 
 widely different treatment, and Father Everett was 
 not by nature narrow-minded. He had his convic- 
 tions, and if the first setting forth of them did not 
 convince others, he was by no means ready to ac- 
 knowledge himself beaten or to say that his opponents 
 were fools. He fully realized that there -were other 
 opinions in the world besides his own. His one char- 
 acteristic peculiarity lay in the fact that he was con- 
 fident he was in the right; a peculiarity which no 
 doubt he possessed in common with many others. 
 
 "If there is anything more that you can tell me," 
 he added, " anything more of your own thoughts or 
 your own feelings which may help me more fully to 
 understand all that is in your mind, it would be better 
 to tell me. I am here to listen. You say that 
 thoughts come suddenly from various objects before 
 one has time to be aware of them. I think I under- 
 stand you there. But it is your duty to avoid such
 
 THE CELIBATE IS 
 
 objects. Keep away from them. Perhaps you mean 
 books that you have read or pictures that you have 
 seen. The world is full of such snares into which an 
 unwary man may be drawn. But it all points to the 
 same thing. Avoid them! Shun them! They do 
 not conduce to the health of your soul." 
 
 But as yet the priest did not fully understand, 
 though in the tone of his voice the young man was 
 not slow to find encouragement. He was not much 
 more than a boy, a few years past the age of twenty ; 
 but for his years he had read perhaps more than his 
 portion of thoughtful literature, though the share of 
 thoughts which it had engendered was well within the 
 very ordinary nature of things. Living by himself 
 in lodgings and mainly dependent upon relations in 
 the country for his support, he had become more shy 
 than sensitive, more reticent than nervous ; and 
 though his passions had led him past all shyness and 
 reserve for fundamentally his animal instincts were 
 overbearing in him yet, in laying bare his confession 
 to the priest, as he knew he would be compelled to do, 
 all the determination that had prompted the sin had 
 died down into a petulant and argumentative intro- 
 spection. And it was this very encouragement that 
 he had been seeking, when he was led to go to confes- 
 sion in a country chapel, which alone could draw him 
 from the shelter of his personal reserve. 
 
 " It has nothing to do with the seeing of pictures or 
 the reading of books, Father," he said with a greater 
 tone of confidence in his voice. " The particular ob- 
 ject which I mentioned, was one that I could not 
 reasonably avoid."
 
 14 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 To Father Everett, listening intently to every word, 
 such a statement seemed preposterous. 
 
 " Not reasonably avoid ? " he repeated incredulously. 
 "I know of nothing that cannot be reasonably 
 avoided if it is not for the good of my soul. Every 
 man has a free will of his own. What is the object 
 that so works on your passions as to make your will 
 as weak as water ? " 
 
 " The girl herself, Father. The girl I am going to 
 marry." 
 
 The priest drew in his breath. 
 
 "Then avoid her!" he said sternly. "Shun her! 
 A girl who will willingly tempt a man, as you would 
 say she has tempted you, is not fit to be the companion 
 of any. Avoid her ! " 
 
 "I have never said that she has tempted me of her 
 own will, Father. Not for one moment did I intend 
 to imply such a thing. She is a woman. She has 
 her nature. But I know that she is as far from de- 
 sign as God could make her. She cannot help her 
 looks, her eyes, her lips or her hair. God gave her 
 those, and they are the objects, which I spoke of, that 
 have weakened my will and made me sin." 
 
 " Her hair ? " echoed the priest amazed. 
 
 "Yes, her hair. Its colour affects me. How can 
 I explain? It is red a deep auburn red. And her 
 lips and her eyes, they are all forms of temptation to 
 me. Yet how can I avoid her, Father? If I leave 
 her without giving any reason, perhaps her mind will 
 turn to another. She is young we are both young 
 for that matter but she is younger than I, and even 
 now she may not know her own mind. How can I
 
 THE CELIBATE 15 
 
 avoid her so, because I must marry her ? I can't do 
 without her." 
 
 This craving note in the young man's voice did not 
 pass by the priest unnoticed. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that 
 your body is so weak that your spirit is overcome by 
 the mere appearance of a woman solely by the 
 beauty of her looks? Have you no more strength 
 than that ? " 
 
 "The beauty of a woman, Father, seems to me to 
 be the strongest power that she has, and the easiest 
 pitfall for a man!" 
 
 Father Everett shook himself as he stood up from 
 his seat, lightening the stole about his shoulders with 
 the nervousness of exasperation that is barely kept 
 under control. 
 
 "My son," he said quietly the quietness that 
 comes into a man's voice when he is agitated " when 
 you feel sorry for your sin, come and confess it to 
 me again." And he walked out of the confessional 
 into the chapel. 
 
 Some few minutes later, as he passed back from the 
 sacristy to the principal door of the chapel, he saw 
 the figure of the young man emerging from the con- 
 fessional. He slid quietly into the nearest seat, and 
 lifting up his face to the ceiling was so engrossed in 
 his thoughts that he did not notice the passing of the 
 priest on his way out of the church. 
 
 Father Everett took a swift glance at the face so 
 raised, and was surprised to find it that of a young 
 man, with fair moustache and sensuous underlip ; 
 sensuous to a degree, otherwise he would not have
 
 16 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 noticed it. Yet most remarkable of all to Father 
 Everett was his youthfulness. 
 
 As I imagined, he thought to himself when he had 
 closed the chapel door, as I imagined, the new the 
 younger generation. A little learning, he added in 
 his thoughts, a little learning is a dangerous thing.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ABOUT a mile outside the village of Ballyporeen in 
 the county of Waterford there stands an old farm- 
 house. Its approach from the village lies along a 
 stretch of uneven road, portions of which have been 
 devoured by the hungry sea and washed into the sand 
 that winds along by its side in the curve of an open 
 bay. An occasional effort is made by those who use 
 it as a traffic-way to patch up the results of these in- 
 cursions, but as only shingle is employed the former 
 state of affairs is repeated all over again and the 
 last condition of that place is generally a little worse 
 than the first. 
 
 The farmhouse is composed of some three or four 
 one-storeyed thatched cottages, all welded into a long, 
 low building, at each end of which a shed protrudes 
 at right angles forming a square farmyard in front 
 of the house. 
 
 Besides being the only approach to the kitchen 
 door, which is the main entrance to the building, this 
 yard, with its little pool of filthy water in one corner 
 and its sheds at either end, is the happy hunting- 
 ground of all the chickens, geese, ducks and smaller 
 creatures which go to make up the live stock and 
 swell those sounds of animal life which are inseparable 
 from such an establishment. There is no pavement 
 either of bricks or cobbles to preserve its cleanliness, 
 and the mire of mud which collects there is churned 
 into a thousand and one geometrical designs by the 
 
 17
 
 18 
 
 wheels of the many heavy carts that are drawn 
 through its yielding surface. 
 
 In vivid contrast to this approach is the spotless 
 cleanliness of the house itself, which, twice a year at 
 least, is subjected to the process of whitewashing ; 
 and so, by reason of its lonely situation, lies against 
 the green land around it, a mark to all the fishing- 
 boats at sea. 
 
 And here it was, in sound and sight of the changing 
 Atlantic, in the midst of the drowsy atmosphere of 
 milch cattle that now and again was awakened into 
 pungent energy by a whiff of briny seaweed ; with 
 the simplest forms of life in the simplest forms of 
 their existence all about him, that Michael Everett 
 first opened his eyes in obedience to the commands 
 of nature and looked at life. 
 
 Thomas Everett his father was the owner of the 
 farm which had been passed on from one generation 
 to another, father to son, since before the time of the 
 rebellion of '98. With almost every occupant some 
 addition has been made to the building in accordance 
 with the success which had attended his period of 
 tenure. Starting as no doubt it had, with one small 
 thatched cottage, it had grown, up to the time of 
 Michael Everett's birth, to be a long building with 
 large open sheds at either end. The entire habita- 
 tion, outhouses and all, was surrounded by a low 
 stone wall which in keeping with the house was white- 
 washed twice or three times a year. 
 
 As opposed to those farmers who busied themselves 
 entirely with dry stock, Mr. Everett's interests, in 
 fact the interests of every owner at the farm at
 
 THE CELIBATE 19 
 
 Ballyporeen, had always concentrated themselves in 
 the direction of dairy produce. The hours for milk- 
 ing the fifteen or sixteen cows that comprised his 
 stock of milch cattle were accordingly the most im- 
 portant in the day. 
 
 Regularly at six o'clock in the morning and at six 
 in the evening, all through the spring and summer 
 months, accompanied by his sheep-dog and carrying 
 a stout stick cut from the hedges, the farmer would 
 go out into the pasture fields, returning with his cows. 
 
 As he walked along behind them, their tails swish- 
 ing in automatic unison, their great udders swollen 
 with milk, he was wont to whistle a lively tune a 
 tune that no one recognized or attempted to recognize 
 but himself ; for though his love for music was 
 strong, his ability for its performance was sadly 
 wanting. Yet his whistling pleased him and he was 
 quite content. A tall, strong man he was, though 
 holding himself badly in his ill-fitting clothes so that 
 his strength did not show to its full advantage. 
 
 A thick dark moustache covered his upper lip, and 
 though he professed to have no beard, yet the laxity 
 he showed in shaving his chin did not go far to 
 confirming that profession. But above all he was 
 characteristic of his type, an Irish country farmer, 
 capable of conversing on the minutest details of his 
 crops, possessing a vague, smattering knowledge of 
 biassed politics, but beyond that silent. 
 
 No sooner would the dull clic clac of the unshod 
 hoofs sound with their muffled noise on the hard road 
 as they approached the farm, than at the signal, Mrs. 
 Everett, Molly the maid-of-all-work and Patsy the
 
 20 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 farm hand would emerge one after the other from 
 the kitchen door, waiting with the large pails in their 
 hands for the arrival of the kine. When once their 
 heads were in the stalls the milking of the cows com- 
 menced and for the next hour or so the stillness of 
 the early morning or the quiet of the departing day 
 would be broken only by the milk hissing into the 
 pails, an occasional voice ordering the position of 
 one of the animals and the steady murmur of the 
 approaching or receding sea. 
 
 As a child of three or four little Michael found 
 infinite amusement in standing by Molly's side as 
 she wrung the teats, one in each hand, whispering 
 to her at times to break with the stream of milk this 
 or that bubble which rode triumphant upon the sur- 
 face of the contents of her pail. 
 
 The management of this, the dairy side of the farm, 
 was left entirely in the hands of Mrs. Everett, who, 
 with Molly to help her, made the kitchen, which was 
 the most frequented room in the whole house, the 
 centre of her labours. There, with its wide-open fire- 
 place and the few articles of red-painted deal fur- 
 niture, she carried on most of the duties of the day ; 
 mixed in the large meal tubs the food for the pigs, 
 cooked all the meals for the household, did its washing 
 and seated herself, when her day's work was over, to 
 gossip with those who turned in upon whatever sub- 
 ject should happen to be uppermost in the topics of 
 the village. 
 
 In her own way Mrs. Everett was unique. She was, 
 what an outsider would call, a character. Though 
 not tall she was in every other sense a big woman.
 
 THE CELIBATE 21 
 
 At first sight one would be inclined to think, from the 
 massive, fleshy arms which she always bared to the 
 elbow and the abundant proportions of her bust 
 she never wore corsets that she was too adipose to 
 accomplish many strenuous duties ; yet the manner in 
 which she fulfilled the obligations of the dairy was 
 one for which even Mr. Everett gave her credit. It 
 is only in romance that the dowried maiden brings 
 beauty and grace to her husband ; and as Mr. Everett 
 had not met his future wife until the finance of the 
 marriage dowry had been agreed upon, he had not 
 even expected from her any attraction of face or 
 symmetry of figure. Then time had gone on, and 
 the bearing of children had hardly improved her ap- 
 pearance. Like the rest of her body her face was 
 far from thin or even rounded ; it was, in fact, in- 
 clined to be circular. Her eyes, long and narrow, as 
 through they had been freed ineffectually after her 
 birth, if not expressive, were as sharp as needles ; 
 and the penetration of her voice, contrasting with 
 the insignificance of her mouth, was a thing to be 
 wondered at. 
 
 Nevertheless, with all her drawbacks of appearance, 
 she made an admirable wife to Mr. Everett, and a 
 capable, if unsympathetic, mother to her children. 
 At no time of the day, were one to enter the farm- 
 house unexpectedly, was she to be found idle. The 
 place echoed with the sound of her commands, and 
 the kitchen was always filled with the energy of her 
 presence. 
 
 Since it was in this kitchen that little Michael's out- 
 look on life was first established ; that in this room,
 
 22 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 year by year as he grew older, he was most wont 
 to watch with increasing powers of perception the 
 ways and means of life, it seems only right that a 
 careful observation should be made of its charac- 
 teristics. 
 
 In the first place, as is common to all such rooms 
 in the south of Ireland, the floor was composed of 
 mud, caked hard and dry so that the footsteps 
 sounded, though more dully than on stone, with a 
 perceptible noise upon its surface. It was naturally 
 uneven, sloping up and down with unexpected hollows 
 and sudden upheavals in all directions. As has been 
 already said the articles of furniture were few. 
 Three pieces there were in all, flanking the three walls 
 of the room, the last wall being taken up by the open 
 fire-place that, except for the boiler in which the 
 animals' food was boiled and the exit into another 
 portion of the house, occupied the whole of one side 
 of the kitchen. 
 
 Here it was, in the chimney corners and round the 
 front of the peat fire that spat up its blue points of 
 flame in answer to the bellows wheel that all the 
 gossiping was done. And round this fire, at those 
 times of rest in the day, all life in the farm at Bally- 
 poreen gathered. 
 
 But there was one figure, one item of the household, 
 who, whether at rest or at labour, never left the 
 chimney corner. This was the old blind man to 
 whom charity in such places gives employment in the 
 turning of the bellows wheel. There, from one day 
 to another he sat upon his little three-legged stool 
 turning the wheel first with one hand and then with
 
 THE CELIBATE 23 
 
 another ; sometimes almost mechanically, at others 
 in energetic obedience to sudden and peremptory com- 
 mands requiring the boiling of a pot or the heating 
 of a bastable oven in the ashes. Patiently uncon- 
 scious of all that was going on around him, except 
 of what he could glean by his sense of hearing, he 
 would infrequently add a word to the conversation 
 a word that was seldom or never heard. For, if it 
 be true that they who lose their sight gain in the 
 sense of hearing, it is equally true of those who retain 
 it that their hearing is poor when their interest is 
 wanting. Not that old Declan, as he was called, 
 had to suffer in any way from ill-treatment at the 
 farm in Ballyporeen. He had been called into serv- 
 ice and given a bed and his food for the sake of that 
 love of God which characterizes the most beautiful 
 actions of the Irish people and, if it seemed that he 
 was neglected, it was simply that he exemplified that 
 ever-abiding law of human nature which gives a man 
 who has passed his threescore years and ten the least 
 prominent seat in the chimney corner. 
 
 He did not ask for more. He said prayers for the 
 souls of those who gave him so much; and, if his 
 remarks did fall unheeded into the conversation, he 
 merely pulled out his old clay pipe from his pocket, 
 pressed down the already burnt-out ashes with his 
 bony finger, and God alone heard the sigh, if there 
 were any, that stole between his lips. 
 
 Next in point of distinction to the fire-place came 
 the old deal dresser, painted a dull red and standing 
 immediately facing the fire against the opposite wall. 
 To the stranger with an eye for colour this article of
 
 24 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 furniture, with its three rows of willow-pattern plates 
 and the tall brass candlesticks reflecting in points of 
 light the brilliance of the fire, would probably be the 
 first attraction on entering the room. But one hour 
 in the place would have served to show him that these 
 appearances of decoration are taken but little account 
 of and form no intrinsic part of the life within. The 
 plates, if ever used, are brought out upon occasions 
 which are as rare as that old mythical satellite, the 
 blue moon, and only in the case of a wake are the brass 
 candlesticks called into requisition. 
 
 Two tables of different sizes and a few deal chairs 
 with wooden seats completed the remainder of the 
 furniture, and, though these in all took up but little 
 space, the rest of the kitchen was at most times well 
 occupied by the large meal and washing tubs that 
 found some place upon the floor. 
 
 Here it was then, in this kitchen, that little Michael's 
 life supplied its earliest incidents. Around this room 
 he would wander when first he was able to toddle 
 alone. On these excursions the rim of the large 
 meal tub, the knees of Declan the blind man, and the 
 portal of the door which looked out on to the farm- 
 yard were the intermediate supports ; requirements 
 which, no matter who or how old we may be, find their 
 way into our mental, if not our physical needs. 
 With time this Grand Tour was enlarged and he 
 would be found out in the yard collapsed contentedly 
 in the thickest mud or in one of the barns, making 
 believe with the inanimate objects around him which 
 lived and had their being in the heart of his infantile 
 imagination.
 
 THE CELIBATE 25 
 
 The first incident which deserves full record oc- 
 curred when he had reached the age of six. 
 
 Coming back one day from the National School in 
 company with his elder brothers and sisters, he 
 listened with large, grey, wondering eyes to the sub- 
 ject of their conversation. 
 
 The fattest pig in the yard was to be killed on that 
 afternoon, and Tom, the eldest son, on condition of 
 good behaviour, was to be awarded the ownership 
 of the bladder, the possession of which would make 
 him the most envied of boys in the village. 
 
 Little Michael trotted along by their sides holding 
 his sister's hand, his round, incredulous face turning 
 itself up to them with every fresh description of the 
 great event that was so shortly to come to pass. As 
 far as the bladder was concerned, he was in blissful 
 ignorance as to the nature of the article or any 
 feasible reason for its existence. As he had seen 
 it, being used as a football in the fields belonging to 
 the farm or on the long stretch of sand left by the 
 receding tide, it seemed, if he ever thought about it 
 at all, a most peculiar thing to find in a pig's body. 
 Blown out to the extent that he had seen it, and com- 
 paring it with the size of an ordinary pig, it seemed 
 as though there could be but little room for the 
 animal's bones. 
 
 Feeling impressed with this idea as the conversa- 
 tion waxed hotter, he ventured timidly to put the 
 question. 
 
 " Shure, where his food goes av course," was the 
 reply he received, and he felt more or less satisfied as 
 it seemed to account for the animal's fatness.
 
 26 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 Once or twice a year the best-fed pig was always 
 led to the slaughter, but the fact that he had never 
 witnessed the operation before, and the excitement 
 with which his brothers anticipated the event, had 
 wrought him up to a pitch of uncontrollable eagerness 
 to be present on this occasion. 
 
 As they reached the entrace of the lane that con- 
 nected the road with the yard, the squeals of the 
 doomed animal proclaimed the fact that the business 
 was beginning and, leaving Michael to follow on as 
 quickly as he could, they all ran towards the scene 
 of slaughter with bloodthirsty cries of delight. 
 
 Little Michael stumbled after them as fast as his 
 unsteady feet would carry him, arriving on the scene 
 just as Patsy the farm hand, with a stout rope tied 
 to its hind leg, was dragging the fat pig backwards 
 out of its sty. 
 
 He was a little child and did not quite realize that 
 the look in its eyes was the fear of death, but the 
 giant efforts of its trembling body and its unearthly, 
 piteous cries instantly held him motionless with the 
 sudden realization that in another moment or so it 
 would no longer be alive, and not only that he knew it 
 but that the poor beast knew it too. His mouth 
 slowly opened as he watched it being dragged forth. 
 Then something seemed to strike him suddenly cold. 
 His father, carrying a heavy axe in his hand which 
 opposite to the blade was possessed of a long, sharp 
 spike stole round in order to face the animal when 
 its head was free of the door. 
 
 The moment the creature saw him its cries ceased. 
 A violent trembling shook the whole of its coarse
 
 27 
 
 body, and then in its eyes little Michael realized fully 
 the fear of death; saw it shining with a dull, ap- 
 palling light, and, just as his father raised the axe 
 above his head, he covered his eyes with his still tiny 
 hands and with a shriek that blended discordantly 
 with the last cry of the pole-axed beast, he ran blindly 
 on into the kitchen in search of his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Everett was at that moment coming out into 
 the yard with a cauldron of boiling water intended to 
 scald the skin of the dead beast, so that it might 
 the more easily be scraped, and so she made no re- 
 sponse to his appeal. 
 
 Molly, however, was there, and in Molly's lap with 
 its greasy apron, which fulfilled all duties from a 
 towel to a rag, he hid his head from the light of day 
 and clutched violently at her skirts. 
 
 " Glory be to God ! " exclaimed Mr. Everett, as he 
 stood up from his task, "shure, that boy'll niver have 
 the makin's of a docthor." 
 
 And in his mind he dedicated Michael to the priest- 
 hood.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MICHAEL never forgot, even after the tragedy and 
 disgrace of her departure, that Molly had been ready 
 where his mother was found wanting. It was really 
 not to be expected that the latter would lay down a 
 heavy cauldron of boiling water, which she found no 
 small difficulty in carrying, to soothe the unaccount- 
 able sorrows of her children. But at the age of four, 
 a child will remember these things, not in any spiteful 
 way, merely in the respect of his disappointment. 
 
 He never knew what it was about Molly that made 
 her more interesting, more necessary to him, than 
 his mother. He felt more contented and happy in 
 himself when he stood watching her milk the cows in 
 the shed, or churning the milk in the kitchen than 
 ever was the case when in his mother's hands he was 
 treated as a bundle of clothes that was always un- 
 conscionably dirty. In after years there was only 
 one sequence of remarks that he could call to mind 
 which this amiable maid-of-all-work had ever made 
 use of, and in its way it was far from being brilliant. 
 As a rule she was unaccountably silent, but then she 
 frequently laid her hard, dirty hand on his head 
 not that he realized it was dirty, at least by compari- 
 sion with his own and sometimes took his little fat 
 fingers in hers, patting them with almost motherly 
 affection. He did not know why, but he liked that. 
 It seemed a far more appreciable state of affairs than 
 being dragged into a bedroom to wipe the mud off
 
 THE CELIBATE 29 
 
 his clothes, which was what generally occurred to his 
 brothers after a violent game of football. 
 
 And so it was that he was only an onlooker at the 
 games which they played, and that on very rare 
 occasions, because he found that onlooking was not 
 an interest appreciated by the other boys, especially 
 if they wished to make up a number for their sides. 
 Accordingly, whenever Tom and Jamesy went to play 
 football on the strand, or hand-ball against the wall 
 of the National School, he seldom if ever accompanied 
 them. 
 
 It was this apparent reticence which he displayed in 
 these matters that was the cause of bringing him at 
 last to look out beyond the present into the future ; 
 beyond the little window in the kitchen with its pots 
 of geraniums to the white breakers that rose in 
 curling pride and dashed themselves down upon the 
 strand, even beyond them to the great and wide 
 horizon. 
 
 This all came to pass in one night when he had 
 reached the age of eleven. In one moment his whole 
 outlook in life was changed and he saw things, not 
 without some conjuring of his imagination, but the 
 things that he was going one day to do as apart from 
 those things that he did. 
 
 At that time he slept with his brothers and sister in 
 a little room which backed off the kitchen. His bed 
 he shared with his brother Jamesy, and on the night 
 in question the children had all gone to sleep, leaving 
 him to lie awake with his eyes wandering round the 
 darkened room and his ears listening to the monoto- 
 nous breaking of the sea, the humming of the wind
 
 30 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 about the house and the voices of his father and 
 mother as they talked over the fire in the kitchen 
 previous to their departure to bed. 
 
 The knowledge that his brother was asleep by his 
 side had the effect of making him feel very lonely. 
 But the thought of creeping into the kitchen to his 
 mother was only answered by the knowledge that she 
 would command him at once to go back to bed. No 
 doubt the unconscious memory of her lack of sym- 
 pathy on another occasion was the basis of this mental 
 deduction, and lonely though he felt he decided to 
 lie where he was. He would have continued to do 
 so, had not Jamesy turned over in his sleep and begun 
 to breathe with that moaning noise which is charac- 
 teristic of all who are suffering from nocturnal 
 thoughts. Michael watched him, wondering what he 
 was going to do, and when with the inconsequent yet 
 terror-stricken voice of those who talk in their sleep, 
 he exclaimed : " Yirra man ! Twist the diwle out of 
 him twist the diwle out of him," the frightened 
 child slid out of bed with his heart thumping against 
 his side. 
 
 In that moment he decided that whatever happened 
 he could not stay there any longer and crept to the 
 door which led into the kitchen. It was standing just 
 open, so that in entering he made no noise to disturb 
 his parents, who, unaware of his presence, were still 
 carrying on their conversation. He would have gone 
 on, straight to his mother's side, had not the subject 
 of their talking at that moment reached his ears. 
 Hearing his name, he stopped and his head fell into 
 an attitude as he listened.
 
 THE CELIBATE 31 
 
 " Shure that's well enough for Jamesy," his mother 
 was saying, "he's just the lad for America. But 
 yirra, what's to become av Michael, I dunno. 
 There's divvle a word to be had out av him, tho' he 
 is my child." 
 
 "Glory be to God, woman!" said Mr. Everett. 
 " Is ut what's to be done with Michael ? Shure the 
 boy's been made out for a preyst. He is so. D'ye 
 mind how he ran squealin' into the house that day I 
 killed the pig? D'ye mind that? What else was 
 ut tell me now what else was ut but the makin's 
 av a preyst that drew the diwle's own yell out av 
 him?" 
 
 " That's all very well for ye, but where's the money 
 to be got from? Will ye tell me that? Sayin' it 
 won't make a preyst of him." 
 
 Michael did not wait to hear more. Creeping back 
 into his room again he clambered slowly into his bed. 
 All fear of loneliness had been driven from his mind, 
 but before he lay down he knelt upright on the hard 
 straw mattress and clasping his hands together 
 prayed with all the fervent simplicity of his eleven 
 years. 
 
 " May God and the Blessed Virgin make a good 
 preyst of me. Shure it's a great thing to be a 
 preyst." And then as his fingers marked the cross 
 " In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy 
 
 Ghost. Amen." 
 
 ***** 
 
 This knowledge, which he kept religiously to him- 
 self, had the effect of making him more reticent and 
 more retiring than ever. From having nothing in
 
 32 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 common with his brothers and very little with his 
 sister Nora, he began to wander off by himself on to 
 the cliffs that ran out on each side of the bay to meet 
 the crested waves of the Atlantic, and it was always 
 the one thought that occupied his mind he was 
 going to be a priest. He was going to wear those 
 wonderful vestments and celebrate Mass. He was 
 going to become a being apart from every one else, 
 whom, though now his brothers looked down upon 
 him, they would then treat with respect. 
 
 Every year for the next four years when the parish 
 priest came to the farm to hold the yearly station a 
 celebration of the service to bless the house and its 
 occupants performing the Mass from the old red- 
 painted dresser that did its duty for an altar, he 
 followed closely every movement of the man of God 
 with his eyes, and eagerly listened to every word that 
 he said. And when the priest had his breakfast alone 
 in the parlour after the Mass was over this room on 
 these auspicious occasions being set apart for the 
 purpose Michael would wait in the near vicinity of 
 the door and dream of the time when one day he 
 might hold that post of honour and take his break- 
 fast alone in the parlour of some country farm, 
 where by reason of his calling his word would be law. 
 
 It seemed quite a wonderful thing to him that such 
 a despotic state of affairs could ever exist for him. 
 Yet he never said anything about what he had heard, 
 feeling that it would bring shame upon him should 
 his father and mother change their minds, though in 
 his heart he knew that it would all come true. 
 
 This instinct was one year intensified almost to a
 
 THE CELIBATE 33 
 
 certainty. Coming to the door of the parlour to 
 call for something that he needed the parish priest 
 saw Michael standing outside, looking out of the 
 window. 
 
 " Would ye mind telling ye'er mother, Michael," he 
 said, " that I haven't got a knife, and shure me 
 fingers aren't as sharp as I'd like 'em to be ? " 
 
 Michael ran off to get the article himself, and re- 
 turning with it brought it into the parlour. As he 
 laid it on the table the priest looked up at him and 
 smiled. 
 
 " Ye're a bright boy, Michael," he said approvingly, 
 "how old are ye?" 
 
 " Thirteen, Father." 
 The priest scrutinized him critically. 
 
 "Would ye like to be a priest now, Michael?" he 
 asked acutely. 
 
 The boy hung his head. It seemed that he could 
 not believe his ears. Was it true indeed that the 
 Father thought him fitted for the Priesthood E In 
 his mind he felt a priest already. 
 
 " 'Tis a fine thing, Michael," said the priest quietly. 
 " 'Tis a grand and holy thing," he repeated. In the 
 boy's silence he thought he saw some reluctance. 
 
 But there was no reluctance in Michael's mind. 
 Had there been any this would have dispelled it all. 
 
 " Shure, I would like," he said bashfully. " I would 
 av course." 
 
 Then the Father patted his head and said that they; 
 would make a fine man of him. 
 
 That was the incident, and with his childish belief 
 in fate, without ever having heard the word or know-
 
 34 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 ing that it found no place within the vocabulary of 
 Church, he felt that it prophesied his vocation to the 
 priesthood. 
 
 At length, however, when he was fourteen years old, 
 his mother told him of their intentions concerning 
 him. She had no doubt expected that he would 
 make some remark upon the subject and, though she 
 felt that she did not understand him, was quite ready 
 to quell any objections should he raise them. But to 
 her surprise he said nothing. Merely lowering his 
 head in recognition of the fact, he walked through the 
 kitjchen into the dairy and with a shrug of her broad 
 shoulders Mrs. Everett went in search of her husband. 
 
 In the dairy he found Molly skimming the cream 
 off the large pans of milk. Coming to her side he 
 watched silently for a moment, as from long custom 
 she deftly manipulated the little wooden skimmer. 
 
 "Molly," he said after a pause. She did not look 
 up. "Molly," he repeated, "I'm going to be a 
 preyst." 
 
 To his utter surprise she dropped the instrument 
 into the milk and began to cry with heavy sobs that 
 shook the whole of her substantial frame. 
 
 "Yirra, Michael, God bless us!" she exclaimed 
 between her gasps, her body swaying to and fro. 
 "May the Blissid Virgin and all the Blissid Saints 
 have the makin' of ye ! Shure I knew 'twas a preyst 
 ye'd be. Musha, child, what else was I afther sayin* 
 to Mrs. Power this last week when ye were confirmed? 
 Yirra, God be wid the days ! " 
 
 She tried to swallow her tears, and her voice sank 
 to a whisper.
 
 THE CELIBATE 35 
 
 "An* when ye do be hearin' confession, Michael," 
 she went on with difficulty, " think of Molly and 
 forgive women. Shure they be nothin' in the hands 
 of men. Musha, what is ut to thim ? An' there's the 
 diwle's own way wid 'em." 
 
 And having said this, without rescuing the skimmer 
 from the pan of milk, she burst again into more vio- 
 lent sobbing and hurried from the dairy, endeavour- 
 ing to dry her eyes in the same old, dirty apron upon 
 which all the washing in the world had lost its 
 effect. 
 
 It was not until a few weeks had elapsed that the 
 meaning of her words was in any way revealed to 
 Michael's mind and then not with the full force 
 of their significance. The poor conscience-stricken 
 woman brought a child into the world, and no sooner 
 was she able to rise from her bed and walk, than it 
 was placed in her arms and the door into the farm- 
 yard opened wide for her departure. 
 
 Clutching the little, living bundle to her heart, she 
 cast one last look about the kitchen with all its 
 familiar details and then stepped out into the mud of 
 the yard, into the mire of existence that lay before 
 her. Could she have pointed to the child's father 
 there might still have been some hope of life in front 
 of her ; but, as she generously argued, it was bad 
 enough for one to lose position and friends, and if 
 he did not come forward of his own accord then he 
 might stay on and prosper if 'twas the will of God. 
 
 None of the children were permitted to say good- 
 bye to her, but Michael, seeing the direction she had 
 taken after she had left the house, and telling himself
 
 36 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 that one who had treated him so kindly could not be 
 so bad as he was led to believe, escaped by a back 
 way and overtook her on the country road. 
 
 Hearing his approach she stopped and turned, then, 
 seeing who it was, endeavoured to hurry on. But 
 with the encumbrance of her human bundle and that 
 pain which hangs upon the footsteps like a fetter, she 
 could not prevent his young legs from coming up 
 with her. As soon as she saw it was impossible to 
 avoid him she stopped again and turned. 
 
 "Don't come an' touch me!" she exclaimed 
 hysterically. " I'm not fit to be touched by the 
 likes av ye. I'm a bad 'ooman I tell ye I'm bad." 
 
 He stopped a few yards away from her, brought to 
 a standstill by the sound of her voice. 
 
 " Ye're goin' to be a preyst," she continued wildly, 
 " then ye'll hate me and the likes av me." 
 
 " Shure, I niver heard av a preyst hatin' any one," 
 he remarked. 
 
 " Maybe so and maybe not. But there bain't no 
 forgiveness for this, not that I iver heard av. Go 
 home, Michael," she added more gently, " yeer 
 mother'll be right mad if she heard about ye comin* 
 af ther the likes av me. Yirra, God help us ! When 
 I thinks av ut, maybe 'twas all my own fault. Shure 
 I suppose I'm afther deservin' ut all. Wisha, shure I 
 looked at him first, I suppose, and maybe that's what 
 done ut. Ah, go home, Michael, ah do. I don't 
 know what I do be sayin'." 
 
 After this she turned and without another word 
 went up the long road that leads from Ballyporeen 
 into the district of Boreenmanagh, not even casting
 
 THE CELIBATE 87 
 
 one glance behind her to where Michael stood and 
 watched her departing figure. 
 
 Her brown shawl spreading round her shoulders 
 was caught tightly overhead, shielding her face, and 
 the wind racing up the road caught her thin skirt in 
 passing and bound it against her legs as she walked. 
 Michael never took his eyes off her retreating figure, 
 and when she turned the far corner that hid her 
 finally from view he walked back slowly to the farm 
 with a growing sense of loss in his mind that for the 
 time being eclipsed all thought of the priesthood.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IT was when he was nearing sixteen that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Everett began to question the means of obtain- 
 ing the sum of money for the fees necessary to 
 Michael's becoming a priest. The last two or three 
 years had been exceptionally bad ones for the farmer. 
 Crops had been ruined at the moment of ripening, 
 the potato harvests had been poor, and expenditure 
 over some of the cattle that had died had made but 
 meagre incomings. They had consulted the parish 
 priest, who, being strongly in favour of Michael's 
 taking orders, had suggested that no doubt some of 
 the more wealthy Catholics in the neighbourhood of 
 Ballyporeen and Boreenmanagh would be willing to 
 contribute to the sum that was required. 
 
 As far as they, honest and well-faring farmers, were 
 concerned, this solution of the difficulty was utterly 
 out of the question. Their position would fall irrev- 
 ocably in the eyes of every one as soon as the village 
 came to hear of it. 
 
 " An* shure, if Mrs. Lane up on the cliff there gave 
 wan pinny av her savin's," Mrs. Everett remarked, 
 " yirra it wouldn't be long before every wan in Bally- 
 poreen was afther bein' told av ut." 
 
 No family pride alone was sufficient to put that 
 course of action completely out of the question. 
 Public opinion is a despotic monarch holding sway 
 in the remotest corners of the civilized world ; and so 
 
 33
 
 THE CELIBATE 39 
 
 it was that they accepted the only way that remained 
 to them. 
 
 Tom, the eldest son, must be married. Tom was 
 only twenty-six. It was young for him, no doubt, 
 but he must be married; and with the coming of his 
 wife into the farm his parents knew they must yield 
 up their seats of the mighty to the newcomer. 
 
 It was no little matter for them to agree to this 
 sacrifice of their supremacy to a stranger; yet if 
 Michael was to be a priest an honour so dear to 
 many a mother's mind the money must be obtained 
 for him in a rightful way, and Tom's marriage was 
 the only means of procuring it. 
 
 If Tom married it meant that his wife would bring 
 in a certain sum with her as a dowry, which would 
 morally be her price for that position the mistress 
 of the household which Mrs. Everett had obtained 
 in the same way and held ever since the day of her 
 wedding. That sum, or part of it, was needed for 
 Michael's education, and in accordance with the 
 custom of the land Mr. Everett's brother was invited 
 to the farm, given a good round meal, plentifully 
 interspersed with glasses of porter, and like Laban 
 of old sent off, not without some idea of his destina- 
 tion, into the furthest ends of the county in search of 
 a girl for Tom. 
 
 This was quite the natural course of affairs. It did 
 not seem peculiar to Tom that his choice in the 
 matter was a question that was never referred to; 
 and as for Michael he only regretted that his parents 
 should be compelled to make this sacrifice for his 
 sake. Nearly every one else whom he knew; had
 
 40 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 married under the same conditions, except those 
 whose position in life was so inconsiderable as to 
 enable them to choose the first who came along. That 
 his brother should for a moment desire to assert a 
 preference for any girl but her whom his parents had 
 chosen never entered his mind. 
 
 Women, as his environment had taught him to 
 look at them, were either good wives or would become 
 them; either bad wives, or such that a man would 
 not think of marrying them. Beyond that point 
 of view he had not considered their existence at all. 
 They took their place to his mind a very subordi- 
 nate one in the scheme of things, and were, if they 
 were virtuous, as useful to men as his mother was to 
 his father. But any sign of affection which would 
 betray an appreciation of anything more than the 
 way his mother managed her dairy he had never 
 seen his father express. A loving and domesticated 
 relationship was, in fact, almost non-existent between 
 married people such as he had met, and so, if ever he 
 did chance to hear of it, the matter had no weight 
 with him. 
 
 After a fortnight's search the Laban of the family 
 returned, bearing with him the news that the very 
 girl was found for Tom. More glasses of porter were 
 then consumed, more on principle than because the 
 event was really a joyful one; and a day being fixed, 
 before the young couple were permitted to see each 
 other, the father and mother of the future bride paid 
 a visit to the farm at Ballyporeen with the intention 
 of valuing Mr. Everett's stock-in-trade before they 
 came to terms with regard to the dowry.
 
 THE CELIBATE 41 
 
 This process of valuation was not without its 
 quaintness of custom. Mr. Everett, concerning him- 
 self entirely with the outdoor life, showed the father 
 round the farm, and whilst they were calculating up 
 the number of acres to a perch, Mrs. Everett with 
 her strident voice was enumerating in laudatory 
 tones the household goods and displaying them for 
 the approval of Tom's future mother-in-law. 
 
 Glass, china, linen, in fact every conceivable pos- 
 session in the house, were laid before her eyes and 
 counted, each and all of which the visitor looked 
 upon contemplatively in that trying mood of 
 silent criticism which well-nigh breaks the show- 
 man's heart. 
 
 At length, however, as the long day drew to its 
 close, the final arrangements were settled and the 
 dowry agreed upon. Thus Tom virtually became a 
 husband before he had had the opportunity of seeing 
 his wife. Two days afterwards they were brought 
 together for the first time, and some ten days later 
 the inviolable bond of matrimony had made them 
 one. 
 
 Michael was present neither at the ceremony nor 
 the feast of rejoicing that followed after. No doubt 
 if he had been, he would have discovered that there 
 are more signs of humanity in a man and a woman 
 who are mere strangers than he had imagined. 
 
 In view of the forthcoming dowry he had been 
 started off to Maynooth, where the beginning of the 
 new and stringent life that was to be his lay stretched 
 before him, and there for the next eight years his 
 days and nights were spent in a life of strictest
 
 42 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 seclusion except for the relaxation of his holidays 
 when he returned to the solitude of Ballyporeen. 
 
 The other boys with whom he was thrown in contact 
 were drawn from very much the same class as himself, 
 sons of farmers, landowners and tradesmen, whose 
 vocations were the results of many varying circum- 
 stances, many varying environments. One and all 
 their outlook upon life was very similar to Michael's 
 ingenuous idea of things; and though the variety 
 of character which must exist in any community 
 of boys, however large or small, brought out little 
 natural differences at every turn, yet in the main he 
 found no perceptible change coming in his mental 
 arrangement of the conceptions that had grown in 
 him from his youth. 
 
 Whenever he returned home for his holidays it was 
 with the warning lingering in his ears that there are 
 many temptations in the world and that he should 
 avoid them with the fear of damnation. 
 
 But what temptation, for instance, was there in 
 dancing, as the Father had suggested ? 
 
 "Don't join them when they're after dancing at the 
 cross roads," Father Anthony had impressed upon 
 him. " There's no fun in it, and faith, it's all sinful." 
 
 But it was no temptation to him because he had 
 never wished to dance. The reticence of his manner 
 and the hesitation of his conversation were such that 
 he knew did not appeal to the girls in Ballyporeen 
 with whom he might come into contact. They liked 
 a man to be amusing like his brother Jamesy, who 
 had the reputation at home of being a fine boy. 
 Jamesy could make them laugh, but even had Michael
 
 THE CELIBATE 43 
 
 possessed the ambition to do such a thing, he could 
 not have succeeded. Again, the Father had told 
 him not to go to the theatres or read those books 
 which were to be defined as novels. But he had 
 never seen a theatre in his life, and as for a novel, 
 none of it was true, therefore how could it possibly 
 be interesting or worth the reading? Moreover a 
 novel in Ballyporeen had never been seen inside the 
 houses whither he was accustomed to go. It was 
 quite evident that these things did not apply to him 
 and could have no bearing upon his conduct during 
 the holidays. 
 
 Avoid all women! That certainly he could obey 
 and did, finding that it was by no means a difficult 
 task, since the moment that he returned wearing the 
 clerical collar all the girls in the village avoided 
 him. 
 
 The boy who is cast for the service of God, he 
 discovered, is little less than a wet blanket upon the 
 exuberant spirits of youth. And besides all this, 
 was there not the example of St. Aloysius, whom 
 Father Anthony had so wisely advised him to imitate 
 St. Aloysius, who would not even look upon the 
 face of his own mother? That indeed was a precept 
 which, if he followed, would cast aside all the re- 
 motest probabilities of temptation that the priest 
 had alluded to, but which in his heart Jie could not 
 believe to be applicable to himself. 
 
 So the time sped on, for the study of philosophy, 
 on which he was compelled to take a long course, 
 was one in which he found an ever-increasing interest. 
 The reasoning of the mind, though dictated to and
 
 44 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 in a great sense ruled by a spirit of faith, made a 
 large appeal to his intellect ; and, almost at the 
 expense of his physical health, he threw his whole 
 interest into its pursuit. 
 
 In this object he was to a great extent encouraged 
 by the Fathers, who foresaw in him the future of a 
 man of God distinctly above the average intelligence 
 in his ability to promote and increase the welfare of 
 the Church. And so it was, when he returned home 
 for his holidays, that he brought a considerable 
 number of philosophical treatises, and taking them 
 with him out on to the cliffs would find some quiet 
 spot where he would be undisturbed for the greater 
 part of the day. 
 
 After three years, when he had just reached the 
 age of nineteen, he took the tonsure and minor 
 orders. The vow of chastity which would consecrate 
 him to the celibacy of the Church he was not expected 
 to take until he had reached the age of twenty-one. 
 
 On one occasion a boy of the same age as himself 
 was walking with him in the grounds of the college. 
 Michael was discussing the approach of the day when 
 they would both be called upon to take the step when 
 his companion expressed a hesitating doubt as to 
 whether he would find himself willing when the 
 moment arrived. 
 
 For a few moments Michael was silent, but when 
 at length he did speak there was no great depth of 
 sympathy in his voice. His first question touched, 
 as in fact he knew it would, the most sensitive spot 
 in Maurice Holland's his companion's mind. 
 
 "What will ye do?" he asked. "Will ye tell yer
 
 THE CELIBATE 45 
 
 people? What would they think of ye now if ye 
 told them that?" 
 
 Maurice hesitated. 
 
 " I wouldn't tell them. I'd go straight away from 
 here to London. Shure, I wouldn't dare to face them. 
 I'd go to London. I can do a little painting. Father 
 Anthony said the other day that one of these times 
 I might make some money by designing things for 
 the churches if I was sent on the English mission. 
 And there are illustrated papers in London. I've 
 seen them once or twice. Shure, that's how I'd man- 
 age. I would, of course." 
 
 "Ye'd live in London one of the worst places in 
 the world?" 
 
 "All cities are the same, shure. Some one must 
 live in them." 
 
 Michael allowed his thoughts to work themselves 
 out in silence. To say the least of it, he was shocked, 
 pained that the one boy with whom he had formed 
 the greatest friendship in the college should at such 
 a moment throw up his vocation and take away his 
 hand from the plough. He was quite aware that such 
 things did occur but, so far as he had heard of them, 
 they had generally happened in the case of a boy of 
 fifteen or sixteen who had been labouring under the 
 mistaken idea that the priesthood was not so serious 
 a calling as his acquaintance with the secular college 
 had proved it to be. But that after five years at 
 Maynooth, when experience must have taught him 
 how noble yet how severe a life this mission of God 
 would have to be, when he had arrived at the age of 
 nineteen, a time when surely discretion must come to
 
 46 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 all those who look on at life with any degree of 
 seriousness, Maurice Holland, his only friend, should 
 declare his unwillingness to take the vow of chastity ! 
 He confessed to himself that it was more that he could 
 sympathize with or understand. 
 
 "An* what's your reason?" he asked, after the 
 silence which his thoughts had enforced between them. 
 " What makes ye feel like this about it, anyway ? " 
 
 " I can't help my thoughts," said Maurice. " It's 
 all very well to say that prayin' '11 drive those things 
 out of your mind, but ye can't go on prayin' for ever. 
 Ye must take yer breath sometimes. An' it's just 
 when I stop to take my breath, as ye might say, that 
 I find there's the very diwle in me. Shure, isn't it 
 better to stop before it's too late?" 
 
 " But what d'ye think about, for goodness' sake ? " 
 
 "There was a girl in Belfast " Maurice began. 
 
 Michael's lip curled with contempt. 
 
 "Ah, shure, ye'd better go," he said coldly. "Go 
 and do yer drawin' in London. Women are always 
 the cause of all that's vile and hateful in this world. 
 They come in the way of a man's finest thoughts. 
 They're the means of overthrowing his greatest ambi- 
 tions, because they influence that side of him which 
 belongs to the beasts and succeed in making a beast of 
 him. They don't care a straw whether he might have 
 been a better man had they left him alone." 
 
 "Ye're only repeating what Father Anthony says 
 every time we go home." 
 
 " An' shure, isn't it true? " retorted Michael. " Shure 
 it is. I can't think," he added in the heat of his 
 endeavour to save the soul of his friend, "I
 
 TtiE CELIBATE 47 
 
 can't think why ye don't hate that side of life like 
 I do." 
 
 " An* why do ye hate it ? Because ye've never seen 
 a girl that ye thought was pretty. Ye've never seen 
 a girl that made ye feel sort of like a fool when ye 
 looked at her." 
 
 "Glory be to God! What's her prettiness to do 
 with it? She's just as much a woman as any other, 
 isn't she ? What difference does it make if she's what 
 ye call pretty? She's one of the same sex, isn't she? 
 Ye say I've never met a girl I've thought was pretty. 
 Maybe ye're right there but faith, it's because I've 
 never looked about for her like ye have. An* shure, 
 aren't there a good many other men besides Father 
 Anthony who think just the same as I do? There 
 are, of course. * Avoid foolish and old wives' fables ; 
 and exercise thyself unto Godliness,' is what St. Paul 
 said to Timothy, and shure that's just what ye're not 
 doing, Maurice. Ye've been listening to fables and so 
 ye've become weak." 
 
 " I've become a man, that's what I have," Holland 
 replied, wrought up to retaliation by these accusa- 
 tions. "Maybe if ye'd given yerself time ye'd have 
 come to think the same as I do. I've developed quicker 
 than ye, I suppose. They always said at home I was 
 too old for my years. I was born in a city ; ye were 
 born abroad in the country. Maybe that has some- 
 thing to do with the difference. Ye come at life 
 slowly in the country. Ye do so. Anyway I can't 
 take the step to be chaste and a celibate, when I know 
 that what's inside of me is the result of God's 
 giving."
 
 48 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "There's no calling for blasphemy!" exclaimed 
 Michael in the fever of his disappointment. 
 
 " Maybe not but there's plenty for being natural." 
 
 And so ended the discussion. A day or two later 
 Maurice Holland left Maynooth. No explanation 
 was given to the boys for the reason of his departure. 
 The matter was kept out of all conversation. Only 
 Michael was aware of it, and in his heart he prayed 
 that Maurice might find out his mistake before it was 
 too late. 
 
 Three years subsequent to this, when Michael had 
 been accepted into the deaconate preparatory to his 
 final ordination, he received at Ballyporeen a letter 
 from Maurice Holland saying that he had found the 
 other things in life and was contented with them. 
 He had got a small attic studio in London and was 
 just paying his way. His epistle concluded with the 
 suggestion that if Michael should ever come to 
 England it would give him the greatest pleasure to 
 see him again. 
 
 So terminated, practically for ever, his first friend- 
 ship, for though they did meet afterwards under more 
 or less intimate conditions, the great gulf had been 
 fixed between them in the outset of their views, and 
 the severance of friendship by religious differences 
 is a gap wide to span. 
 
 In the next and last three years of his novitiate, 
 which passed quickly enough, Michael grew more and 
 more in the favour and opinion of the Fathers under 
 whose tutorship he had been placed. Besides the 
 reputation which he had earned for the exemplary 
 yirtues that he displayed he had gained their approval
 
 THE CELIBATE 49 
 
 no less in the advancement of his intellectual capaci- 
 ties. They promised for him a brilliant future, so 
 far as brilliancy is to be attained in the Irish priest- 
 hood, and when the day for the acceptance of the vow 
 of chastity came round there was probably no boy in 
 all the college more willing, more eager, yet none 
 more ignorant of the nature of the sacrifice, to take 
 the final step. 
 
 With youth and its enthusiasms one may fill the 
 world with martyrs, for it is only when the years 
 begin to pass over our heads that we value life because 
 there is less of it to run. Youth is the Golden Age, 
 and those who wish to people fairyland must take 
 their captives early, before they come to know that 
 castles are not built of air but of the coldest stone. 
 
 When Mass had been said in the chapel the Bishop 
 seated himself on his faldstool with his back to the 
 High Altar. In all the glory of his vestments, with 
 his staff and jewelled mitre, he was indeed the High 
 Priest of the Old Testament presenting alive the sac- 
 rifice before the Lord to make an atonement with him 
 and to let him go for a scapegoat into the wilderness. 
 
 As the voice of the Archdeacon stirred the preg- 
 nant silence, "Let those approach who are to be 
 ordained," the youthful candidates all ranged them- 
 selves in a semicircle at some little distance before the 
 Bishop. 
 
 Children almost they seemed, as in the uncertain 
 light of the chapel they stood there, all wearing the 
 alb bound round the waist by a pure white woollen 
 girdle; the purple vestments, which they soon would 
 call their own, folded and hanging over their arms
 
 50 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 whilst a lighted candle burnt flickeringly in their 
 right hands. 
 
 " Dominus Michael Everett ad titulum Excelsiae." 
 
 And to this calling of his name he answered 
 "Adsum." 
 
 When all the candidates had thus similarly replied, 
 holding the maniple in his left hand and putting on 
 his mitre the Bishop began in hurried voice to address 
 them from the book that had been placed before him. 
 
 It was all in Latin, but the simplest form of the 
 language which even one who was no scholar could 
 easily have understood, but for the benefit of the 
 reader its English equivalent is here set forth. Not 
 until he came to the last sentence did the voice of the 
 Bishop abate its speed, and then with the concen- 
 trated seriousness of the moment he spoke slowly 
 clearly giving each word the fulness of its weight. 
 
 "Beloved sons, in that you are to be received into 
 the order of subdeacon, you must reflect carefully 
 again and again what manner of life you are taking 
 on yourselves. Up to this you have been free, you 
 have been able to turn at will to secular concerns ; but 
 if you receive this order you can no longer retreat 
 from your position but must serve God, whose service 
 is to reign." 
 
 Here his voice became slow and more distinct, and 
 one or two of the candidates for all had been warned 
 beforehand of this crucial moment shifted the posi- 
 tions of their attention from one foot to the other. 
 But Michael stood firm. He had not moved his body 
 or taken his eyes from the Bishop's face since this, 
 the most vital part of the ceremony, had begun.
 
 THE CELIBATE 51 
 
 "And you must observe chastity," the Bishop con- 
 tinued solemnly, " with His help, and must be for ever 
 faithful to the ministry of the Church; therefore," 
 and here the Bishop paused between each word, 
 " reflect while there is time, and if you are minded to 
 persevere in your holy resolution, in the name of 
 God come forward." 
 
 And so, having reflected while, in those few moments, 
 there was time they all took one step nearer to the 
 Bishop's faldstool, children for one moment, prisoners 
 to the law of celibacy the next. 
 
 The strength of mind necessary to the refusal of 
 that command is not often to be found, and few in- 
 deed have held in that moment the power of con- 
 viction to fall behind and withstand the scorn of 
 their fellows. 
 
 Not that Michael so much as even hesitated. His 
 step was bold, full of the pious determination that had 
 taken root upon the susceptibilities of his youth, and 
 it would not have seemed to him, had he looked over 
 his shoulder to where the moment before he had been 
 standing, that he had left anything behind him in 
 which he would ever find cause for regret. 
 
 And so here, except for his final ordination, Michael 
 set the seal upon his novitiate days. He was more 
 than half-way to the priesthood of God. He had 
 taken that step, compulsory justifiably so it seemed 
 then to him to ordination, without which he could 
 not celebrate Mass or bring himself into that closer 
 connection with the Almighty which was the peculiar 
 advantage of the Priest of God. In those few short 
 years of almost solitary confinement he had shown
 
 52 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 himself to have acquired and to be practised in all 
 the virtues necessary for the priest ; had proved him- 
 self, in the multitude of opportunities that were to be 
 found in those years of confinement, to be at least of 
 a tried chastity. And thus at that immature age of 
 twenty-one, before his senses were developed, and 
 before in his body he had become a man, he, with the 
 vow of chastity, became a celibate. He had sworn 
 to leave all women untouched who had never con- 
 sidered the possibility of one woman touching him.
 
 So was It, at the age of twenty-five, after nine 
 years of closest intimacy with books and some few 
 months subsequent to his ordination, that Father 
 Michael Everett received his orders to be stationed as 
 curate in Rathmore, a little fishing village at the 
 opposite end of the county of Waterf ord to his native 
 village of Ballyporeen. 
 
 In all the ardour of his newly-found position he 
 threw himself heart and soul into his work, never 
 forgetting that in his office as priest of the Church he 
 was raised far above the minds of his people, yet still 
 continuing the pursuit of theology and philosophy in 
 the silence of his own chamber. 
 
 Father Connelly, the parish priest, admitted to the 
 Bishop, after the first year of his acquaintance with 
 his new curate, that he had never anticipated finding 
 such zeal and energy in one of Father Michael's age. 
 But there they were, and he was not the sort of man 
 who would fail to recognize them. He did not feel it 
 incumbent upon him, however, to acquaint Father 
 Michael with the fact, arguing in his materialistic 
 fashion that when virtue is given any reward but itself 
 it becomes insatiate in its appetite for praise. 
 
 So he said nothing either to thwart or encourage 
 this treasure of the priesthood who worked unceas- 
 ingly, indef atigably so it seemed, from morn till the 
 late hours of the night. But if Father Connelly said 
 nothing, nature was determined not to be done out 
 of her word in the matter. A very few months 
 
 63
 
 54 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 had passed before Father Michael found that the 
 body which he had left behind, casting it from him 
 when he had taken the step so that his mind should 
 not be handicapped in the race, was beginning to 
 come in sight with a persistency that was inevitable. 
 For some time before the confession which has been 
 recounted in the commencement of this narrative he 
 had begun to find that the hour of going to bed 
 brought no sleep with it. For what seemed like an 
 eternity of time to him he would lie awake in his 
 little room with its low and sloping ceiling until the 
 dawn began to creep in through the thin muslin 
 blinds and paint with uncertain light the various 
 objects about him. And after this state of affairs 
 had continued for some time he came to dread the 
 thought of retiring to bed for fear of those long, 
 interminable hours between midnight and morning. 
 
 Tossing from side to side, turning his pillow first 
 one way and then another when the heat of it became 
 unendurable, he would endeavour to quiet himself 
 with prayer and the repetition of portions of his office 
 anything that could bring his mind into a state of 
 methodical monotony of thought. But even the most 
 devout moments of his praying were interrupted by 
 the rude insistence of some imperative idea which 
 had no rational bearing upon that which he was 
 endeavouring to fix in his mind. 
 
 To avoid the agony of these moments he sat up 
 later at night, read longer, hoping to compel by 
 sheer weariness the approach of sleep. But though 
 he found that in the light and while occupying his 
 mind with the book before him all the imperative
 
 THE CELIBATE 55 
 
 ideas that so tortured him when in the dark had lost 
 their power; yet the moment he retired to his room 
 and got into bed they returned unchained like the 
 very devils of conscience in a guilty mind. 
 
 At last he found that he was beginning to try to 
 do without sleep altogether, and knowing that it 
 would ultimately wreck his health, he went one morn- 
 ing, two days after the young man's confession, to 
 Doctor Giveen. This old gentleman besides being 
 the dispensary doctor commanded all the practice 
 that was to be cajoled out of a healthy people for 
 many miles around. 
 
 Walking up the short avenue to the doctor's house, 
 he endeavoured to arrange in his mind how he should 
 describe his symptoms. He found, however, that he 
 had pulled the dilapidated bell before he had arrived 
 at any definite form of description. 
 
 Annie Rooney, the daughter of the doctor's facto- 
 tum, who ran all the old gentleman's messages for 
 him, except when speed was required of her, opened 
 the door. She held it just wide enough for her head 
 to be seen. Father Michael stepped forward. 
 
 " Is the doctor in? " 
 
 " He is, Father." 
 
 " Tell him I want to see him." 
 
 The girl hesitated for a moment, then opened the 
 door a little wider. 
 
 " He's not out of bed yet, Father." 
 
 The priest looked at his watch. It was eleven 
 o'clock. Four hours before then he had been cele- 
 brating mass at the convent, and the day was begin- 
 ning to seem well worn to him-
 
 56 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 " I'll wait in his sitting-room then," he said, and he 
 walked into the parlour where the breakfast was 
 already laid. 
 
 Wandering aimlessly about the plainly-furnished 
 room he came to a small occasional table covered 
 with a badly-stained red cloth that stood in the 
 window. On the top of a pile of ancient papers and 
 magazines, placed there in characteristic confusion, 
 was a book bound unobtrusively in a dark-green 
 cover. 
 
 He picked it up and read the title, " In the Wake." 
 It conveyed nothing to him beyond the mere fact that 
 no doubt it was a novel. Had he heard that the 
 English critics had reviewed it with both unstinted 
 praise and carping sarcasm, it would have succeeded 
 in creating no further interest in his mind. Novels 
 were things that he never read. They were fabrica- 
 tions of the imagination. He was concerned with his 
 own soul and the souls of others. 
 
 Only that he had those few moments of idle time 
 on his hands he would have laid the book aside with- 
 out taking any further notice of it beyond the title ; 
 but being compelled to wait for the doctor he listlessly 
 opened it at the first page. It was a blank. The 
 thought entered his mind humorously that that was 
 probably the cleanest page in the whole book. The 
 second, as he turned it over, was just saved from 
 being the same by a few lines written in italics. As 
 this was the first piece of print that he had discovered 
 he looked at it closely in order to read what was 
 written 
 
 " Yea, and if men have gathered together gold and
 
 THE CELIBATE 57 
 
 silver and every other goodly thing, and see a woman 
 which is comely in favour and beauty, they let all 
 these things go and gape after her." 
 
 He let the hand that held the book fall to his side, 
 though his fingers still marked the place, and a smile 
 ironically twisted the sensitive expression of his upper 
 lip. 
 
 It was just what he might have expected, he thought 
 to himself. The sex question, as he had vaguely 
 heard, was the only peg upon which these novelists 
 could hang the seedy garments of their popularity. 
 Thank God ! he concluded in his mind, there were other 
 sides of life that had nothing to do with it; such a 
 one, for instance, as he had chosen. Maurice Holland 
 belonged to that class which produced these novelists, 
 and the man who had confessed to him two days 
 before, probably he was another example of the same 
 type. 
 
 He raised the book again and opening it at the 
 same place finished reading the rest of the quota- 
 tion 
 
 " And even with open mouth fix their eyes fast on 
 her; and have all more desire unto her than unto gold 
 and silver or any goodly thing whatsoever.'' 
 
 Beneath it all was appended the chapter and verse 
 of the book of Esdras from which it had been derived. 
 
 "And have all more desire unto her than any 
 goodly thing whatsoever," he repeated aloud to him- 
 self. And this was the admission of a canonical 
 writer of one of the books of the Bible! The same 
 admission that he himself had so fiercely refuted in 
 the mouths of others.
 
 58 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 It was all wrong, absolutely wrong. It tended to 
 attribute the vilest sin to natural and unavoidable 
 sources and how grievous an error that was. There 
 he stood and he lived to dispute it, as thousands of 
 others with his vocation were doing at that very 
 moment. He almost threw the book down on the 
 table, turning round as Doctor Giveen came into 
 the room. 
 
 He was a stout, ill-built, little man. His large head 
 was a mass of vaguely-coloured hair which threatened 
 to turn grey. His little eyes were shrewd and keen, 
 but it was a shrewdness, a keenness that never applied 
 itself to his profession. All his alertness lay in the 
 paths of sport. He would free a fish from the hook 
 in the same manner as he would perform an operation, 
 but whereas the former was second nature, the latter 
 would always remain an experiment. His religious 
 principles were as devout and inherent in him as was 
 his complete ignorance of the wider science of his pro- 
 fession. Scarcely ever having been out of his own 
 country, except to that haven of the unfertile 
 imagination, the Isle of Man and sometimes to Lon- 
 don, his brogue was as broad as the geniality of his 
 manner. And, though poverty and death were the 
 facts of life with which he had the most frequent 
 dealings, nothing had ever appealed to him from the 
 serious point of view. There are doctors without 
 number cast from his mould and deposited into Irish 
 country practices. When they are students they 
 play pitch and toss with pennies between lectures, 
 and when they are doctors they play pitch and toss 
 with life between meals.
 
 THE CELIBATE 59 
 
 As he had only then been called out of bed, and 
 his dressing effected within five minutes, the state 
 of his attire was no less untidy than that of his hair. 
 
 He made no apology for his appearance and came 
 forward with an outstretched hand. 
 
 " Shure this is not Monday, shure it isn't?" he 
 asked in a breath. 
 
 Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were the days 
 upon which the white placard, nailed over his dis- 
 pensary in the village, announced that he would be 
 in attendance to certify births, deaths and marriages 
 and dispense as many medicines as he could from 
 the small number of drugs at his disposal. From 
 eleven until four the notice declared his presence, 
 and a vague idea that it might be one of those 
 days and that Father Michael had called and found 
 him wanting was disconcerting his mind. 
 
 "This is Tuesday, doctor. One of your off days. 
 That's why I came." 
 
 " It is, of course. But what can I do for ye? Ye're 
 looking mighty sick." 
 
 " 1 don't feel very grand. Can't sleep." 
 
 The little man opened his eyes professionally and 
 his lips shaped themselves preparatory to whistling. 
 He had been in Rathmore for twenty-three years 
 and had never had to deal with a case of mere insom- 
 nia yet. For himself, no sooner was his head laid 
 on the pillow, than the sound of his breathing told 
 the unconsciousness of his mind. 
 
 "Can't sleep, eh?" he repeated, and then Father 
 Michael described his symptoms, omitting the pres- 
 ence of imperative ideas, which was the basis of all his
 
 60 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 restlessness. He felt disinclined to speak of things 
 that seemed so evident a proof of the weakness of 
 his mind. 
 
 Doctor Giveen went through the ordinary formulae 
 which all medical practitioners adopt to diagnose the 
 case before them, discovering to his own satisfaction 
 that the seat of all the mischief lay in Father 
 Michael's digestive organs. 
 
 "Now tell me," said he, a prophetic tone in his 
 voice as he stood up after these preliminaries, " do ye 
 smoke a lot, Father? " 
 
 " Only in the evening of course, when I'm at home. 
 I smoke a fair good deal then, I do of course." 
 
 "Half an ounce a day?" suggested the medical 
 man, caressing his hands. He smoked a full ounce 
 himself, but then the doctor is called in to find fault, 
 not to say that nothing is the matter. He knew that, 
 and that the blame has to be laid somewhere. 
 
 " Not quite so much as that, faith." 
 
 "Ah!" The professional prophetic tone was suffi- 
 ciently impressive for a village practice. " There ye 
 are. Shure there's the worry on the face of it." 
 
 " I'll give it up then." 
 
 " Exactly. Ye will of course. Ye're the sensible 
 man, Father. And now the tea? D'ye drink much 
 tea? Strong, I mean." 
 
 "I do. Shure, I do of course. Every meal. 
 Otherwise I'm a total abstainer." 
 
 " There ye are again." The little man was delighted 
 with himself. "Tea and tobacco. They play the 
 very deuce with the digestive system. They do in- 
 deed. Ye'll have to give up the pipe, Father, and
 
 THE CELIBATE 61 
 
 drink weak tea not more than twice a day and never 
 with meat, and I'll give ye a little dose -of bromide 
 that'll help ye over the separation and make ye sleep 
 a little better." 
 
 "Could you let me have the bottle before this 
 evening ? " 
 
 " Faith, I'm afraid I can't. I don't keep it at the 
 dispensary. We never want it here. But I'm send- 
 ing over to Anesk to-morrow, and ye shall have it at 
 least by five o'clock." 
 
 Father Michael reached for his hat. " I shall have 
 to wait then," he said despondently, and he decided 
 mentally that he could not go to bed at all that night. 
 
 Doctor Giveen saw him to the door, closing it after 
 he had departed with an uncomplimentary bang. 
 
 "Faith, that's about as much as I dared say to 
 him," he said aloud as he returned into the parlour. 
 
 For the rest of the day, in which Father Michael's 
 time was well occupied by making calls upon certain 
 parishioners and visiting one or two sick people, 
 amongst whom he was an established favourite, the 
 remembrance of the quotation which he had seen in 
 the book was continually recurring to him. 
 
 Who wrote the book of Esdras? 
 
 Ezra the scribe, a Jewish captive in Babylon in the 
 reign of Artaxerxes. Was he, Father Michael, a 
 priest of God, who had learnt the teachings of Christ 
 by heart, was he to listen to the voice of one who had 
 cried in the wilderness of the ages before Christ? 
 As many have done before him, and as many will do 
 to the end of time, he strove to laugh at the inspired 
 writings of an age that was so far behind his own as
 
 62 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 to be out of hearing. Yet nevertheless as he sat over 
 his tea in his little parlour, the question came up 
 again for answer. 
 
 Was the beauty of woman a power in life, or was it 
 the sensuality of the human mind that made it so? 
 Was it intended in the scheme of things to have 
 its weight in the balance, or had men put it there 
 themselves to turn a point in favour of their own 
 pleasures ? 
 
 When Mrs. McGrath, his housekeeper, came in with 
 a dish of fried whiting and laid it on the table before 
 him he looked at her critically. But with dusty 
 brown hair plastered severely over each temple, thin 
 lips and small, expressionless eyes she failed utterly 
 to supply him with any solution to the question. 
 
 Then his mind turned to wondering whether he had 
 ever seen any woman in the whole course of his exist- 
 ence who could fulfil that description of comely in 
 favour and beauty. It was practically impossible 
 to answer, because to begin with he had never allowed 
 his eyes to rest upon one of the other sex. He had 
 followed the advice of Father Anthony, had copied 
 the example of St. Aloysius to the letter and he was 
 forced to admit that he was not in a position to 
 answer the question which he had put to himself. 
 
 The few women with whom he had come into con- 
 tact, unavoidable contact, rose clearly to his mind by 
 reason of the fewness of their numbers ; and foremost 
 among them all was Molly the maid-of-all-work at 
 Ballyporeen. 
 
 There was an instance and he caught hold of it 
 eagerly in the anxiety of his mind there was an
 
 THE CELIB'ATE 63 
 
 instance of a woman with whom a man had sinned. 
 Had she been beautiful? No! Had she been in any 
 way exceptional in appearance that a man would have 
 been led into temptation for her sake? Could any 
 man have more desire for her than for gold or silver 
 or any goodly thing whatsoever? No! Ah, it had 
 been the man's own sensuality that had led him into 
 temptation, the man's own animal instincts that had 
 been the basis of his desires ; and such he knew had 
 proved it in himself could be subject and slave to 
 the will of a strong man. 
 
 He laid down his cup of tea, crossing himself in 
 thanksgiving for his meal. He felt a certain sense of 
 relief that he had not shirked the arguing of such a 
 matter with himself. When difficulties arose in the 
 mind in such a fashion as this, it was always better 
 to face them, and he vowed that he would never let 
 one take a place in his inner conscience again without 
 first fighting it like a man. By these means he knew 
 that they could be conquered. 
 
 As he stood up from the table, the voice of Father 
 Connelly, the parish priest, announced his intention 
 of coming in to see his curate. Through the cur- 
 tained window he could see the tall, heavy figure bend- 
 ing down to speak. 
 
 " That is, if ye'll give up yeer reading," he called 
 out from the darkness in his loud, healthy, blustering 
 voice. " I don't wish to be after disturbing ye, mind 
 ye" 
 
 " Oh, I'm not reading yet," Father Michael replied 
 in a much lower voice, and he went outside into the 
 passage to open the door for his visitor.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 FATHER TOM CONNELLY was one of those immense 
 raw-boned men who make of life a business ; a busi- 
 ness that is to be carried on from one day to another 
 with regular routine; a business, no matter what its 
 nature may be, that should be attended to with cheer- 
 ful optimism, believing that whatever happens is for 
 the ultimate good of that business however contrary 
 to it the affair may seem at the moment. 
 
 Whatever profession or trade circumstances might 
 have chanced to place him in he would have accepted 
 it in precisely the same manner. Surgeon, lawyer or 
 priest, life would always have had the same outlook 
 for him. He treated his duties of the church with the 
 same regularity as he would have attended the re- 
 quirements of a large medical practice in an over- 
 populated city. 
 
 The brisk, unconcerned tone of his voice never 
 altered with the seriousness or humour of various 
 occasions. He gave his advice and the absolution in 
 the confessional with the same expression as when he 
 ordered for slaughter the animals on the small farm 
 that was attached to his house* 
 
 His command of the musical requirements of High 
 Mass was non-existent, and had not his earnestness 
 entirely covered the multitude of his sins of discord 
 the effect would have been grotesque. It so hap- 
 pened that his people had grown accustomed to his 
 singing on these occasions, and accordingly his inhar- 
 
 64
 
 THE CELIBATE 65 
 
 monious efforts passed unnoticed except by the 
 organist who, holding the position that she did, felt it 
 incumbent upon her to continue in a mild protest 
 which was always worded in the same way and never 
 called forth any agreement from her listeners. 
 
 " Shure he is a very holy man is Father Connelly, 
 but I wish he could sing in tune." 
 
 Nobody else echoed her wish. They would not have 
 changed one characteristic in him for worlds. 
 
 To this man, then, Father Everett owed his obedi- 
 ence. And though in a great many internal matters 
 their views were widely different, in accordance with 
 the disparity of their natures, yet he looked up to 
 Father Connelly with that respect which is bound to 
 come from a man to his senior whose ways are blame- 
 less. That his methods were somewhat at variance 
 with the younger man's conception of things consti- 
 tuted no cause for complaint. 
 
 With a customary ease, as though the whole house 
 belonged to him, the parish priest hung up his tall 
 silk hat upon one of the pegs in the hall as soon as 
 he was admitted and strode on before the curate into 
 the brightly-lighted parlour. 
 
 That same hat which he had just hung upon the 
 peg outside had been in his possession for more years 
 than he would have cared to take the trouble to count. 
 On occasions as rare as when the wind would carry it 
 from his head, or he would consider the probable 
 necessity of getting a new one, he would brush it 
 roughly with his coat sleeve preparatory to wearing 
 it and then forget about its existence for the next 
 month or so.
 
 66 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 " Ye're very late back from visiting to-night, Father 
 Michael," he said with his loud voice and heavy 
 brogue, as he seated himself recklessly in an unsteady 
 arm-chair. 
 
 The curate closed the door behind him. 
 
 "I am," he agreed quietly. "I am rather late. 
 I'm just after finishing my tea, but shure, I can 
 easily get some more made." 
 
 " Ah, shure, don't bother. I've been having it my- 
 self. Cups of it. Tell me now, how are ye keep- 
 ing? Are ye sleeping any better these nights?" 
 
 " I'm not, then, not a bit better. Worse, ye might 
 say." 
 
 He sank into the arm-chair in which he had 
 been seated during his meal, and taking out an ugly 
 pocket-handkerchief he wiped his hands. 
 
 " Well, did ye tell the doctor about it? " 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " An* what had the little gentlemen to say ? " 
 
 " Digestion all wrong. He told me I was smoking 
 too much and drinking too much tea." 
 
 " Tea ! " Father Connelly lifted up his hands and 
 smacked them down on to his knees with a resound- 
 ing noise that made Father Michael stir uncomfort- 
 ably in his chair. " Ah, shure, what's the man talk- 
 ing about? Smoking! He may be right there. I 
 wouldn't put a pipe in me mouth if ye were to make 
 a bishop of me. I would not. But tea! Yirra, 
 the man's crazed with all his new-fangled notions. 
 Tea wouldn't hurt a baby. Shure, what would the 
 people do without tea? They live on ut. Thanks 
 be to God it's cheaper than porter, and, faith, none
 
 THE CELIBATE 67 
 
 of 'em seem to suffer with the things ye're after 
 complaining of." 
 
 "Well, whether it's tea or tobacco, the doctor said 
 the result was indigestion, and he's given me a bottle 
 of bromide to make me sleep better." 
 
 " Bromide ! Ah, shure, that's the name I was try- 
 ing to think of the other day when he told me about 
 yeer not sleeping. Faith, that's the very stuff for ye, 
 shure it is. It'll make ye sleep like the doctor him- 
 self. Mrs. Rooney told me one day he snores till 
 the house is fit to shake. An' shure, I wouldn't 
 be disbelieving the good woman, because Jerry 
 Condon built that house, mind ye, thirteen years 
 ago ; and, faith, what Jerry builds is Jerry-built it 
 is so." 
 
 So he summed up the whole question, cheerfully 
 optimistic as ever, with another violent slap on his 
 leg, seeing the preparation for which Father Michael 
 was not so disturbed as before. 
 
 For a few moments the two men sat in silence, the 
 parish priest surveying a large coloured print of 
 John Dillon that had been extracted from the cover 
 of a Christmas journal, whilst Father Michael gazed 
 thoughtfully at the flame of the lamp which shot up 
 suddenly at intervals into the higher parts of the 
 chimney. As is characteristic of men with intro- 
 spective minds, the interruption to his thoughts which 
 the advent of Father Connelly had made was only 
 temporary and no sooner was there a pause in their 
 conversation than he reverted to the subject that he 
 had been considering. Suddenly it occurred to him 
 to put the question vaguely to his visitor.
 
 68 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 " Tell me," he said seriously, " I heard a man say- 
 ing the other day that the colour of a woman's hair 
 had a great effect upon him. Did ye ever hear such 
 nonsense in all yer life ? " 
 
 Father Connelly fitted all his fingers accurately, one 
 on the top of the other, and blinked at the wall in 
 front of him. 
 
 "Well now," he remarked without the slightest in- 
 tention of being sententious, "it depends greatly on 
 the man as to how much nonsense there was and how 
 much sense. My brother James, the same that lives 
 down at Carrigrisheen, maybe ye've never heard of 
 him? Well, never mind, he was a queer lad, anyhow. 
 But he told me he was attracted first to the woman 
 who's now his wife because she had such a large 
 mouth. Well, ye might be saying that ye never heard 
 such nonsense as that in all yeer life, but he meant it. 
 Now there's yeer housekeeper, Mrs. McGrath here," 
 he made a considerable effort to lower his voice, and 
 Father Michael looked apprehensively towards the 
 door to see that it was closed. " Ye'd not be calling 
 her a pretty woman, would ye? But she's got a 
 larger mouth than my sister-in-law, and maybe if 
 James had seen her first she'd a' been Mrs. Connelly 
 by this time. Ye see," he concluded, with a shake of 
 his head, "ye can't tell how much nonsense there is 
 in this world, until ye've discovered how many fools 
 there are. Now I've been on this planet a good 
 thirty years longer than ye have, Father Michael, 
 and, from what I've of seen it, the old needle in the 
 bundle of hay is easier to find than yer wise man, he 
 is so. But, mind ye, that's only my experience, an',
 
 THE CELIBATE 69 
 
 let alone for the Retreat, I haven't been outside of 
 Rathmore these five years." 
 
 Father Michael took up a spoon from the table and 
 began in a preoccupied way to rake up the crumbs 
 that were scattered about his plate. 
 
 " Well, to my mind," he said, when he had gathered 
 them all together in one little heap, " to my mind the 
 idea of the whole thing is ridiculous. I don't believe 
 that the Almighty God ever made mankind of such 
 weak stuff as that, as to be influenced by the smallest 
 objects which he must meet with every day." 
 
 "The question is, does he meet them every day?" 
 Father Connelly leant back in his chair and yawned 
 loudly. 
 
 "It took me brother James the best part of five 
 years before he found a woman with as large a mouth 
 as Mary Hanrahan, and that was the young lady he 
 made his wife. Though she wasn't young, mind ye, 
 she thought she was, and she persuaded James into 
 that way of thinking too." 
 
 Father Michael smiled. 
 
 "There may be something in that," he agreed 
 reluctantly, "but the world, so they say, is a small 
 place, and maybe yer brother James was fastidious." 
 
 Father Connelly broke into a loud laugh that seemed 
 to shake all the smaller objects in the room. 
 
 "That's true for ye," said he, mixing his words 
 with his laughter. "James lost most of the oppor- 
 tunities that ever came under his nose by looking for 
 them." 
 
 " But, seriously now, you'd not be saying there was 
 nonsense in what that man said?"
 
 70 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "Show me the man and I'll tell ye. Shure it all 
 depends on that. Now if I were to express such a 
 sentiment as that, faith, it 'ud be the shurest nonsense 
 ye ever listened to. It would so. D'ye follow me?" 
 "I suppose I do. You don't think that the 
 essentials of men are invariably the same? " 
 
 A smile hovered round the corners of Father Con- 
 nelly's broad mouth. 
 
 "Put like the young student that ye are," he said 
 humorously. "That's just about what I'm afther 
 trying to say, the only difference being that ye made 
 a science of ut. And now that's precisely where 
 ye're wrong and I'm right." 
 
 The curate looked across at him for an explanation 
 and in time it was given him. 
 
 "Life is not a science," the parish priest went on, 
 unaware that he was expressing all the wisdom of his 
 own simplicity, "life is a business, life is a fact." 
 
 " And what is science but a fact ? " 
 
 "If I was fond of tobacco," said Father Connelly 
 quietly, " I'd light me pipe and tell ye a lot of things. 
 The sort of things that occur to ye when ye've picked 
 yerself out of the mud where ye've fallen, and the sort 
 of things that ye don't talk about till ye've brushed 
 yeer clothes and made yerself look a little less like a 
 tinker. Mind ye, it's no good talking about them 
 till ye've brushed yeer clothes because ye won't find 
 any one to listen. Ye're after saying that science 
 is a fact. Would ye conthradict me now, Father 
 Michael, if I said to ye that science was a hunting 
 after facts, and that once they're found they go into 
 the laws of life and the matter becomes no longer a
 
 THE CELIBATE 71 
 
 science? Would ye feel inclined to conthradict me 
 now if I said that ? Ye're the most promising curate 
 I've had under me since the bishop presented me with 
 this parish of Rathmore, but faith, ye've got one 
 egre-egious fault." 
 
 There was a sensitive expression of concern on 
 Father Michael's face as he looked quickly at the 
 parish priest. 
 
 " I'm sorry," he said. " What is it? " 
 
 "Ye're very young." 
 
 The twinkle in Father Connelly's eyes denoted his 
 anticipation that his curate would smile at the 
 remark, certainly that he would not take it with any 
 degree of seriousness. 
 
 In this expectation he was utterly mistaken. When 
 a young man, however good-naturedly, is accused of 
 the fault of his youth, he proves the justice of the 
 accusation by being mortally offended. Father 
 Michael certainly was twenty-six, but in many re- 
 spects, as may already have been seen, he exhibited the 
 immaturity of a child. 
 
 "That's the first time I've heard of youth being 
 described as a fault," he said, with that characteristic 
 twitching of his sensitive upper lip. 
 
 "Ye'll be accusing others of it yerself when ye 
 grow older," the parish priest retorted, with a laugh. 
 " Now just listen to me for a few moments. I'm not 
 given to talking as a rule, but when I do, faith, I 
 mean ut. Ye're one of the new school. Ye've got 
 all the learning that's inside of ye from a bundle of 
 philosophical treatises that ye hug and bend over 
 like an old grandmother with a cradle. Mind ye,
 
 78 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 I'm not blaming ye. That's the way they teach at 
 Maynooth now. But Glory be to God! Where's 
 the use of robbing yerself of sleep to master the 
 ethics of theology when ye can't see the first sign of 
 rot coming on the corn that God makes to grow 
 under yeer very feet ? " 
 
 As far as it was physically possible, he said almost 
 all this in one breath. The fire of oratory that is 
 burning in the heart of every Irishmen had been 
 caught up into a flame of eloquence by the ardour 
 of his feelings. He was not far-sighted enough to 
 realize that all he was saying was far more a cure 
 for the ills that Father Michael had complained of to 
 Doctor Giveen than the medicinal dose of bromide or 
 any sedative that science could prescribe. 
 
 It so happened that while both men had been called 
 into the same channel of life yet their natures 
 were as far apart as are the imaginary poles of our 
 geographical structure of the world. And it was 
 quite unconsciously that Father Connelly was a far 
 more powerful reagent than the science of medicine 
 could ever compound. 
 
 Seeing that Father Michael had apparently nothing 
 further to say he started again with the renewed 
 energy which his thoughts in the pause had given 
 him. 
 
 "There's some gentleman maybe ye'd know what 
 he calls himself who's said in print that there are 
 books in the running brooks. Well, shure, I dunno 
 what induced him to say such a silly thing as that. 
 I've never seen anything worth learning meself in 
 that stream that runs through the bottom of the
 
 THE CELIBATE 73 
 
 woods near my place at Ballysheen. Mind ye, I may 
 be misjudging the man, because if he'd said a crop 
 of potatoes I'd a' been with him there. I would 
 indeed. I've seen more human nature in one field of 
 spuds than ye'd find in half the philosophical books 
 in the library at Maynooth, an' faith, I know what 
 I'm saying because I had to read through more than 
 that before they let me take me final orders." 
 
 "You mean you think I read too much," Father 
 Michael interrupted. 
 
 The parish priest held up his hands in childish 
 delight. 
 
 "Wisha, man! he exclaimed. "I thought I'd 
 have to be talking nicely to ye like this for the next 
 fortnight before ye'd understand that that was what 
 I was driving at." 
 
 " But some one must read. We can't all grow 
 potatoes." 
 
 "Faith, that's true for ye that's true for ye. 
 Some of us must read, but which of us ? Some of us 
 must grow potatoes, but which of us? Now d'ye 
 mind this, Father Michael, because when I was first 
 ordained I learnt ut. I didn't read ut, mind ye. 
 Some of us must read, and shure, they're the ones that 
 have got to teach others." 
 
 "And what is the priesthood for but to teach?" 
 exclaimed the astonished curate. 
 
 " Teach ! Wisha ! Teach ! " he held up his hands 
 to his eyes as though physically he was endeavouring 
 to shut the thought out of his mind. " Shure, tell 
 me now, what is there left to teach but what the 
 mother teaches to her child, and the father to his son ;
 
 74 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 but what the National School teaches to the boy 
 and girl, and the professor to the student, an', Glory 
 be to God, ye don't call yerself a school-master do 
 ye? Shure ye do not of course. When all these 
 pass out of their tutors' hands, what is there left 
 to teach 'em, will ye tell me that? That it's wrong 
 to sin? No, faith they know that well enough. 
 That they're born with the strain of original sin? 
 Shure they're only too glad to put it all on to that 
 before ye've time to tell 'em of ut. That there's 
 mercy and forgiveness through our Lord Jesus 
 Christ?" He bowed his head with sudden reverence. 
 "No, shure their mothers whisper that into their 
 ears before their eyes are open." 
 "Then what is the duty of the priesthood?" 
 "To lead, Father Michael, to lead and, in the 
 name o' God, how can ye do that when ye don't know 
 the way yerself? How can ye show a man the way 
 in a far country, when ye've only been studying a 
 map of the route yerself? The way to everlasting 
 salvation doesn't lie through the pages of Mivart's 
 philosophy; faith, there'd be mighty few people to 
 get there if it did. No, man ; it's a twisted, rambling 
 path, that runs through all the crops ye can think of, 
 and, mind ye, there are a good many more fruits in 
 the earth than spuds. There are so. Shure ye may 
 read and read till ye're little more than an encylopedia 
 of knowledge, and, mind ye, that'll take ye the rest of 
 yeer life but at the end o' that time ye won't be 
 able to tell me why one man has a fancy for a woman 
 with a la.rge mouth, and another takes to a girl 
 because of the colour of her hair. I may be all
 
 THE CELIBATE 75 
 
 wrong, mind ye, but that's my way of seeing ut," 
 and he rose slowly to his feet and shook himself. 
 
 This unexpected return to the question of sex was 
 the only spark needed to feed the fuel of Father 
 Michael's enthusiasm and set it into sudden flame. 
 Had he not argued it all out to himself that very 
 afternoon after his interview with the doctor? He 
 had faced it like a man, and he felt that it would 
 only be weak, now when he had an opponent, to let it' 
 be thrown in his face again without an effort to 
 defend his own opinions. Moreover, when a man is 
 convinced, he is bound to be enthusiastic according 
 to his lights. 
 
 " Shure I can tell you that now," he said, rising up 
 quickly from his chair and confronting the parish 
 priest with the light of conviction in his eyes. "I 
 can tell you that without any of the reading you think 
 necessary to the most childish information." 
 
 Father Connelly rubbed his hands together with 
 appreciation. 
 
 "Well," said he affably, "I'm willing to learn. 
 What is ut ? What is ut that makes men do these 
 things?" 
 
 " Because there's a kink in their natures. Because 
 they've let their senses run ahead of their reason. 
 Because they don't look any further into life than the 
 mere visible things that strike the eye." 
 
 The parish priest looked complacently and with all 
 good-natured benevolence at his curate. Then he 
 smiled. 
 
 " Tell me, Father Michael," he said in a voice that 
 was extraordinarily quiet for him, " tell me now, is it
 
 76 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 because there's a kink in yeer nature, because yeer 
 senses have -run ahead of yeer reason, that ye get so 
 excited about this little subject that we're after talk- 
 ing about?" 
 
 " I suppose it's my nature to get excited at times," 
 the curate said, all his enthusiasm damped by the 
 priest's tone of voice. " I can't help it." 
 
 " Ah ! " Father Connelly brought his hands together 
 with a resounding noise. "Ye can't help it! It's 
 in yer nature ! God bless us, Father Michael, an' is 
 yeer nature the only one in this world, or if it is d'ye 
 think ye've got to the bottom of ut in twenty-six 
 years ? "
 
 ONE morning, about three weeks after his conver- 
 sation with Father Connelly, having returned from 
 the convent where he had celebrated Mass, Father 
 Michael found a letter lying on his plate on the break- 
 fast-table. The circumstance in itself was suffi- 
 ciently unusual to quicken his steps across the room, 
 but when he saw that the envelope bore a French 
 stamp, all eagerness died out of his anticipation since 
 he knew the writer. 
 
 It was from his sister Nora who, having become a 
 nun, had after her novitiate in Ireland been ordered 
 to a branch station in a little village not far outside 
 Paris. 
 
 They had never been close companions in their 
 childhood, but the vocation which had fallen upon 
 both of them had seemed to act as a bond of union ; 
 and, though they had not met for some five years or 
 more, a desultory correspondence was still kept up 
 between them. 
 
 But with the greatest stretch of the imagination he 
 knew it was impossible for the letter of a nun to be 
 interesting, so calling to Mrs. McGrath he sat down 
 in his accustomed place, crossing himself preparatory 
 to the meal of which he was going to partake. He 
 did not even offer to take the letter from his plate. 
 
 But at length when his breakfast had been brought 
 in to him, when Mrs. McGrath had lingered in vain to 
 see him break open the envelope, he tore the flap 
 
 77
 
 78 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 asunder with his fingers and began to read the 
 contents. 
 
 As he had expected, it differed in very few details 
 from all the rest that he had ever received from her. 
 But, as he reached the last page, the tolerant expres- 
 sion on his face changed to one of greater interest. 
 
 "When you get your next holidays," he read, 
 " could you not come over here to Duresne instead of 
 going home? There is very good pension, boarding- 
 house, you know, in the village, the Rev. Mother 
 knows the lady who keeps it very well, and it would 
 not be expensive, about twenty-five shillings a week. 
 You could stay there for a fortnight or more if you 
 wished to and I should so much like to see you, let me 
 hear soon if you will do this, all the sisters here are 
 longing to meet you, I have told them quite a lot 
 about you." 
 
 So with a few family remarks the letter ended, pos- 
 sessing about three full-stops in its whole con- 
 struction. 
 
 He smiled as he laid it down. The last sentence 
 was so like his sister, so like all nuns, for that matter, 
 whose discrimination is utterly dependent upon the 
 novelty of seeing any one at all. It meant nothing. 
 But to go abroad, that was quite a different affair. 
 He had never been outside his own country. It was 
 not that he felt he would learn or gain anything by 
 going, but when occasionally he met with others who 
 had travelled, even as far as England, he felt a little 
 behind the times, a little inexperienced, at least so it 
 seemed he must appear in their eyes. 
 
 And this suggestion of his sister's it made matters
 
 79 
 
 easy. The thought of where he should stay and how 
 he would get on in a strange land amongst strange 
 people had always on previous occasions made him 
 shift the thought of travelling on to the future. So 
 it would indefinitely have been shifted had not this 
 letter from his sister altered the point of view. 
 
 By the time he had finished his meal the idea had 
 grown into a determination dependent upon the deci- 
 sion of Father Connelly. In matters that dealt with 
 the commonplace things of life he looked to the parish 
 priest as a child does to its father. 
 
 Folding up the letter and putting it in his pocket 
 he took his hat from its peg in the hall. 
 
 " Mrs. McGrath," he called out in lively spirits, " if 
 any one's after wanting me urgently I've gone to 
 Father Connelly's." 
 
 Then he started for Ballysheen, a district some two 
 miles east of Rathmore, where the parish priest lived 
 and had his being. 
 
 There, on the little farm that surrounded his house, 
 Father Connelly was to be found every morning when 
 his parochial duties did not call him into the village. 
 There amongst his cattle and his crops he lived the 
 life of his philosophy, and preached it from the altar 
 steps every Sunday morning. Unkempt and careless 
 of what his neighbours thought of him, he was per- 
 fectly happy and content. It was as though, on 
 those few acres of land, he sowed the seeds of 
 optimism and reaped the fruit of contentment that 
 grew and multiplied a thousand-fold. 
 
 Having inquired whether he had come into Rath- 
 more that morning Father Michael set out across the
 
 80 
 
 " mile of warm, sea-scented " strand which shortened 
 the way to Ballysheen by some ten minutes' walk. 
 
 It was a cloudless day in the midst of June. The 
 heat of the coming summer was just freshened by the 
 last cool breath of the departing spring. To the 
 right of him the sea at low tide lay motionless as 
 though exhausted, utterly incapable of ever lashing 
 itself again into the fury of a storm. The sand, 
 where the sea just washed it with its fragile waves, 
 catching a dim reflection of the blue sky above, shone 
 like the surface of a metal that has just been cut. 
 Around him as he walked his thick-soled boots 
 leaving their impressions in company with those of 
 many others who had passed that way a stray sea- 
 gull would sweep with outstretched wings which in 
 another moment would bear it out to sea. 
 
 To his left stretched the low, green land, intersected 
 by the dark hedgerows and grey stone walls dividing 
 the pasture fields from those that were freshly 
 ploughed. And far away on the horizon, rising like 
 misting clouds into the blue air, the Galtee Mountains 
 stood up against the background. 
 
 In a field near at hand a ploughman drove his way 
 up and down the red-brown furrows, and in his wake, 
 like the foam of some sea-going vessel, a flock of sea- 
 birds hung upon his steps. Every now and again 
 as they rose from the land twisting in their flight, 
 their white bodies met the light of the fierce sun, and 
 it seemed as if the wind had caught up thousands of 
 little pieces of paper and were tossing them about at 
 its will. 
 
 Father Michael watched the man with a casual
 
 THE CELIBATE 81 
 
 interest, so long as he came within the range of his 
 gaze. Was he, he wondered Father Connelly's 
 words recurring to him was he a student of that 
 human nature which is to be found in the yielding 
 earth? What more of life did that ploughman learn 
 from the fecundity of the fields, than he, Father 
 Michael had strained from the leaves of philoso- 
 phy? Obviously not as much undoubtedly not as 
 much. 
 
 He was confident that, were he to put the question 
 to that labourer of the fields which Father Connelly 
 had put to him, he would find that the solution would 
 be wanting hopelessly wanting. As he thought of 
 it, the idea found a sudden attraction for him, and he 
 paused in his walk. Then, an impulsive determina- 
 tion taking hold of his mind, he crossed the strand, 
 climbed up the sandhill that stretched along by the 
 land offering protection from the sea, and made his 
 way to the field where the man and his two patient 
 horses were at work. 
 
 As he came to the end of the furrow nearest to 
 Father Michael the ploughman took his hands from 
 the handles and raised his hat. 
 
 A real son of the soil he was, not more than thirty 
 years of age, with weatherbeaten face and unshaven 
 cheeks. Just such a man as Patsy, the farm-hand at 
 Ballyporeen had been. 
 
 " Marnin', Father," he said in a serious tone. 
 
 The priest answered the salutation good-naturedly. 
 Then they fell into conversation, Father Michael 
 leading it into the topic of the coming harvest. This 
 he did out of consideration for the man's limited
 
 82 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 knowledge of other matters, though he knew 
 strangely little about it himself. 
 
 " Tell me now," he said, when they had drifted into 
 the subject of a marriage which one of the village 
 men had contracted with an unknown tinker woman at 
 the last Shrovetide, " tell me now, what on earth per- 
 suaded Shaun to take over the responsibility of that 
 woman with her two children by some former husband, 
 knowing nothing whatsoever about her past life ? " 
 
 The ploughman scratched his head and turned the 
 quid of tobacco in his mouth. 
 
 " Shure I dunno, Father. Faith, I suppose a wife 
 wid two children is better than none at all when ye're 
 after wantiri' to get married. Yirra, I'd sooner take 
 wan wid half-a-dozen of the youngsters meself , than 
 be rowlin' in a carriage wid an 'ooman I didn't loike." 
 
 Father Michael turned with the half -formed inten- 
 tion of continuing his way to Ballysheen. The man's 
 philosophy was beyond him. In its crude expression 
 he was forced to admit that it certainly coincided 
 with the same view that Father Connelly had upheld. 
 But, for all that, it was beyond him. 
 
 For a moment or so he looked at the man, and then 
 his eyes wandered up and down the soft, brown 
 valleys of earth that stretched on before the two 
 patient animals waiting for the voice of their driver 
 to command them back to their labour. It was as 
 though he thought to find there the germ of the man's 
 philosophy, as he would the seed that would soon be 
 cast there by the sower. 
 
 "Well, I must be off to Ballysheen," he remarked 
 at length, when he felt that the pause was becoming
 
 THE CELIBATE 83 
 
 irksome, and turning out of the field on to a road 
 which would bring him eventually to his destination, 
 he continued on his journey to Father Connelly. 
 
 With his tall, silk hat balanced uncomfortably on 
 his head, though with no apparent heed of its exist- 
 ence, Father Connelly was found engrossed in the 
 management of his farm. He was giving his orders, 
 arranging this matter and. that with as little tone of 
 sentiment in his voice as could be distinguished in the 
 clamorous crows that cried in the trees above his 
 head. 
 
 As soon as he saw Father Michael he hastened 
 towards him with lengthy strides. 
 
 " Ah, come in, come in," he called out to the curate 
 who was standing on the other side of the large white 
 iron gate that opened on to the road. " Faith, ye're 
 welcome. Come in," and he closed the gate carefully 
 after his visitor had entered. 
 
 "Come up to the house, will ye? I've just been 
 seeing around things this morning. There's nothing 
 wrong in the village, is there? Faith, one of me 
 young heifers is just afther perishing to-day, an' 
 shure I scarcely knows what I'm doing. There's 
 nothing wrong, is there ? " 
 
 "Nothing nothing at all. I came to see you 
 about a letter I got this morning. That's all." 
 
 "Indeed indeed? Shure then ye'll stay an' have 
 something to eat. Ah, man, shure what's the good of 
 saying no, when the stuff's waiting there for ye to eat 
 ut," and notwithstanding all his refusals the good 
 man bore Father Michael with him to the house.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 CALLED after the surrounding locality Ballysheen was 
 very typical of many of the large country houses 
 that are to be found everywhere in the south of Ire- 
 land. They seem to stand as monuments of a past 
 and faded opulence which has lasted for a few 
 years and then crumbled into dust or been carried 
 away into another country. The rooms in Father 
 Connelly's house were vast chambers with high 
 ceilings. 
 
 The fittings, such as the curtain rods and blinds, 
 which he, as the incoming tenant, had purchased some 
 thirteen years before, suggested a heavy grandeur 
 with their gilded traceries and faded material. In no 
 room in the house could an air of quiet comfort be 
 found, and, furnished with the old-fashioned, unin- 
 viting furniture which the parish priest had brought 
 with him when he came to Rathmore, the entire 
 habitation had that cold, cheerless appearance which 
 suggests the atmosphere of rainy nights and terrify- 
 ing storms. 
 
 Only when Father Connelly entered the wide hall, 
 or strode about the capacious rooms, did it seem 
 reasonable, natural for one man and a housekeeper 
 to be the only occupants of so extensive a building. 
 There must at least have been half-a-dozen rooms 
 that were never occupied in the great, old weather- 
 slated house which over its surrounding belt of trees 
 
 84
 
 THE CELIBATE 85 
 
 looked out across the impenetrable colours of the 
 trackless sea. 
 
 But his blatant, healthy voice very rarely pitched 
 on any but its loudest key, his tall, gaunt body and 
 the length of every step he took seemed to justify his 
 surroundings as the characteristics of but few other 
 men could possibly have done. 
 
 "Well now," said he throwing himself into one of 
 the large arm-chairs that seemed empty indeed with- 
 out the bulk of his proportions to fill it. " Well now, 
 what might the letter be about at all ? " 
 
 Father Michael began to draw it from his pocket. 
 
 " My sister Nora, she that's a nun in France. She 
 wants me to take my holidays over there in Duresne. 
 It's a little village about twenty or thirty miles out- 
 side Paris. I came over to ask you what you thought 
 about it." 
 
 Father Connelly locked his hands together in con- 
 sideration. 
 
 "Tell me, are ye sleeping better at all now?" 
 
 "I am then, but not quite as well as I was. The 
 effect of the bromide seems to be beginning to 
 go off." 
 
 "Faith, that's the way with those medical concoc- 
 tions. They just work long enough to give ye con- 
 fidence in the doctor, and then they make ye in such 
 a state that ye can't do without him. I dunno, mind 
 ye, but nature seems to me to be the only physician 
 God gave for a man." 
 
 "I thought you would have told me to take a 
 bromide, only you were after forgetting the 
 name."
 
 86 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 " I would? Shure I would not. I'd have told that 
 that's what a doctor would have given ye. Now ye 
 can believe it or not, as ye like, Father Michael, but 
 I was forty years old before I found the doctor that 
 suited me and I never go to any other." 
 
 "Who's he?" 
 
 "Faith, I don't want to bring scandal on meself, 
 but it's a she. Nature! An old woman here in 
 Rathmore once said to me: 'Docthors! Shure 
 what are docthors in the name of God?' She spoke 
 with a brogue as broad as that, mind ye, I'm only 
 imitating her." 
 
 Father Michael smiled. 
 
 " * What are docthors ? ' said she, ' yirra, I'd sooner 
 sleep wid me head out o' the windey than call in a 
 docthor for a cold. I would, so.' And, mind ye, 
 Father Michael, when I got home I thought about ut, 
 an' it seemed to me that there was a good deal more 
 in what she said than she ever imagined. I don't 
 want to say anything against Dr. Giveen, mind ye. 
 I firmly believe that he's got a better eye wid a shot- 
 gun than any one in the village; an' they say I can 
 kill a crow when I see ut. But shure, after ye've been 
 to him for a few months it isn't curing ye he'll be but 
 killing ye, an', what's more, he won't see the necessity 
 for confessing it. He will not." 
 
 It was not very frequently that Father Michael 
 smiled, but Father Connelly, more almost than any 
 one, possessed the power to compel him. 
 
 " Then what is your prescription ? " he asked, in a 
 lighter spirit than he had shown before. " Shure, 
 what am I to do with myself?"
 
 THE CELIBATE 87 
 
 The parish priest leant forward with a twinkling in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Give up yer books," he said straightly, " for a 
 year or so. Let philosophy and theology take care 
 o' thimselves and nature take care o' ye. Be up, an' 
 about, an* out in the world. Get fresh air. Take 
 exercise, faith, if ye have to steal it. Be a man, and 
 live like a man. Ye were born to live by the sweat 
 of your brow, not by thieving your sleep and blind- 
 ing your eyesight. Well, be human and let ye'self 
 sweat. Wisha, now, Father Michael, tell me, when 
 a man comes and confesses to ye on a Saturday even- 
 ing, is ut philosophy he's wanting? It is not! Is 
 philosophy the sort of thing to give a man on a 
 Saturday night, when there's only twelve hours be- 
 tween him and Holy Communion for him to swallow 
 it in ? 'Tis not, shure it's not ! " 
 
 He rose with a good-natured laugh, and walked 
 across to the window. 
 
 " Wisha, go away abroad," he added, " 'twill do ye 
 all the good in the world. Any time'll suit me, an' 
 don't ye be afraid to say ut. Was it Paris ye were 
 saying ? " 
 
 " Duresne just outside, about thirty miles." 
 
 For some few moments that made a perceptible 
 pause Father Connelly remained looking out of the 
 lofty window on to the open meadow that, studded 
 with occasional trees, stretched right down to the sea. 
 At last he turned abruptly. 
 
 " Ye've never been out of this country before, have 
 ye?" he asked. 
 
 " I have not."
 
 88 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 It would have seemed from the tone of his voice 
 that the parish priest was about to say something 
 else instead of which he drew a large, red, spotted 
 handkerchief from the pocket in the tail of his coat 
 and blew his nose.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IT was not often that Father Michael went out to 
 Ballysheen, though the invitations were frequent. 
 When he did, however, the many interests which 
 occupied Father Connelly on his farm had all to be 
 gone through with that childish enthusiasm which the 
 parish priest displayed over the things of Nature. 
 It was generally late when the curate started back to 
 Rathmore. 
 
 On this occasion the sun was just beginning to 
 stain the western sky with its flushing gold, and a 
 warm, rosy light hung over the Galtee Mountains as 
 Father Michael closed the white iron gate after him 
 and turned his face towards the village. 
 
 All that Father Connelly had said to him had had 
 the effect, as it were, of a bath of cold, invigorating 
 water. He felt younger in his mind than he had done 
 when some few hours before he had approached the 
 house. 
 
 A more defined and resolute determination had risen 
 within him. He was more prepared to conquer the 
 imperative ideas that had begun again to force them- 
 selves into his thoughts, and as he quickened his 
 steps towards Rathmore, he felt as though he were a 
 younger man than he had always considered himself 
 to be. 
 
 On this return journey from Ballysheen he kept to 
 the road that wound a tortuous way through pasture 
 fields and new-born crops of fragile, whispering 
 wheat. High hedges rose on either side of him, and
 
 90 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 to his left, beyond the breadth of some two or three 
 low-lying fields, stretched the sea. 
 
 Those who have walked the country roads in Ireland 
 have known the quietness of the world. 
 
 Only the insect life, and, if there be the ocean within 
 hearing, the lapping hush of the waves, make their 
 gentle efforts to break a silence that seems almost 
 sacred in its intensity. Here and there in the dis- 
 tance, as though crouching against the green earth, 
 a whitewashed cottage tells the story of human life, 
 but in so infinitely unobtrusive and concealed a way 
 that the pedestrian feels as if he were first man in 
 God's Eden. 
 
 It was with sensations very much influenced by the 
 surrounding solitude that Father Michael walked on 
 in the middle of the road between the deep cart-ruts 
 which no county council ever thought fit to repair. 
 But the basis of his thoughts was far from being a 
 feeling of solitude. 
 
 A new side of life was about to be shown to him. 
 He was going to study fresh things, not through 
 other eyes, but in them. It was quite childish he 
 knew, but he looked forward to the event with an 
 almost puerile eagerness. In his mind he ventured to 
 compare it with the eagerness that his brothers had 
 shown to see the pig killed when he was but four 
 years old, and he smiled. It was not unlike. We 
 all become children when we see a strange thing for 
 the first time in our lives; but the older we get the 
 less opportunity we find to behold those fresh things, 
 the more we come to realize that for us, under the 
 sun, there is nothing that is new.
 
 THE CELIBATE 91 
 
 Already plans had begun to formulate themselves in 
 his mind. He recalled the existence of Maurice Hol- 
 land. The letter he had written and his address were 
 still in his possession. Father Michael determined 
 to write and let him know that he would be passing 
 through London on his way to Paris. 
 
 Vaguely he wondered into what sort of man the 
 boy would have grown ; whether he had married, and 
 if he still pursued those studies of theology which 
 Father Anthony had so capably grafted in his mind. 
 From this his imagination led him into wild specula- 
 tions and ideas as to the size and wickedness of 
 London! He could not exactly explain why, but size 
 and wickedness seemed almost symonymous where the 
 cities of the world were concerned. It was partially 
 from this standpoint that he more feared the going 
 to London than his visit to Paris, and firmly deter- 
 mined that however he was pressed by his friend he 
 would not stay in the former city for longer than one 
 night. 
 
 In the first place, he had but little to defray the 
 expenses which would be needed for so long a journey. 
 Had he been going to the other end of the continent 
 the prospect could have seemed no greater in his mind. 
 And so, having, as he calculated would be the case, 
 but three shillings a day wherewith to pay for amuse- 
 ment, he decided that it would be unwise to stay 
 longer than one night in London. 
 
 Father Connelly certainly had offered to lend him 
 anything that he would need, and he could always 
 write home to Ballyporeen ; but these two means of 
 increasing his capital he felt to be impossible. More-
 
 92 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 over to spend three shillings a day, when in Rath- 
 more he scarcely spent as much in a fortnight, seemed 
 the extreme of needless extravagance. 
 
 In this almost childlike way he looked on into the 
 near future, just as on the night that he had learnt 
 he was to become a priest he had lain awake consider- 
 ing all that lay before him. 
 
 The road on which he was walking took a sharp 
 turn, after which it led straight on into Rathmore. 
 As he came round the corner, still ruminating on the 
 possibilities of his excursion, he heard the voice of a 
 man raised in violent condemnation against some 
 person or persons who, so far as any audible reply 
 was concerned, seemed to be offering no resistance to 
 the angry threats that he was making. 
 
 Father Michael stopped for a moment to listen. 
 
 "Yirra, the divil fly away wid ye, ye little, red- 
 headed av a thieving, adulterating publican, ye. 
 
 Glory be to God, if I catch ye bringing in thim 
 starvin' cattle agin, I'll bate ye agin ye go hoame so 
 that yeer father, no mather if he do be sober, won't 
 recognize ye. I will so, ye little, red-headed ye." 
 
 Father Michael could not wait to hear another word. 
 Whoever it was and however justly those accusations 
 were deserved, the brutal and filthy language of the 
 man made his blood boil within him. He hurried 
 through an open gate into the field whose occupants 
 were hidden from his sight by the high furze hedge 
 which skirted the top of the bank. 
 
 The sight that met his eyes was one that stayed in 
 his mind for many a day to come, though truly cer- 
 tain circumstances helped to renew its memory.
 
 THE CELIBATE 93 
 
 Standing in the thick pasture field, his legs apart in 
 an attitude of uncontrollable anger, was a man of 
 the farming type though he wore no dress to charac- 
 terize him as such. A little higher in station he was 
 than the man to whom Father Michael had spoken 
 when going out to Ballyporeen that morning, but not 
 far removed from him in mind. 
 
 At some little distance from him, with the quaint 
 appearance of some fairy sprite, holding a little 
 switch of willow in her hand and surrounded by a 
 group of waiting, wondering cows, stood a small girl. 
 Her head was raised, but she was not looking at the 
 man before her, and notwithstanding the violence of 
 his abuse there was not the sign of a tear in her eye or 
 the suggestion of a quivering of her lip. The first 
 thing about her which fastened itself upon Father 
 Michael's mind was the burnished copper redness of 
 her hair. Of course he had heard that the man had 
 taunted her with it but then he had forgotten. 
 
 Her little bare feet were hidden in the grass that; 
 grew up over her ankles where she was standing. 
 There was a wistful expression in her pale, round 
 face, as though she had scarcely heard a word of 
 what had been said to her. But the moment the 
 priest made his appearance in the field, both man 
 and child turned their heads quickly in his direcr* 
 tion. 
 
 " What are ye after saying to that child? " he asked, 
 keeping the anger from his voice as well as he could. 
 "What's she after doing that gives ye the right to 
 speak in that coarse, vile way to her? " 
 
 The man he recognized at once as being a small
 
 94 
 
 farmer in the district, who had no exceptional name 
 for honesty and, to Father Michael's knowledge, 
 attended Holy Communion as seldom as he dared. 
 The little girl he vaguely remembered having seen 
 in the National School, but she had never stood out 
 amongst the many other bare-footed children as she 
 seemed to rise out of her surroundings here. 
 
 "What d'ye mean by talking to her like that?" he 
 added, as the man sullenly made no answer. 
 
 "Wisha, I pay two pun ten a year rent for these 
 
 couple o' acres and this young " he hesitated to 
 
 choose the word. 
 
 " Be careful ! " Father Michael warned him. 
 
 " She brings in thim starvin' cows of her father's," 
 he continued, with no abatement of his rage, "she 
 brings 'em in when it's drawin' towards evenin' an' 
 she thinks she won't be seen. Snure the Lord knows 
 I can't pay two pun ten a year to feed other man's 
 cattle. I can not so. An', by dad, I doan't ! " 
 
 All the right was obviously on the man's side. It 
 did not need the wisdom of Solomon to see that. But 
 something in the attitude of the child, something in 
 the wistful quaintness of her appearance, with her 
 tangled mass of red hair, and the words of abuse 
 which the man had heaped upon her, made Father 
 Michael defend her in spite of everything. 
 
 "Why don't ye tell that to her father?" he said 
 quickly. It was always noticeable in him that when 
 his speech was quick and his feelings roused, he fre- 
 quently resorted to the custom of his youth, dropping 
 the "you "for "ye." 
 
 " Why don't ye go and threaten him with that Ian-
 
 THE CELIBATE 95 
 
 guage?" he went on. "Ye ought to be ashamed of 
 yerself, so ye ought, to be standing up there, five 
 foot ten if ye're an inch, an' shouting curses at a 
 little girl not half yer size." 
 
 The farmer looked sullenly at the priest, then at 
 the girl, finally at the three cows, after which he 
 turned on his heel. 
 
 "If yeer riverence sees fit to difind thim as comes 
 and shteals what's afther belonging to honest, dey- 
 cent, poor people, sure it's nothing to do with me. 
 But, by dad, if I catch her again in my fields " he 
 turned and cast a baleful glance in her direction 
 " I'll bring the law again her I will so." 
 
 With this last threat he strode away across the 
 field, muttering to himself the curses that he had been 
 afraid to utter in the presence of the priest. 
 
 For the moment Father Michael followed him with 
 his eyes, then, conquering the impulse to call a reply 
 after his retreating figure, he turned to the child. 
 She was still standing in the same position, just 
 swaying the willow switch backwards and forwards 
 in her hand, while the three gaunt cows behind her, 
 chewing the cud of their stolen grazing, looked on 
 with an air of silent expectancy. 
 
 He bent down and peered into her face, in which 
 moment her eyes met his, but she still said nothing. 
 
 " What's your name ? " he asked. 
 
 " Annie." 
 
 " Annie what ? " 
 
 " Annie Foley." 
 
 "Is your father the publican in Rathmore?" 
 
 "He is, Father."
 
 96 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 She changed her attitude of attention from one foot 
 to another. 
 
 "Is it true what Mr. Power said, that you were 
 after bringing in your cows to graze on his land? " 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Do you know it's wrong wicked?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 For a moment Father Michael was nonplussed. 
 " Why do you do it, then? " 
 
 " Me father 'ud be after batin' me if I didn't." 
 
 "Beat you?" 
 
 "He would." 
 
 " Does he often beat you? " 
 
 Until that moment she had been looking down on 
 to the ground, but at this question she raised her eyes 
 in perfectly innocent surprise. She said nothing, but 
 Father Michael realized that he had been only too 
 fully answered, and a sudden sense of pity, that was 
 far from philosophical, touched the human side of his 
 nature. 
 
 With her pale face, spotted here and there with 
 freckles that were by no means disfiguring, she seemed 
 too fragile a thing to be beaten. Beaten! The 
 thought of it as he watched her standing there wist- 
 fully in front of him made his blood throb with 
 sudden heat in his temples. He did not know that 
 in that moment his sensations were excessively human. 
 He did not recognize that, in that feeling of compel- 
 ling anger, he was subject to the primary instinct of 
 man for woman the instinct of protection which 
 impels the lion to shelter the lionness and her cubs, the 
 ape to fight for the mother with its young.
 
 THE CELIBATE 97 
 
 As Father Connelly had but vaguely seen, he had 
 deeply studied moral philosophy, yet of these primal 
 facts of nature, upon which no book save that great, 
 open volume of experience has been written, he knew 
 nothing. 
 
 " You'd better be driving your cows home," he said 
 quietly. "And I'll come and see your father to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Without another word she gathered the big beasts 
 together. They knew well enough what her action 
 meant ; and though had they chosen they might with 
 their huge bodies that towered over her spritish figure 
 have taken their will in any direction, yet they filed 
 out slowly on to the road, whisking their long tails 
 and turning down the straight way into Rathmore. 
 
 Glancing no more in his direction she followed 
 behind them swaying her willow switch, sometimes lay- 
 ing it gently on the back of the cow nearest her. 
 
 He closed the gate slowly after her, and when he too 
 turned on to the road, she was some thirty or forty 
 yards in front of him, her short skirt swaying to and 
 fro with every step of her bare, brown legs. 
 
 Some thing, some infinitesimal thing, with his 
 neurotic susceptibility to suggestion, had in the last 
 few moments altered the entire channel of his 
 thoughts. He was not aware of the change himself. 
 It had been far too subtle. 
 
 Nature works underground, and only the crops and 
 the crises of life come to the surface. 
 
 He was wondering as he walked along to Rath- 
 more, keeping his distance behind her, why her red 
 hair had seemed to strike a note of familiarity in his
 
 98 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 mind. It was only vaguely that he remembered hav- 
 ing seen her in the National School before. Some one, 
 he was certain, had spoken to him of that coloured 
 hair under peculiar circumstances. Ah ! of course 
 the young man who as yet had not returned for the 
 absolution of his sin. 
 
 The moment that his mind had joined the two cir- 
 cumstances he harked back to the face of the little 
 girl. Too much interested in his thoughts to realize 
 their departure from the ordinary routine he tried to 
 piece together, as it were a puzzle, some vision of the 
 little girl's face when she should become a woman. 
 He agreed tacitly with himself that no doubt she 
 would grow to be what Maurice Holland would de- 
 scribe as pretty. Already, young as she was, Father 
 Michael fancied he saw something behind her nature 
 which found no connection with the indefinite idea 
 that he had formed and accepted of woman as a sex. 
 
 Was it a depth? Possibly but of what? A depth 
 of something that seemed to attract him, as one is 
 physically drawn to look 'over a great and giddy 
 height. 
 
 Whatever it was it was all very intangible. But he 
 arrived so far in this almost unconscious introspec- 
 tion as to admit that probably, when she grew to be a 
 woman, she would possess an uncommon face a face 
 that would put her apart from the ordinary members 
 of her sex who were, as he had often told himself 
 before, flippant, empty-headed, and incapable of any- 
 thing beyond the domestic duties of a wife. 
 
 And so, though she still walked before him, a little 
 girl with short skirts and bare legs, he continued to
 
 THE CELIBATE 99 
 
 look upon her In the light of the woman that she would 
 be, not in the light of the child that she was. 
 
 Thus, with absolute unconsciousness, he broke the 
 first and strongest of his principles the example of 
 St. Aloysius, who never looked even into his mother's 
 eyes.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THAT evening Father Michael wrote a long letter to 
 his sister. In a fortnight's time he told her he would 
 be with her in Duresne, and it was his intention to 
 stay for at least three weeks, this being the time that 
 the parish priest had strongly advised him to remain 
 away. 
 
 Having finished this epistle he wrote another to 
 Maurice Holland telling him on what day he would 
 arrive in London, and having posted them, he acted 
 on the advice of Father Connelly, and set out for 
 another walk into the country. 
 
 The following day was Saturday and at five o'clock 
 he went down to the chapel. There were already 
 some thirteen or fourteen people clustering in the 
 vicinity of his confessional box, all crouched in atti- 
 tudes of prayer, but with wistful eyes turned towards 
 the sacristy door in expectation of his arrival. 
 
 Changing his coat for the soutane he walked 
 leisurely down the aisle. He had scarcely hung the 
 stole about his shoulders and taken his seat in the 
 confessional before the first penitent commenced her 
 " Confiteor " through the grating. 
 
 For the space of two hours he listened with perfect 
 patience to the tales that conscience urged from the 
 supplicants at his side. One by one the little sins, 
 with infinite monotony, were whispered in to his 
 ears. 
 
 There was but small variety, for the sins which are 
 
 100
 
 THE CELIBATE 101 
 
 committed in an Irish village will continue to be 
 sinned to the end of time. 
 
 But to each one of them, Father Connelly's advice 
 still ringing in his ears, he had a kindly word to say 
 or a gentle reminder to make. And all the railing of 
 philosophy against the apparent uselessness of coun- 
 sel he kept to himself. 
 
 At last all but one had confessed their sins and 
 left the church. The one penitent remaining was 
 none other than the young man to whom three weeks 
 before Father Michael had refused absolution. 
 
 The moment that he entered the confessional and 
 began his " Confiteor " the priest recognized his voice, 
 and an unusual feeling of interest quickened in his 
 mind as he waited to hear what he had to say. 
 
 "I confessed my sin to you three weeks ago, 
 Father," he began after the final self -accusation. 
 
 " I have not forgotten, my son." 
 
 " And I have taken your advice." 
 
 "You must remind me there. What was it?" 
 
 "I do not see her now." 
 
 "And she?" 
 
 Father Michael looked at the curtain before him as 
 he waited for the answer. 
 
 "For a week I heard nothing from her. A fort- 
 night ago she wrote and told me that she was going 
 away abroad." 
 
 " And she will wait until you can marry her? " 
 
 " She did not say anything about that." 
 
 Father Michael frowned with his habitual austerity. 
 
 " Do you infer that she will not ? " 
 
 The young man paused before he answered, and
 
 102 THE 'APPLE OF 
 
 Father Michael felt intuitively that a conflict of 
 thoughts was passing in his mind. 
 
 "How can I say, Father?" he said at length. "I 
 told you the last time that she was young. A girl of 
 twenty-one never does know her own mind." 
 
 He said this bitterly. To a connoisseur of senti- 
 ment it would have sounded inconsiderate. 
 
 " Know her own mind ? " Father Michael exclaimed. 
 The combative instinct was alive in him again. It 
 was not in his nature to allow his rudimentary ideas 
 of right and wrong to be threatened with demolition 
 unchallenged. 
 
 "Know her own mind?" he repeated sharply. 
 "Why, she gave her mind when she gave her body. 
 As the one is yours by nature, so is the other. You 
 defied the laws and ordinances of God; there is only 
 one reparation to fulfil them as soon as you are 
 able." 
 
 "There is nothing that I want so much, Father," 
 he said self -defensively. " But I told you, when you 
 advised me to avoid the temptation of seeing her, I 
 told you that, without my constant influence, she 
 might learn to care for some one else." 
 
 Father Michael almost rose in his seat. 
 
 " But her child ! " he exclaimed. " What is to be- 
 come of that ? You will be its father, she its mother. 
 Yet you talk of her caring for some one else ! Where 
 have you been brought up, that, apparently in the 
 most casual way, you can talk of such things ? Care 
 for some one else ! But what of her child, I say ? " 
 
 " She will have no child, Father. There will be no 
 child."
 
 THE CELIBATE 103 
 
 Only the shifting of the penitent's position and the 
 deep-drawn breath of the priest broke the immediate 
 silence that followed. 
 
 This truly was a side of life of which Father Michael 
 knew nothing, except from hearsay, and he mixed 
 with few indeed who ever made it a topic of conversa- 
 tion. Certainly in all his experience, which no doubt 
 was very limited, he had never come into actual con- 
 tact with it before. 
 
 In the first place, he could not grasp its motives, 
 and in the second, he knew it to be against all the 
 binding laws of humanity. If it really were an in- 
 stinct of mankind to circumvent the laws of nature, 
 why did even the poorest of the poor people those, 
 for example, with whom he came into personal con- 
 tact day after day why did they not lessen the 
 degree of their responsibilities, and consider their 
 inability to support the children who often clamoured 
 at their sides for a piece of bread? If it were an 
 instinct of mankind, why did they not do as this 
 young man had done? Because they knew the sin 
 of it ! Because it was not natural in them ! Because 
 God's laws of nature were irrevocable, unavoidable, 
 omnipotent. 
 
 A sudden remembrance of Molly, the maid-of-all- 
 work at Ballyporeen, crossed his mind. She had 
 sinned. But had her sin been as great as this? Had 
 she shunned the terrible reckoning, avoided the awful 
 retribution which she knew must inevitably fall upon 
 her? She had not! 
 
 No doubt it was a natural instinct to many to 
 become the father or mother of some living thing,
 
 104. THE APPLE OF ED$N 
 
 and for that weakness of their natures God had 
 mercifully ordained the sacrament of matrimony. 
 But this other the more bestial side of life he 
 could neither understand nor tolerate. It all hung 
 upon that other point of view, the idea that there 
 were powers in a woman's face, in a woman's looks, 
 to draw men from their control; and, notwithstand- 
 ing the canonical writings of Ezra, the scribe of the 
 Babylonish captivity, he could have shouted aloud to 
 the world that it was untrue. 
 
 {seeing that the greatest of all the apostles had 
 declared the greater perfection of the continent life, 
 how could it be that there were external things, such 
 as the looks of a woman, which could carry with them 
 so unavoidable temptation for a man ? Yes ! It was 
 all untrue, and he thanked God that he knew it to 
 be so. 
 
 "You did not tell me this before," he said, when 
 these thoughts had conquered for him the first impulse 
 of contempt. 
 
 " I thought you understood that, Father. Anything 
 else would have been impossible. I know that I have 
 sinned, but I did not forget her reputation." 
 
 In his words, a quicker perception than Father 
 Michael's might have traced a certain tone of self- 
 conscious generosity. 
 
 " I told you before, I loved her passionately, if you 
 like but as honestly and faithfully as I am able. 
 Had I carried my passions any further her life 
 would have been ruined, because I cannot, as far 
 as I can see, marry her for at least another year or 
 more."
 
 THE CELIBATE 105 
 
 The pause after his last words was short, but it was 
 full of significance. 
 
 "What is reputation?" asked the priest quietly. 
 
 The young man looked about him uncomfortably in 
 the little, cramped confessional. 
 
 " What is reputation ? " Father Michael repeated. 
 
 " I don't know how you mean ? Reputation ? 
 Reputation is the opinion of the world upon the char- 
 acter, the moral character, of any person." 
 
 "That is reputation?" 
 
 " Yes, I think so. That is what I should call repu- 
 tation." 
 
 " Then what do you call your own opinion of your- 
 self?" 
 
 " Conscience, I suppose. One does not tell it to 
 everybody else, so that it can have nothing to do with 
 reputation." 
 
 " And because it has nothing to do with your reputa- 
 tion, it does not matter? My son," Father Michael's 
 voice became deep with a sudden solemnity, " such as 
 you in this world take the pen of your own fate in 
 your hand and write your own damnation. What is 
 the reputation of this world compared with the wel- 
 fare of your soul in the next ? You say it would have 
 ruined her life? Were it not better that her life were 
 ruined now than damned hereafter? " 
 
 " There is always forgiveness of sins in the next 
 world, Father; but in this, there is no hope for a 
 fallen reputation." 
 
 " So you ply a trade with God, my son, and barter 
 your repentance for a reputation? I must know but 
 little of the world, if that is the way of life."
 
 106 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "I am no exception, Father. In fact, I am the 
 general rule. I don't say it in self-defence. Like 
 thousands of others my passions are strong, but my 
 mind revolts against against the hired women, and 
 so " 
 
 "Well, and so?" 
 
 "I have sinned where I loved, and because I love 
 her I must shield her reputation." 
 
 " But she, you say, may learn to care for some one 
 else?" 
 
 "That is not my sin, Father. I did not come to 
 confess that. I came to tell you that, to prove my 
 repentance, I had risked the loss of her affection 
 that I had followed your advice and would not see 
 her for fear I should fall again. Possibly you don't 
 know how much that has meant to me, but I have 
 done it, and I am sorry for my sin." 
 
 The human mind is one marvellous complexity of 
 motives. From the feeling of bitter contempt and 
 disgust for the ways of life that were being shown 
 him Father Michael was suddenly overwhelmed by 
 a spirit of pity and sympathy. He could not and 
 did not try to explain its presence. It might have 
 been the note of human foreboding that had found 
 its way into the young man's voice. It might have 
 been his half-realized sense of the sacrifice that the 
 penitent had made. But whatever it was he leant his 
 elbows forward on his knees and prayed prayed for 
 the perfect and absolute right to absolve him of his 
 sin, and before he was aware of it prayed for the 
 soul of the girl who had sinned with him, that she too 
 might gain the spirit of repentance and that she
 
 THE CELIBATE 107 
 
 would not use the beauty which God had given her 
 to tempt the minds of others. 
 
 He had scarcely whispered the last words of his 
 request into the silence where God waits for the sound 
 of all prayers, when the village organist, unaware 
 that he was still hearing confession, seated herself 
 at the little organ in the gallery above the door, and 
 pulling out the stops began to practise the music for 
 the next day's Mass. 
 
 The soft, human notes of the little instrument stole 
 out into the gathering twilight, and as she began the 
 first bar of the " O Salutaris " Father Michael leant 
 forward and pronounced the Absolution.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 FOB the next fortnight Father Michael waged war 
 against an unwarrantable excitement. He was per- 
 fectly aware that the majority of well-to-do people 
 go abroad once nearly every year; but the point of 
 view, so far as he was concerned, was that he was 
 going and it was for the first time in his life. Yet, 
 however excusable this excitement which had over- 
 taken him might be, he did his best to conceal it 
 from every one but himself. 
 
 The keen and natural perception of Father Con- 
 nelly, however, was not to be duped. 
 
 On the day before his departure they met in the 
 main street of the village. Father Michael was hur- 
 rying to the local car-driver to order a car that would 
 bring him to the nearest railway station at Anesk. 
 
 The parish priest, with his legs wide apart and hands 
 behind his back, was surveying the efforts of some 
 workmen who were repairing the roof of a little cot- 
 tage for the possession of which he had lately invested 
 some sixty pounds. 
 
 " Ah, shure, Tim ! " he was calling out to one of the 
 labourers, "for goodness' sake be more careful of 
 that slating. Yirra, my good man, ye're not walk- 
 ing across the floor of yeer own kitchen." 
 
 Father Michael stopped. 
 
 "I'm glad I'm not a house-owner, Father Tom," 
 he said lightly. 
 
 Father Connelly laughed with his loud voice. 
 
 108
 
 THE CELIBATE 109 
 
 " Faith, if ye were," said he, " ye'd be a good deal 
 happier with the worry of it. An' so ye're off to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 I am, I think." 
 
 "Ye think?" 
 
 He laid a friendly hand upon Father Michael's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Don't tell me ye've been thinking," he said, his 
 small eyes screwing themselves into a humorous 
 expression. " Why, Father Michael, ye're as excited 
 as ~ child. Ye can't think. An', mind ye, I may be 
 wrong, but it's about the best thing in the world that 
 could happen to ye. There are certain professions," 
 he leant forward and endeavoured to say this in a 
 much lower voice into the curate's ear, " there are 
 certain professions that require thinking men. Mind 
 ye, I don't say that they always get them. But they 
 pay a high price in the hope of doing so. Such for 
 instance are doctors especially doctors faith, if 
 they thought more they'd do less lawyers, politeesh- 
 ans, and town-councillors. And, on the other hand, 
 where they pay but little, they want men who can't 
 think, who won't think." 
 
 "An' what professions are they?" 
 
 Father Connelly shrugged his broad shoulders and 
 cast a glance up to the roof of his cottage. 
 
 " Plate-laying, kingship, the Army and the Church." 
 
 Father Michael looked straightly into the unflinch- 
 ing eyes of the parish priest. 
 
 "The Church?" he echoed. 
 
 " The Church. To think, in that profession, is fatal. 
 When I was as young as thirty-three yirra, God be
 
 110 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 with the days I said to myself: 'Father Tom,' I 
 said, * ye're drilling a hole in yeer own peace of mind. 
 Chuck the drill away,' I said, an' faith, from that 
 moment to this, I haven't had a thought in me head 
 worth speaking of. I have not. Go along now and 
 order yeer car. An', mind ye, carmen belong to those 
 professions that want thinking men, so be shure ye 
 see that Ryan is sober. A man can't think when he's 
 had some liquor taken, that's why he's always such 
 a good companion." 
 
 At that they parted, Father Connelly promising to 
 come and say good-bye to his curate before he left. 
 
 Pat Ryan, the car-driver, was notorious for his in- 
 temperance; but as he owned the only vehicle of a 
 travelling description in Rathmore, this little failing 
 had to be overlooked. Mrs. Ryan, who took all his 
 orders whilst he was attending to the exigencies of 
 his business in Foley's public-house, exerted her in- 
 genuity to its utmost to discover Father Michael's 
 intentions. 
 
 "Will ye be afther wantin' the car to wait for ye 
 in Anesk, Father?" she asked, peering at him with 
 her small, thin, brown eyes. 
 
 "I shall not. Pat had better come straight back. 
 If I hear that he stayed in Anesk, got drunk and then 
 ill-treated his horse, I'll never hire him again." 
 
 Mrs. Ryan took no notice of this. She had so fre- 
 quently heard the same threat from others, and knew 
 quite well the impossibility which attended its execu- 
 tion. What most concerned her was the fact that 
 Father Everett was going away, and as yet she had 
 not learnt where to.
 
 THE CELIBATE 111 
 
 "Will there be any luggage at all?" she inquired, 
 shaking off at the same time the attentions of the 
 youngest of her many children who was pulling at her 
 skirts. 
 
 The population of Ireland may be small but it is 
 not for the want of children. 
 
 Father Michael was calculating in his mind what 
 things he could take with him so that he did not realize 
 what she had said. Determining not to lose the point, 
 she repeated the question. 
 
 " There will," he replied. " A tin trunk and one or 
 two small things." 
 
 "So ye'll be afther goin* away for yeer holidays, 
 Father? I suppose ye won't be going back to Bally- 
 poreen at all, will ye now? " 
 
 He smiled as he turned towards the door. 
 
 "I shall not." 
 
 "Then maybe ye'll be goin' to Dublin? Ye will av 
 course." 
 
 But by this time Father Michael had reached the 
 door and was the next moment out again in the street. 
 
 " Maybe, Mrs. Ryan," he said with humorous enjoy- 
 ment of her unsatisfied curiosity. "It's quite pos- 
 sible." And then he hurried back to his little cottage 
 to finish the rest of his packing. 
 
 While he was in the midst of this occupation the 
 cheerful voice of Father Connelly asking Mrs. 
 McGrath if he was in came to him from the hall. The 
 next moment the parish priest was taking three steps 
 at a time in a leisurely stride up to his room. 
 
 "Well, I'll be going back to Ballysheen in about 
 half-an-hour," he announced, standing in an attitude
 
 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 of interest as he watched Father Michael stowing 
 away his things into his tin-box. " So I thought I'd 
 be saying good-bye to ye now. Ye'll be gone to-mor- 
 row morning agen I get into Rathmore." 
 
 "I will, I suppose." He stood up and rested his 
 back. "I'm frequently getting a pain through the 
 lower part of my spine," he said, turning to the parish 
 priest to explain the action. 
 
 "Wisha, then, throw all the things in, Father 
 Michael. Shure they're not ball-dresses ye're pack- 
 ing. It never takes me more than five minutes to pack 
 me trunk, faith, it's the unpacking that I find the busi- 
 ness. But, tell me now, what are ye going to do with 
 yerself?" 
 
 " When I'm away, d'you mean ? " 
 
 " I do, of course." 
 
 "Oh, see as much as I can. There are a good 
 many places I ought to have seen. I want to go to 
 the British Museum." 
 
 Father Connelly held up his hands in horror. 
 
 " Glory be to God ! " said he, his long, upper lip 
 rigid as it always was when his mood was humorous. 
 "Here's a man going away on a holiday to enjoy 
 himself. He's leaving after him the most archaic 
 and primitive place in the world, and the first sight 
 he thinks of visiting is the British Museum. Faith, 
 I suppose ye'll be hunting up all the Waterford 
 people that are in London ? " 
 
 Father Michael laughed in the mere excitement of 
 anticipation and then went on with his packing. 
 
 Sitting on the one available chair which was not 
 covered with a miscellaneous assortment of all kinds
 
 THE CELIBATE 113 
 
 and conditions of undergarments the parish priest 
 watched him with quiet and interested amusement. 
 
 " And is the British Museum to be the climax of 
 yeer amusement? " he asked after a short time. 
 
 "Oh, it will not. I've made up my mind to see 
 the new Cathedral at Westminster, the Oratory, St. 
 Paul's, I think, and one or two other places if I have 
 time. You see, I'm only going to be in London for a 
 few hours of one day and part of the next." 
 
 " An' where are ye going to stay ? " 
 
 "With a man named Holland. I knew him some 
 time ago, before I came here." 
 
 " Is he a Waterf ord man ? " 
 
 " He's not then. He comes from Belfast." 
 
 " This country, anyway. Supposing now I give ye 
 a letter to a man I used to know in London. He's 
 never been inside this country in his life. Don't ye 
 think it would take ye more out of yerself, than 
 sitting down with a Belfast man and talking over old 
 times till for all the world ye might be back in this 
 country without ever having thought of taking a 
 holiday?" 
 
 "Well, thank you very much, Father Tom, but I 
 want to see this man Holland very much. He's an 
 old friend of mine, and I am anxious to know how 
 he's been getting on in London." 
 
 The parish priest rose from his chair and began 
 buttoning up his coat. 
 
 "Well, as ye like," said he, his upper lip relaxing 
 from its former rigidity. " I was only trying to point 
 out to ye that new places are not a sufficient change 
 for a man who's got into the sort of groove that ye
 
 114 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 have. They're only a different combination of bricks, 
 mortar and paving stones. It's the new people and 
 the new minds which a man is afther meeting that 
 make a change in him. I may be all wrong, mind 
 ye, but I don't expect to see much difference in ye 
 when ye come back. I do not." 
 
 Father Michael stood up again to rest his back. 
 
 "But why should you be worrying yourself about 
 it at all? " he asked. " I'll thoroughly enjoy myself. 
 I'm quite certain of that, an' shure well shure, why 
 worry yourself?" 
 
 The parish priest had turned to the door, but on a 
 sudden impulse he came back into the room and for 
 the second time that morning, as though there were 
 some apprehension in his mind, he laid his hand on 
 the curate's shoulder. 
 
 "I never worry," he said quite quietly for him. 
 " When a man worries, he goes out considerably more 
 than half the road to meet the diwle an' insists on 
 dragging him home with him. If I was going to 
 worry meself, faith, I'd first buy me coffin I would 
 so an' by dad, I'd see that I didn't pay for it 
 either. No, my son," he raised his hand and brought 
 it down again gently on Father Michael's shoulder, 
 "I'm not worrying about ye. It may be that I'm 
 interested in ye. P'raps that's what it is." 
 
 He held out his hand solemnly and gripped Father 
 Michael's in its vice. The next moment, without 
 another word he had passed out of the room, de- 
 scended the small staircase that led up from the hall, 
 and the door banged after him as he stepped into the 
 road*
 
 THE CELIBATE 115 
 
 Father Michael stood in the same attitude listening 
 to the different sounds of his departure, and when 
 outside he heard him greeting a labourer in his usual 
 strident voice he turned back again to his tin box and 
 closed the lid. 
 
 There was not a sedative in the world that could 
 have brought quietness of mind to him that night. 
 He was going away ; right into another country and 
 into yet another from that. 
 
 When a man has fitted the first twenty-six years of 
 his life into a groove and then in one moment finds 
 not that he is going to drift into a fresh channel 
 but that, for however short a period, he is going to 
 step into an absolutely new state of existence, the 
 whole of the prospect teems with a sudden sense of 
 possibility. 
 
 With Father Michael the idea had caught hold of 
 the undeveloped phase of his youth; that phase which 
 is evolved into manhood by the action and energy of 
 the senses, which with him had lain in a state of abso- 
 lute quiescence until the moment when this long vista 
 of intangible possibilities had called it into being. 
 
 Even now it was but scarcely awake, as is the man 
 roused early from his slumbers and told that his day's 
 work must begin. Indeed it had been so slightly 
 stirred that as yet the priest was utterly unaware of 
 its existence. In the study of philosophy and the 
 cultivation of his mind he had left his body behind to 
 take care of itself, and it was only when his nervous- 
 ness and the inability to sleep came upon him that he 
 was in any way aware of its presence. 
 
 He watched the next morning break with glowing
 
 116 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 shafts of light from the east. At one moment, as it 
 seemed, his little room was in darkness, then the next, 
 the grey light filtered in making visible all the objects 
 with which it was furnished. It seemed almost impos- 
 sible to think that on the very next morning he would 
 not see them again for three weeks or more. 
 
 As he lay awake lazily contemplating all that he 
 would be doing in the next twenty-four hours the 
 grey lights softly toned into gold and the newly-risen 
 sun began to find its way through the thin lace 
 curtains. After that who could persist in calling it 
 night? It was day and in another moment he was 
 out of bed and dressing himself in the clothes in 
 which he intended to travel. 
 
 As it was only approaching six o'clock and there 
 was nothing further in the way of packing to be done, 
 he crept noiselessly down-stairs, opened the front 
 door and went out for a walk before the hour at which 
 he had previously ordered breakfast. 
 
 In that clear, still light of the early morning the 
 world seemed new, almost strange. Turning towards 
 the sea he made his way to the long stretch of 
 strand by which he had walked out to Ballysheen on 
 the morning that he had received the letter from his 
 sister. 
 
 Cleansed and smoothened by the ebbing sea the sand 
 stretched out a mile before him, patched here and 
 there with dark tufts of seaweed that, clinging to 
 the projection of some half -buried stone, had resisted 
 the efforts of the receding tide. As yet no footmarks 
 had been made to break its yielding surface. It lay 
 there, the bed of the great sea given up to mankind,
 
 THE CELIBATE 117 
 
 a right of way, the use of which no urban law could 
 dispute. 
 
 It was not, he thought, as he looked out to the dark 
 purple shadows of the first headland that stood out 
 to sea, it was not that he would never see the place 
 again ; but that he realized he was going a very long 
 way away from it, and a sudden appreciation of the 
 meaning these simple surroundings had held for him 
 made him for the moment think differently of his 
 departure. Had he been asked, there were but few 
 reasons for which he would have given up his pros- 
 pect. Yet to himself, in the silence of his own mind, 
 he was conscious of an irresistible sensation of loneli- 
 ness ; almost a physical dread of what the future 
 might hold in its hand. 
 
 Father Connelly had said that he would not expect 
 to find him changed. Well, he was not sorry for 
 that. He had no wish to be different. After all, this 
 was what from the first he had expected his life to 
 be. It differed in no way from his original concep- 
 tion of it, except that probably he had found a 
 greater solemnity in his calling than he had at first 
 anticipated. 
 
 The parish priest he knew to be as noble a man in 
 his vocation as the Church could wish to find, but, for 
 all that, Father Michael could not accept life as he 
 took it. Life was a serious matter. Every great 
 man had found it so, and not because he fancied 
 himself great, but because he worshipped greatness, 
 he found it to be so as well. 
 
 Father Connelly did not worry himself, but that 
 was because life held no serious side for him. He
 
 118 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 probably had no thoughts to conquer, no inclinations 
 to repel. How should he worry himself ? To Father 
 Michael, who took all things to heart, life was full of 
 those little mental jars. The smallest thought which 
 he considered derogatory to his calling had to be 
 killed, annihilated, and the battle was a continual 
 one. 
 
 No, life certainly was a great matter. From the 
 very beginning almost he had accepted and treated 
 it as such, and nothing that the parish priest could 
 say would alter his opinion of it. 
 
 He remembered the older man's accusing him of 
 the fault of his youth. He had not said it to Father 
 Connelly, of course, because he was filled with every 
 respect for him, but he fancied that in matters of the 
 mind he thought more deeply and came more closely 
 to the real, spiritual root of things than did the elder 
 man to whom he owed obedience. 
 
 But in all these matters, as they filed slowly through 
 his thoughts, he did not stop to consider that if the 
 mind grows old before the body it is an unnatural, 
 precocious and morbid maturity. He did not realize 
 that all its reasonings are unsound, that all its ideas 
 are fallacies. Had he been told that it is only the 
 combined growth of these two great factors which 
 constitutes the ability of getting at the real root of 
 anything, he would not have understood or believed it. 
 
 As it neared his breakfast-time the feeling of loneli- 
 ness left him, and with increasing eagerness to begin 
 his journey he hurried back through the village to his 
 cottage. 
 
 Punctually at the hour Ryan arrived at the door,
 
 THE CELIBATE 119 
 
 whipping up his horse over the last piece of ground 
 up to the house as though there were but five minutes 
 to spare. Then the tin trunk was tied with rope to 
 the driver's footboard, and over it he swung his legs. 
 The few small things were placed in the well of the 
 vehicle, and, mounting the car, Father Michael 
 wrapped a large rug about him. Since his breakfast 
 the day, so gloriously begun, had broken into a mist 
 of rain and the precaution of covering was necessary. 
 
 At the last moment Mrs. McGrath hurried to the 
 door with a small parcel of sandwiches and thrust 
 them into his hand. There were no tears in her eyes, 
 for she was a woman with the uncommon reputation 
 of never having been known to weep in her life. But 
 a keen observer might have seen a certain tightness 
 about her lips and an unaccountable shifting of her 
 eyes, as though she were worried by the presence of 
 some contingency. 
 
 This was the first time that Father Michael had 
 been away since he had come to Rathmore, and she 
 had not realized until then that, attending to his 
 wants, keeping his rooms tidy and obeying his com- 
 mands had made up the whole of her life since the 
 death of her husband. 
 
 " Good-bye, Father, and God bless ye," she said in 
 rather a strained voice, as Ryan turned the horse's 
 head towards the long road that led to Anesk. Then 
 without looking in his direction again, she went 
 straight back into the house and began doing things 
 in the kitchen with more noise than might have 
 seemed absolutely necessary. 
 
 As he drove past the last of the few cottages at the
 
 120 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 end of the main street of the village, children and 
 parents came to the doors and stood there open- 
 mouthed. One of the women ventured to call out 
 after him, " God bless ye, Father." And the others, 
 who kept silence out of respect, repeated the blessing 
 under their breaths. 
 
 In another moment they had turned off on to the 
 straight road to Anesk, and with something very like 
 a lump in his throat Father Michael took one last 
 look at the clustering, grey roofs of the little village 
 of Rathmore. Then he leant back in his seat to 
 look forward towards the direction in which he was 
 going. 
 
 They had barely covered half-a-mile of the road 
 when Ryan pulled up his horse to a standstill. Three 
 large cows were obstructing the way with no apparent 
 sign of an owner. 
 
 "Yirra, what the diwle?" he began, and at that 
 moment little Annie Foley came out of a field carrying 
 her fragile willow switch in her hand. 
 
 "Take thim starvin* cows out of the road, will 
 ye ? " Ryan yelled, though she was within but a few 
 yards of them. 
 
 She made no sign of having heard him beyond 
 the fact that she collected the animals into a small 
 space which the approach to the gate had made, 
 and, before Father Michael could say a word to her, 
 Ryan had lashed his horse and they were bowling on 
 again to Anesk. 
 
 Directly they had passed her Father Michael looked 
 back. 
 
 She was still standing gazing in the direction of
 
 THE CELIBATE 121 
 
 the car. Her small figure looked more elfish than 
 ever as the distance between them increased, and the 
 last thing he noticed, as they turned a sharp corner, 
 was the sudden flash of burnished copper as the wind 
 caught and tossed her red hair.
 
 BOOK II 
 
 THE MAN.
 
 "To enter the priesthood in a becoming manner, 
 certain qualifications are required. Of these, some are 
 physical, such as soundness of body, freedom from 
 such bodily defects or diseases as unfit one for dis- 
 charging the duties of that sublime state." REV. 
 FERBEOL GIRARDY, C. SS. R. 
 
 " For the scripture saith: Thou shalt not muzzle 
 the ox that treadeth out the corn: and the labourer is 
 worthy of his reward." 1 Tim. v. 18 (translated 
 from the Latin Vulgate). 
 
 "Why dost thou anoint a stone, and pour gifts 
 upon the ground? Cease from vain oblations 
 rather anoint me while I live." ANACEEOK. 
 
 " Oh, Thou who did'st with pitfall and with gin 
 Beset the road I was to wander in; 
 . Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round 
 Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!" 
 
 Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 AT the violent swaying from side to side, as the 
 train rushed over the many points that are inter- 
 woven through the main lines of the railway track 
 outside London, Father Michael awoke with a start. 
 
 Seeing that he had opened his eyes, a travelling 
 companion, with whom he had chatted on the boat, 
 leant forward. 
 
 "We're in the suburbs of London now," he said, 
 and Father Michael turned quickly to look out of 
 the window. 
 
 So this was London. This blue haze with its sea 
 of roofs and forests of chimney-pots. He had seen 
 Cork, he had been to Dublin; but this was London, 
 where the greatest mass of people in the world were 
 collected together and lived a greater number of 
 people than that which comprised the whole popula- 
 tion of Ireland. This air of smoke was what they 
 breathed. There was scarcely a tree in sight. As 
 they swung through Willesden Junction he leant back 
 again in his seat and looked across at the man who had 
 informed him of their approach to the city. 
 
 " This is all London? " he asked. 
 
 " Every bit of it. Suburbs, of course, but it's all 
 London." 
 
 Then he proceeded to impart a lot of useless infor- 
 mation concerning the growth of the city, to which 
 Father Michael listened patiently, interpolating a 
 remark here and there to show that he was attending. 
 
 125
 
 126 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 At last with an internal grating of brakes the train 
 slowed up into Euston Station. Father Michael 
 stood up to get the small things from the rack above 
 his head. 
 
 "I suppose you know how to get to your destina- 
 tion?" asked his companion with a curiosity that 
 showed little difference to that displayed by Mrs. 
 Ryan on the day before his departure. 
 
 " I do. Oh, I do," he said, and he stepped out hur- 
 riedly from the carriage to look after his luggage in 
 the van. It did not take long to identify his tin box, 
 upon which many years ago it seemed then Patsy 
 the farm-hand had painted his initials in black. 
 
 He was just turning to the porter who had followed 
 him to notify him of the fact that it was amongst the 
 luggage freshly thrown out on to the platform when 
 a hand was laid on his shoulder. 
 
 He looked quickly behind him to find a tall man 
 smiling into his face. The stranger was one of the 
 first young men wearing a beard and moustache whom 
 Father Michael had seen in England. It gave him 
 almost the appearance of a foreigner. A soft felt hat 
 was placed carelessly on his head and a long, thin 
 overcoat covered completely whatever clothes he 
 might be wearing underneath. Seeing that he still 
 smiled as though he recognized him Father Michael 
 was just about to explain that there was evidently 
 some mistake, when a deep voice that seemed to issue 
 from the very depths of the man's chest, said 
 
 "Ah, shure now, Michael, it's no good pretending 
 ye don't know me," and in the laugh that followed, 
 the priest recognized Maurice Holland.
 
 THE MAN 
 
 "God bless us," he said quite seriously, "is that 
 you, Maurice?" 
 
 Then they both laughed and shook hands. 
 
 It was just approaching eight o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, and as Father Michael had come straight on 
 the night before by the mail train, their first con- 
 sideration was to get back to Holland's studio and 
 have breakfast. 
 
 The drive back to Regent Street, where the studio 
 was situated on the top floor of a house south-west 
 of Vigo Street did not take more than twenty min- 
 utes. The shops had not opened as yet, so that 
 Father Michael did not see as much of the business 
 of the great city as he had expected. 
 
 They mounted the three flights of stairs up to the 
 top floor, each taking a handle of the tin trunk. It 
 was not a little heavy as Father Michael, anticipating 
 the remote possibilities of some idle moments, had 
 packed in it some of his philosophical books. Now 
 books on philosophy are no more light carrying than 
 they are light reading, and when they reached the 
 top of the stairs the pain in his spine had driven 
 the blood out of his face so that his cheeks were 
 white and his lips twitched. 
 
 " Bit of a pull, isn't it ? " Holland remarked. " My 
 Lord ! Why you look as white as a sheet." 
 
 " That's my spine. I think it must be rather weak. 
 
 I've been after suffering a good deal with it lately." 
 
 "Spine?" Holland screwed up his lips and 
 
 whistled. Then, picking up the tin trunk with both 
 
 hands, he kicked open the door of the studio, and 
 Father Michael followed him into the room.
 
 128 THE 'APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 It was a fine, big, capacious studio with a roof- 
 window that caught all the north-east light that there 
 was to be had. At each end of it, where the ceiling 
 sloped downwards, a curtain of some cheap Oriental 
 material was hung to partition off the somewhat 
 cramped space. One of these portions Holland had 
 turned into a bedroom, and in the other he stowed 
 his collection of used and unused canvases failures 
 and the untouched hopes of success. 
 
 The walls were hung with rough sketches in colours 
 and black and white studies for illustration which 
 had never been finished. It is in these that the char- 
 acter of an artist is to be seen, for no man in any 
 other profession hangs his efforts upon his walls in 
 full view of every visitor. Yet it is by these alone 
 that the artist learns his craft, and accordingly 
 they are given their prominence in his scheme of 
 decoration. 
 
 An easel, a model's throne and a strip of Eastern 
 carpet to cover the bare boards, completed the furni- 
 ture, except that in one corner of the room was a 
 small deal table laid with a well-patched white 
 cloth. Under the table had been pushed two kitchen 
 chairs. 
 
 Father Michael stood still and looked about him. 
 
 "Is this where you live, Maurice?" he asked. 
 
 Holland shoved the tin box behind the curtain and 
 stood up. There was a look of surprise sensitive 
 surprise on his face. 
 
 "Where I live? Of course it is. Did you think 
 I'd got another residence in Park Lane?" Then he 
 laughed.
 
 THE MAN 129 
 
 " Come in here," he pulled the curtain aside, " and 
 get a wash ; I'll ring for breakfast." 
 
 The basin was small and the soap well-worn, so 
 that Father Michael did not take long over his ablu- 
 tions. When he came back into the room again 
 Holland was taking off his long overceat. Under- 
 neath it was a thin, shabby jacket, which had prob- 
 ably once belonged to a suit of pyjamas, and Father 
 Michael suddenly understood the need for his outdoor 
 attire. 
 
 An elderly woman of the charing type answered 
 the bell which Holland had rung for breakfast. She 
 brought in two plates with tin covers over them. 
 Underneath each were two rashers of bacon and an 
 egg that had been fried to a cinder. But to Father 
 Michael, who was almost weak with hunger, and 
 Holland, who had never had anything different for 
 the last two years, the condition of the cooking passed 
 unnoticed. 
 
 As he poured out the tea which had followed, Hol- 
 land leant back in his chair, tilting it backwards, 
 and looked across at his visitor. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I'd have known you at a conven- 
 tion. I would indeed." 
 
 Father Michael smiled. Holland's brogue had been 
 so curiously disfigured by his English surroundings. 
 
 "You don't think I've changed?" 
 
 " Not in appearance." 
 
 " Ah, appearances aren't everything." 
 
 " Except when you want to sell a picture." 
 
 "Oh, is that the way?" 
 
 Holland looked up from his plate.
 
 130 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "What do you think people buy pictures for?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. The copy of Rubens that we 
 have in the chapel at Rathmore always seems very 
 inspiring to me. That's about the only good picture 
 I've seen." 
 
 " But I'm not talking about masters. People paint 
 now-a-days to get something to eat. The picture 
 you least like to paint the dealers want four copies 
 of. So you paint these four, and when you receive 
 the money for them you begin to get over the feeling 
 of wishing you were dead." 
 
 "But what sort of picture do they want? And 
 why should you wish that you were dead ? " 
 
 Accepting the hospitality of his friend he felt called 
 upon to inquire about these things, though they did 
 not really interest him. 
 
 " The sort of picture they want is the beautiful girl 
 in the beautiful pose, with a beautiful background of 
 passion-flowers. Why you wish you were dead, is 
 because there's not a daub of life in her from the 
 chaplet round her head to the sandals on her feet. 
 And when you see four copies of her standing round 
 on the floor you feel as if she were trying to throttle 
 you." 
 
 Father Michael listened intently to all that his 
 friend was saying, and when Holland looked up to 
 find his grey, serious eyes taking it all in such a vein 
 he could not help laughing. 
 
 " Oh, but that's not the only side to the business," 
 he added with sudden earnestness. " There is 
 another side*"
 
 THE MAN 131 
 
 He rose impulsively from the table and crossed to 
 the easel. The picture standing on its rest was 
 covered with a thin, green baize cloth. 
 
 " There is this side," he lifted up the material and 
 stood aside, so that the priest could the more plainly 
 and to advantage see the picture which he had 
 unveiled. 
 
 Without doubt there was the touch of genius in its 
 conception and execution. Just the light, passing 
 touch of genius, which is more to be appreciated in 
 its promise of greater things than in its immediate 
 presence. 
 
 It was the portrait of a girl. She was by no means 
 beautiful, not even pretty. A mass of brown hair 
 coiled untidily, but with naturally graceful curves 
 about her head. In her eyes lay an expression that 
 seemed to take in all her surroundings, whatever they 
 might be. Father Michael felt that they included 
 him, but him alone. Her mouth, neither large nor 
 small, looked warm with the moving life that she all 
 but possessed, and her shoulders and breast, though 
 undraped were toned down by heavy shadows into a 
 mere suggestion of their outline. 
 
 "I've called it 'The Inevitable,'" said Maurice 
 simply. 
 
 Father Michael found his eyes clinging to it, yet all 
 his inborn idea of things his repugnance to those 
 obvious facts of which too suddenly he had realized 
 that this was one made him wish not to see it any 
 longer. 
 
 " I suppose it's very good," he said awkwardly, and 
 he felt that the blood was rising in his checks. " But
 
 132 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 I never look at that sort of picture. I must confess I 
 don't see any necessity for it." 
 
 Maurice looked at him quickly, almost incredulously. 
 Then he let the cloth fall back to the picture again. 
 
 " One man's meat, another man's poison," he said as 
 he came back to the table to finish his tea. 
 
 It was all he said, and for a moment or so while he 
 rolled a cigarette the position was somewhat strained. 
 
 When two men come upon an essential difference 
 that exists between them, no matter whether it be one 
 of principle or of conviction, they invariably part 
 company. Tacitly, silently and irrevocably they 
 drift out of their former connections, just as Father 
 Michael and Maurice Holland had done at Maynooth, 
 and as they were about to do now. 
 
 With women, such matters are conducted on abso- 
 lutely different lines. There is no tacit separation 
 with them. On the other hand, they meet just as 
 frequently not quite as intimately perhaps but 
 with an open semblance of mutual friendship. 
 
 The moment that Holland realized the vast gulf that 
 lay between his sympathies and those of his com- 
 panion, the friendship, which circumstances had 
 endeavoured to renew between them, found in his 
 mind no more ground for existence. 
 
 And with Father Michael, directly he saw the 
 worldly change in the mind of his old friend, all possi- 
 bility of thinking that they could renew their com- 
 radeship passed out of his thoughts. He felt that he 
 had nothing in common with a man who could paint 
 the picture of a woman such as that was and call it 
 "The Inevitable." And similarly, Holland deter-
 
 THE MAN 
 
 mined that, with one who could treat his work the 
 work into which he had put all his ill-fed energy 
 in such a way as Father Michael had done, all further 
 friendship was out of the question. 
 
 They may not have been aware of each other's 
 thoughts, but both of them felt the strain of the 
 silence and Maurice did his best to break it. He took 
 circumstance by the hand, and spoke on impulse. 
 
 "Of course I fully appreciate your your prin- 
 ciples. You don't look at those things. Naturally, 
 you have nothing to do with them. For example 
 St. Aloysius. It was my mistake. I didn't intend 
 to disturb your mind. -I was only labouring under 
 the misapprehension that having looked me up you'd 
 like to see what I've done with myself. That's what 
 I've done. But of course I should have remembered 
 that you wouldn't understand it." 
 
 " Oh, I understand it," Father Michael said bitterly. 
 " I quite understand all that it means to convey, and 
 all the effect it will have upon those people who make 
 a point of seeing such things. But as I said before, 
 I don't approve of them. There's quite enough mis- 
 directed inclination in this world without needing 
 superfluous things of that kind to encourage it. I 
 don't say, I'm not so narrow-minded as to say, that 
 the world would be any better than it is without those 
 incentive objects; but I really think, in fact I know 
 that I'm right in saying, that with them it is worse 
 than God meant it to be. I'm quite aware that that's 
 a fine distinction, but to my mind it counts." 
 
 All through this speech Holland had been pulling 
 strenuously at his ill-made cigarette, taking impulsive
 
 134 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 breaths in the anticipation of speaking, of refuting 
 what Father Michael was saying. But until the 
 priest had reached the end of his last sentence he 
 could not find an opportunity. When he did he 
 launched forth with all the inflammable vigour of his 
 nationality which, combined with the sense of in- 
 justice done to the nobility of his profession, made 
 his words more bitter than they might otherwise have 
 been. 
 
 "What do you mean by superfluous things of that 
 kind?" he asked. "What do you mean by your 
 expression, incentive objects?" 
 
 Father Michael rose a little nervously from the table. 
 He had a neurotic repugnance to discussions of this 
 kind. But now he felt that he could not well get 
 out of it, and so he endeavoured to keep his excit- 
 ability under control by walking up and down the 
 room. 
 
 " I think anything, either in a book or in a picture, 
 which inclines one's thoughts to the sensual and more 
 bestial side of life, is an incentive object of a 
 dangerous kind." 
 
 Holland threw his cigarette out of the open roof 
 window and laughed. But his laugh stopped sud- 
 denly and he became equally serious. 
 
 "Why, Good Lord!" he began, in the tone of one 
 who think a statement preposterous. "What on 
 earth is there in my picture that is sensual? The 
 head and shoulders of a girl." 
 
 " A little more than the shoulders," Father Michael 
 interrupted. 
 
 Holland looked at him acutely when he said that.
 
 THE MAN 135 
 
 He suddenly saw the full state of morbidity into 
 which the priest's mind had grown. 
 
 In one moment the whole structure of Father 
 Michael's unnatural development stood out before 
 him with so clear a distinctness that, without the 
 slightest hesitation, he could put his finger upon the 
 weak spot of the entire construction. 
 
 Here was a man, very man of very man, but not 
 very God of very God, endeavouring to emulate the 
 example of the one Man who was both. A man who, 
 because he was only human, could see in the harlot's 
 anointment with spikenard very precious no more 
 than the stain on the hands which broke the box upon 
 his head and the source from which the money to buy 
 that box had been obtained. With other saints 
 before him he would have complained that it might 
 have been sold for much and given to the poor. But 
 of her humanity and her penitence, which alone the 
 Man of God had seen, he, with those other saints 
 before him, would have seen nothing. 
 
 And so it was in a way with the picture. Very man 
 of very man, but with every natural, compensating 
 instinct undeveloped, his eyes in their morbidity had 
 rushed first to the outline of her figure, which for 
 the very reason of hating insinuating sensationalism 
 the artist had hidden away in shadow that it might 
 be inferred rather than seen. To that unaccentuated 
 portion of the picture his thoughts had flown, and all 
 which was human, all that into which Holland had 
 put the life that a continual absence of comforts had 
 taught him, the priest had passed by unnoticed. 
 
 His mind was unbalanced. His weights were
 
 136 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 wrong. He had omitted the agate of truth from his 
 power of reckoning, and his scales hung unevenly 
 upon the corruptible metal of asceticism. 
 
 " Yes," Holland replied quietly, " there was a little 
 more than the shoulders."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THEY had been talking for about an hour after the 
 breakfast was over, when Holland looked suddenly at 
 his watch. 
 
 " I say," he said, " it's eleven o'clock. My model's 
 coming at a quarter-past. I'm afraid I shall have to 
 ask you to go out." 
 
 " Oh, I intended," said Father Michael. " I want 
 to see as much as I can while I'm here. You see, I 
 start to-morrow directly after two." 
 
 "Well, where are you going?" 
 
 The priest told him of the different places that he 
 meant to visit, and Holland gave him a sheaf of 
 directions that he was to follow. 
 
 As he was putting on his hat Father Michael turned 
 to his companion. 
 
 "I'd thought you would be married, Maurice," he 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 Holland looked up from the palette on to which he 
 had already begun to squeeze his paints. 
 
 " Married ! What on earth do you think I could 
 marry on ? Why, I have to go without a meal some- 
 times to pay my rent. You don't imagine that I 
 could ask any woman to share that, do you ? " 
 
 At any other .time and to any other man seeing 
 the reason for which he had left Maynooth Father 
 Michael would have replied that it was better to 
 want in this life than be begging for salvation in 
 the next. 
 
 137
 
 138 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 But Holland's individuality was strong enough to 
 repel that answer, and so he merely said " I suppose 
 you couldn't." 
 
 And that was the second time in his life that he had 
 put aside his principles. 
 
 Just as he reached it, there was a sharp knock on 
 the door. Maurice called out the order to come in, 
 and, as the priest stepped aside, a young girl entered 
 the room ; the young girl who, instinct told him, was 
 the model. 
 
 Without looking at her Father Michael nodded 
 good-bye to his friend and hurriedly left the studio, 
 closing the door quietly after him. 
 
 Once down-stairs and out in the midst o* strangers 
 passing to and fro, all intent upon their errands 
 which were just as strange to him as themselves, 
 Father Michael felt an unutterable sense of loneliness. 
 Only that the next day would bring him into an 
 atmosphere more congenial to the state of hjs mind, 
 he would have wished that he had never left Rathmore 
 at all. 
 
 Maurice Holland from whom he had just parted, 
 except that his face and voice were more or less 
 familiar and even they had undergone a change 
 was as much a stranger to him as all the people who 
 hurried by his side. The artist's mind, as he saw it, 
 had gone after the way of all flesh. He was be- 
 ginning to think that that was where all life led to, 
 all life that had not for its salvation or resource the 
 almigh tines s of the Holy Church. 
 
 Within the last few months it seemed to him that 
 fce was coming across innumerable examples of that
 
 THE MAN 139 
 
 side of nature, whereas in reality he had met but one. 
 The rest had been imagined. 
 
 With a sigh of unreasonable depression he turned 
 in the direction he had been given to follow if he 
 wished to go to the British Museum. He was utterly 
 unaware that, in his old-fashioned silk hat and the 
 poorly-fitting clerical clothes, which three years ago 
 had been made for him by an incompetent tailor in 
 Waterford, he was an object of curiosity, sometimes 
 of amusement to the many well-dressed habitues of 
 Regent Street. 
 
 With a great deal of nervous hesitation and timidity 
 of the traffic he crossed to the other side of the 
 street, where the greater number of people seemed to 
 be collected and the shop fronts looked more inviting 
 with the sunshine that was filling their windows. 
 
 The kaleidoscopic effect of the various coloured 
 dresses, the innumerable parasols of innumerable 
 shades and textures began slowly to work their cure 
 upon his depression. After he had looked into two 
 or three shop windows and faced again the crowd of 
 colours, he felt his spirits beginning gradually to 
 rise ; and with the incessant sounds of laughter and 
 chattering that fell continually on his ears his sense 
 of loneliness vanished. 
 
 There was not one individual face of all the men 
 and women who passed by his side of which he took 
 any particular notice. Like a boy who, in all the 
 callowness of his youth, goes to his first dance and 
 fails in his excitement to recognize the feature of the 
 partners to whom he has been introduced, Father 
 Michael was bewildered by the many faces, the varied
 
 140 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 colours and the realization that in all that crowd there 
 was not one who had any knowledge of the interests 
 that dominated his life. 
 
 Not one individual face? There was just one. 
 
 Out of the many people advancing towards him 
 accompanied by a man some few years older than 
 herself, a young girl made her way into an open space 
 where progress would be less difficult. 
 
 The first thing which drew his attention to her 
 appearance was the glint of light that touched the 
 coppered redness of her hair. The next moment his 
 gaze was resting curiously on her face. 
 
 There he saw a resemblance. To whom, he had not 
 the time to trace. She was not what is commonly 
 called pretty. That attribute as applied to her 
 would have been insignificant. Yet she was not hand- 
 some, for there was no distinction of shape about her 
 features. In a casual glance, one could not have 
 thought her more than uncommon. 
 
 But below that all, deeper than the casual glance 
 can reach, there was an attraction so subtle that it 
 could be seen only when one looked closely and 
 straightly into her eyes. She was a woman, and in 
 her eyes that word was to be seen, written with all 
 the little differences from the other sex, all the subtle 
 allurements and all the fascinations which that word 
 in its truest sense can hold for the truest instinct of 
 a man. 
 
 Above all little, petty characteristics, such as the 
 love of dress, the art of posing, the power of decep- 
 tion and the artfulness of tact, which belong to men 
 just as well but are supposed to indicate the essential
 
 THE MAN 141 
 
 nature of the feminine mind; above all these she was 
 the real woman, needing the cruel strength of a man 
 jet capable of ruling him with her eyes ; craving to be 
 his most abject slave, yet wishing him to think that 
 she was mistress over all. 
 
 As she approached Father Michael she looked up 
 at her companion, and he heard her say 
 
 "No, I want to go to the Globe. You can't per- 
 suade me; I'm a woman, you know." And then she 
 laughed light-heartedly. 
 
 It was with the fascination of her laugh still alive in 
 her face, with all the intimacy of her expression still 
 alight in her eyes, that she turned as they came level 
 with the priest. 
 
 Their eyes met full as eyes do meet when the gaze 
 is meant for words and for one moment as brief as 
 the passing of a ray of light, Father Michael's were 
 held within the spell of her expression. 
 
 The next moment she had passed. 
 
 In the thoughts that hurried each other through his 
 mind he did not wait to realize that her look and her 
 laugh had not been meant for him. He only felt 
 that on the instant in which their eyes had met he had 
 received all that the other man had lost ; that in that 
 moment he knew her as well as, if not better than, her 
 companion the first woman in his life whom, for 
 however short a time, he had really understood. 
 
 He did not even offer, in the sudden bewilderment of 
 his mind, to resist the impulse to look after her. 
 But when he turned his head he found that she had 
 no thought of doing likewise and, as soon as he had 
 lost sight of her amongst the throng of people, he
 
 142 THE APPLE OF. EDEN 
 
 went on slowly in the direction that he had been 
 pursuing. 
 
 But the losing sight of her did not, as would have 
 been the case with the majority of men over so ephe- 
 meral an incident, take her out of his thoughts. On 
 the other hand, the remembrance of her grew more 
 vivid as he became more collected and the ferment 
 died out of his mind. 
 
 In the first place he found the connective famili- 
 arity which, before he had heard her speak, he had 
 first recognized in her face. The thought of it 
 brought him back to the day when he had returned 
 from seeing Father Connelly at Ballysheen ; and with 
 it the entire incident of little Annie Foley and her 
 three cows came before his mind. For the time being 
 he was thrown back into his old life, so that his 
 present surroundings seemed like phantoms to him as 
 he walked along the crowded street. 
 
 He well remembered what he had thought about on 
 that evening when, following behind her as she drove 
 her lethargic, ambling cattle, he had walked on into 
 Rathmore. From noting the uncommonness of her 
 face he recollected that he had fallen to wondering 
 what she would be like when she came into her woman- 
 hood. He had admitted that she would no doubt be 
 unlike the indefinite idea that he had always formed 
 of her sex; that there was a depth of what he 
 could not fathom at the time but still a depth in 
 her expression into which he fancied he would be 
 impelled to look. 
 
 Now he knew what she would be like. Now he 
 realized what that depth was. He had seen it in the
 
 THE MAN 143 
 
 girl who had just passed by his side the girl who had 
 just looked into his eyes, and in whose eyes he had 
 seen its existence. 
 
 It was not that in features she was the exact counter- 
 part of the little girl in Rathmore, though the colour- 
 ing of her skin was the same and there was scarcely a 
 tone of difference in the burnt redness of their hair. 
 But it was in her expression that the full force of 
 their resemblance lay. 
 
 Those things in life which the eyes of the little child 
 had not seen, this girl had beheld. And though in 
 her there was still the expression of wistfulness it was 
 mainly subservient to that realization of her woman- 
 hood, the full charm of which had stirred Father 
 Michael to depths of whose existence he had known 
 nothing until then. 
 
 With a multitude of thoughts still crossing and re- 
 crossing his mind he found himself at the gates of the 
 British Museum, but when once inside the building his 
 thoughts were forced into another channel. The im- 
 mediate contact with such objects as the portions 
 of the Temple of Diana of the Ephesians and the 
 frieze of the great city of Nineveh were too real and 
 wonderful in his mind to allow of introspection. 
 
 For an hour or so he wandered from one room to 
 another in a state of almost childish amazement; a 
 childish bewilderment amazed to find that all its fairy 
 stories, however implicity they had been accepted, 
 were once really true. But when two hours had 
 passed and he was seated at lunch a modern lunch 
 of some meat extract within a stone's throw of 
 Egyptian idols some thousands of years old, the im-
 
 144 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 pression had worn itself away and his mind recurred 
 to the incident of the earlier part of the morning. 
 
 It was not until the occurrence of later events that 
 he came to know what part of his nature had answered 
 to her look, or how deeply and fervently that answer 
 had been made. He only knew at the time that an 
 idea to which he had religiously held from the first 
 moment when he had been able to reason for himself 
 had been wrenched from him. He consoled himself 
 with the thought that it was an exceptional case; 
 that she was one woman out of a thousand, and he 
 would never be likely to see another who could fail to 
 answer to his definition of the sex flippant, uncon- 
 vincing, good or bad wives to the men who should 
 choose to marry them. 
 
 That thought had no sooner taken hold of his mind 
 than he remembered what he had heard her say. 
 
 " You can't persuade me, I'm a woman." 
 
 She was a woman, of course, but not of the con- 
 ventional type. It was her mistake to think that, 
 because he knew that she was an exception. It was 
 on that account that she had attracted his notice. 
 No other woman had ever done as much. 
 
 But in all this reasoning introspection Father 
 Michael lost sight of the one principal factor. It 
 was here that the corruptible metal of asceticism was 
 giving false results in the balancing of his ideas ; 
 here, at this small prefatory crisis, that he should 
 have judged himself from all women, not all women 
 from himself. Had the question that Father Con- 
 nelly had asked him in a conversation of theirs some 
 few weeks before only crossed his mind at that moment
 
 THE MAN 145 
 
 he might probably have found that it had some bear- 
 ing on the case. Had he even remembered the answer 
 he had received when he himself had put the same 
 question to the ploughman on the road to Ballysheen ; 
 but it never entered his thoughts that the two things 
 were applicable 
 
 " Shure ye may read and read until ye're little more 
 than an encyclopedia of knowledge and, mind ye, 
 that'll take the rest of yeer life but at the end of 
 that time ye won't be able to tell me why one man has 
 a fancy for a woman with a large mouth and 
 another takes to a girl because of the colour of her 
 hair." 
 
 He had answered that it was because there was a 
 kink in their natures, and it had been proved to him, 
 though he had not admitted it at the time, that it 
 was because they could not help it. 
 
 But none of these things did occur to him, and in 
 the blindness of his fanatical belief in the righteous- 
 ness of his vows he argued that this girl was an 
 exception to the usual insipidity of her sex, for the 
 simple and convincing reason that he had found her 
 to be so. He would still have protested that the 
 words of Ezra the scribe were false and untrue be- 
 cause, as far as his experience went, he had seen only 
 one woman who had that compelling look in her eyes 
 to draw men after her. It did not even occur to him 
 to think that many another man might have passed 
 her by unnoticed, whilst their whole desire would have 
 gone out to a woman by her side, to whom Father 
 Michael would have applied his customary definition. 
 
 There was, however, yet another side to the whole
 
 146 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 matter which did not make its way into his mind until 
 he fancied that he was conqueror of the situation. 
 But immediately he had satisfied himself that his 
 original ideas of the power of women as a sex had not 
 been shaken by the incident of the morning, this other 
 point of view came suddenly before him with an in- 
 tensity that for a moment parched his throat and 
 made the food he was eating stale and nauseating. 
 It was a moment of purely physical nervousness, for 
 as he asked himself the question he suddenly realized 
 how close he had been to the complete upheaval of 
 those principles with which he had bound the whole of 
 his life together. 
 
 If this girl, he asked himself, did possess that mag- 
 netic power over the minds of men spoken of with 
 reference to most women by Ezra the scribe what 
 would he, Father Michael, feel should he happen to 
 be thrown for any length of time in her presence? 
 
 What would other men feel? 
 
 He supposed that they too would be conscious of 
 that disquieting fascination which he had momen- 
 tarily experienced when their eyes had met. 
 
 He of course was a man, but then, if he felt a com- 
 pulsion beyond his power to resist, there was always 
 the strength of the Church at his side, and in that 
 respect he was different from the rest. 
 
 From the strength which that thought gave him he 
 found the courage to declare to himself that in many 
 other respects, in fact in all other respects except of 
 course the mere physical functions of his body he 
 was different from any man who had not been the 
 recipient of the vocation to which he had been called.
 
 THE MAN 147 
 
 There was in him, a priest of God, and an avowed 
 celibate, faith to resist the attractions of a woman 
 which even he, in this instance, had acknowledged to 
 himself to be full of power. 
 
 Having once taken a vow in God's name the 
 Almighty would not desert him in the hour of his 
 need. Of that he felt assured. And with the confi- 
 dence of this self-assurance all thoughts of the girl 
 with the red hair left his mind, as he imagined, for 
 ever. 
 
 Taking his departure from the British Museum he 
 followed Holland's instructions and found his way to 
 the new Catholic Cathedral in Westminster. 
 
 There, in the vast, silent solemnity of his surround- 
 ings, kneeling with his hands clasped in front of him, 
 he gained a greater rest to his mind than he could 
 have imagined possible in so short a time; and feel- 
 ing the growth of the Catholic faith in the magnifi- 
 cence of everything around him he prayed fervently 
 for its continuance!
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 SITTING in the omnibus that brought him back from 
 Westminster into the vicinity of Maurice Holland's 
 studio Father Michael wondered how his friend in- 
 tended that they should spend the evening. 
 
 For himself he was determined that their discussion 
 of the morning should not be repeated. If they 
 stayed in the studio he knew that that was bound to 
 happen, and accordingly he determined that they 
 should go out. But where to and with what object? 
 A theatre or any other such place of amusement had 
 no attraction for him. He had never been to a 
 theatre, and knowing that the pieces played in them 
 were full of insinuations of that very side of life 
 which he most wished to avoid, he had never wanted 
 to see one. Yet, as far as he could see, there re- 
 mained very little between that and staying in the 
 studio, which latter prospect he put entirely out of 
 consideration. 
 
 He was perfectly certain that the moralities or im- 
 moralities of the theatre would leave his mind abso- 
 lutely untroubled by imperative ideas, whereas an 
 argument with Maurice might fill him with a host of 
 degenerate inclinations, the fighting against which 
 would exhaust all the strength of mind that he had 
 gained that morning. 
 
 The casual remembrance of that episode in Regent 
 Street brought with it a wave of self-conscious pride. 
 After all, how much nearer to temptation could any 
 
 148
 
 THE MAN 149 
 
 man have gone? It was only that another man 
 would have followed up his inclinations. He thought 
 this quite vaguely, because he could not for a moment 
 have suggested how it could have been accomplished. 
 But he, though certainly he had looked after her, had 
 fought it down, crushed it under his heel in the 
 mental conflict that had ensued after her passing. It 
 did not occur to him that that was the least any other 
 man could have done. Yet he felt sure that, if 
 chance should ever lead him to meet her again, that 
 victory which had nipped his inclination in the bud 
 would be a shield and buckler for his defence and 
 render him impervious to her fascination. 
 
 Then he remembered what she had said. 
 
 " No, I want to go to the Globe." 
 
 Possibly that was a place of amusement where she 
 was going that night. No doubt it was a theatre. 
 Why should he not go there? Then he could prove 
 to himself if he saw her, and it seemed likely that he 
 would, that he had conquered what in the suddenness 
 of the moment had made him weak. It would give 
 him strength to lean upon. And so he decided at 
 least to ask Maurice where the Globe was, what it 
 was, and whether it would be possible to go there 
 that evening. 
 
 When he entered the studio Holland was wiping 
 his brushes. The baize cloth was covered over the 
 picture and the model was gone. In a vague way 
 Father Michael had hoped that she would still be 
 there, as with this new armour of conviction on his 
 back he felt like the knight in allegory, equipped 
 against all temptation.
 
 150 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 He had thought before, when he had read the 
 quotation from Esdras, and now he thought again 
 that it was cowardly to shirk temptation. It was the 
 common lot of original sin, and every man in his own 
 way must meet it at some time during his life. It 
 was the victory over temptation as well as the method- 
 ical doing of good that went to make the saint. 
 
 "Well," he said, laying his hat on one of the 
 kitchen chairs, "I don't think I've been wasting my 
 time." 
 
 Holland stood his brushes in an old jam jar. 
 
 " Where did you go ? " 
 
 Father Michael described the details of his day's 
 excursion, and when he had finished his eyes wan- 
 dered to the green baize cloth hanging over the easel. 
 
 " And you ? " he asked. " How have you got on ? " 
 
 " Oh, pretty well. Slowly, but well enough." 
 
 "Would you mind if I took back my decision of 
 this morning?" 
 
 "What decision? What do you mean?" 
 
 Father Michael coughed nervously and eased his 
 collar at the throat. 
 
 "I mean I'd like to see your picture. I'd like to 
 see how you're after getting on. I spoke on impulse 
 this morning. Of course I still think that such 
 pictures are dangerous to many minds. I won't give 
 way on that point. But that is no reason why I 
 shouldn't see it." 
 
 Holland looked up keenly at the priest, never taking 
 his eyes off him even at the end of his sentence. 
 
 " Why ? " he asked pertinently. " Why should you 
 see it ? What are you ? "
 
 THE MAN 151 
 
 Father Michael's lips twitched sensitively. He half 
 realized that the object of his request had been mis- 
 understood, and that in misunderstanding it Holland 
 had framed a poor impression of him. He knew in 
 his heart that he had never meant to be small-minded. 
 
 " What are you ? " Holland asked again, intent 
 upon getting an answer which the priest seemed dis- 
 inclined to give. 
 
 "I'm a priest. That sort of thing has nothing to 
 do with me. It doesn't affect me as it would other 
 men. I should like to see your work. It was selfish 
 of me this morning not to look at it." 
 
 Holland did not move a step nearer to the easel. He 
 stayed in precisely the same attitude as when he had 
 asked the question. 
 
 " You're a priest," he repeated, " a celibate. That 
 sort of thing doesn't affect you as it does other men. 
 Your instincts are different. Are you hungry, by 
 the way ? " He added the question to his sentence in 
 the same breath. 
 
 " I am rather. Why ? " 
 
 "Well, let's come out and gee dinner with the rest 
 of the world."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE town was just beginning to be lighted when Hol- 
 land took his friend down . through Piccadilly and 
 the Haymarket into the Strand, pointing out to him 
 the various places of interest as they passed. The 
 subject of the picture was not referred to by either 
 of them again and, deceived by the lighter tone of his 
 companion's voice, Father Michael was beginning to 
 forget his previous sensitiveness. 
 
 They made their way to a cheap little restaurant 
 in the neighbourhood of the theatres where, having 
 hung up their hats and selected a table, they sat 
 down, Holland consulting the bill of fare in the hope 
 of combining cheapness with hospitality. 
 
 He was just wondering whether at least it would 
 be better to ask if Father Michael would take wine. 
 A small bottle of Beaune, if he took but little of it, 
 would easily serve them both, and was just within the 
 radius of the limitations of his pocket. The wine list 
 was open in his hand when the priest leant across the 
 table. 
 
 " Don't go in for anything extraordinary," he said. 
 The brightly-lighted restaurant suggested un- 
 heard-of dishes to him, and he knew that his friend 
 was poor; poor enough to scorn his paying for his 
 own meal. " I'm only accustomed to plain dinners," 
 he added. "You can imagine what we get in Rath- 
 more. Mutton, fish and bacon all the year round," 
 
 152
 
 THE MAN 153 
 
 "Won't you have any wine then?" 
 
 Father Michael dismissed the idea at once. 
 
 " Oh no I always drink water always." 
 
 And so a cut from the joint was ordered, and Hol- 
 land, deciding in his mind that he would go without 
 a second course, indulged in a small lager for him- 
 self, en j oying it as though it had been champagne. 
 
 As soon as the food had been brought to them 
 Father Michael put his question. 
 
 "What is the Globe?" 
 
 " A theatre." 
 
 "Not a music hall?" 
 
 " Lord, no ! A theatre, not far from here. There 
 is rather a good piece being played there The End 
 of the Stick comedy, of course. I haven't seen it, 
 but I've been told it's worth going to." 
 
 "Well, will you come with me after dinner?" 
 
 Holland drank some of his lager and then laughed. 
 
 " Michael," he said with mock seriousness, " this is 
 dissipation." 
 
 Father Michael smiled. 
 
 " But harmless," he said. " Besides, I've come for 
 my holidays. Unless you happen to know that the 
 piece there is not nice?" 
 
 "I haven't heard anything objectionable about it. 
 The Globe is a little apt to be nice in its productions." 
 
 "You'll come, then?" 
 
 "I'd like to immensely. But I can sometimes get 
 tickets for these things, and it seems like chucking 
 money away." 
 
 "Why? How much would it be?" 
 
 " The gods of course would only be a shilling each."
 
 154i THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "The gods?" 
 
 " That's the cheapest part of the house. Called the 
 gods because of the altitude of its position and the 
 facetiousness of its remarks. Next to that in price 
 comes the pit. That's naturally more costly, be- 
 cause the descensus Averni is generally an expensive 
 luxury, only to be afforded by the rich. The other 
 parts of the house except the family circle where 
 you can buy respectability and a bad seat don't 
 count. The tickets are usually given away for social 
 and other purposes." 
 
 Father Michael looked up from his plate, and there 
 was an undecided expression on his face. He did 
 not rightly know whether he ought to take Holland's 
 remarks with a smile or not. 
 
 "From what part can you see the rest of the house 
 best?" 
 
 " Oh, they all have their different advantages." 
 
 "And what price is the pit?" 
 
 " Half-a-crown." 
 
 "Shall we go there, then?" 
 
 "Why this opulence?" 
 
 Father Michael smiled. "Is it? I think we may 
 as well go there. I don't like looking at things from 
 a height." 
 
 "Make you giddy?" 
 
 "Not exactly. Rather nervous and then I get 
 that pain in my spine." 
 
 Holland raised his eyebrows, then finished his lager 
 and ordered a sweet for Father Michael. 
 
 For the rest of the meal it would have seemed that 
 they were the best of friends, mainly because Holland
 
 THE MAN 155 
 
 had put the episode of the picture entirely out of his 
 thoughts. 
 
 But the rift had come within the lute, and when 
 they parted on the morrow it was inevitable that the 
 priest would pass out of the artist's mind and be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 As soon as they had finished the waiter paid and 
 tipped they set off to the theatre, the pleasure of 
 life consciously appealing itself to Father Michael in 
 a way that he had never experienced it before. So 
 strongly did he feel this exhilaration that, for the 
 first time since he had heard it, Father Connelly's ad- 
 vice to him to give up philosophy seemed to possess 
 the force of reason. He made a resolution that at 
 least whilst he was on his holidays he would not open 
 one of the philosophical books that he had brought 
 with him in his tin box. 
 
 A queue had already been formed in the roofed-in 
 entrance to the pit, and there they took up their stand 
 behind some fifteen other couples who, reading even- 
 ing papers or surreptitiously eating from hidden 
 bags, were waiting in good-ordered patience for the 
 doors to be opened. Taking their places behind the 
 last pair, Father Michael looked at his watch and 
 found that it needed a quarter of an hour before they 
 would be admitted. 
 
 " I suppose this theatre," he said, looking on at the 
 rows of people in front of him, " is the most patron- 
 ized in London?" 
 
 Holland leant up against the wall and rested 
 himself. 
 
 "No more than the twenty or thirty others, how-
 
 156 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 ever many there are. It all depends upon the piece, 
 though the actor-managers insist upon putting a 
 box-office value upon their individual fascinations. I 
 once heard of a girl building a little altar she prob- 
 ably made it out of orange boxes and covered it with 
 cheap drapery, anyway she called it an altar to one 
 of the leading acting-managers in London. She 
 used to say her prayers to it. That's a fact. Of 
 course I never heard what she prayed for, and I guess 
 the person she prayed to didn't hear either. Of 
 course she wouldn't go to his theatre to see a play. 
 It 'ud be solely to see him. And there are a good 
 many others like her. They know they can make 
 whatever they produce pay for a hundred nights on 
 those lines, and so they only take those plays which 
 are written specially for themselves to uphold the 
 particular character they have secured in the eyes of 
 the public. No plays are written around the blood 
 of youth, because there are no young men to produce 
 them, though there might be plenty to do the parts 
 justice. And so the most vital and the most pas- 
 sionate moments of a man's life are a theme which the 
 dramatist may scarcely touch, if he wants to see his 
 plays produced, because there's a monopoly in mid- 
 dle-aged men. It seems a great pity, but the 
 greater pity is that the public don't seem to real- 
 ize it." 
 
 " What is this age, then, that you think is the most 
 vital in a man's life ? " 
 " Why, from twenty to thirty, of course." 
 A peculiar sensation swelled for one moment in 
 Father Michael's throat. He swallowed hastily to
 
 THE MAN 157 
 
 rid himself of it, and the next second it had returned 
 with twice its strength. 
 
 A voice behind him, coming from one of the next 
 two people who had taken their place in the queue, 
 seemed to speak into his ears. 
 
 He knew it at once. He would have known it any- 
 where. Was this, he asked himself, was this his 
 boasted strength, this almost physical weakness that 
 seemed to shake all the strength in his body? 
 
 But then he had only expected to look at her from 
 a distance, while now she was as near to him as she 
 had been in the morning when he had passed her by 
 in Regent Street nearer. He could feel her being 
 pressed against his back as the numbers increased 
 behind. 
 
 He was a fool. His feelings were running riot in 
 him. This was not a strength he could ever hope 
 to lean upon. He made some inconsequent remark 
 to Holland, and then an easing of the people in front 
 told him that at last the doors had been opened. 
 
 It seemed like an hour before his turn arrived to 
 enter the narrowing doorway and put his money 
 through the little cage, as he saw every one else was 
 doing. And all that time he heard her voice talking 
 to her companion behind him ; heard her laughing as 
 she had laughed that morning with a tantalizing 
 fascination, and felt her pressing on against his body 
 in her endeavour not to lose her place. Through his 
 veins the blood seemed to run as weak as water, and he 
 became almost inert with the impotence that he felt. 
 Yet he did not fully realize that he was passing 
 through the first phase of the sensual passions in
 
 158 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 which women faint and strong men tremble. How 
 should he know? 
 
 "Well," he heard her companion say when he was 
 but four rows from the coveted ticket-office, "will 
 you tell me now where you're going to so early to- 
 morrow morning ? " 
 
 She laughed lightly. Father Michael felt it accom- 
 pany a shudder that passed involuntarily through his 
 body. 
 
 "What's the good of my telling you? I should 
 only have to insist that you wouldn't come as well, 
 so it could not possibly do you any good to know." 
 
 " Mayn't I take a deep interest in your movements, 
 even if I don't follow them ? " 
 
 " Certainly if you like to waste your time to that 
 extent." 
 
 A sudden instinct led Father Michael to feel that 
 she was not in sympathy with the man to whom she 
 was talking. It was not, as he had thought in her 
 first words, that she was playing with him. 
 
 " Well, tell me," he persisted. " I do like to waste 
 my time." 
 
 "I'm going to Mass, then, at the Brompton 
 Oratory. I'm sure that must be highly interesting to 
 you." 
 
 She was a Catholic! She belonged to his faith! 
 Indefinably it seemed to add another link between 
 them. She was a Catholic. 
 
 In a city filled with men and women of other per- 
 suasions he had met one of his own creed. A strange 
 sense of fate made him think that there was some 
 ulterior reason in her having looked into his eyes that
 
 THE MAN 159 
 
 morning. It seemed in some way to detract from the 
 feeling that she was a temptation to him. It gave 
 him a greater confidence in himself, so that when he 
 had come to the ticket-office he was not afraid to 
 turn and look at her. 
 
 She was staring at a poster that had been attached 
 to the wall outside, and the light of the lamp that 
 hung over the door was shining full on to her profile. 
 
 Once more he admitted to himself that she was 
 different from any other woman he had ever seen, and 
 then Holland's voice brought him back to reality.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IT was close on twelve o'clock when they returned to 
 the studio, and from the exertions of his journey com- 
 bined with the day's fatigue, Father Michael was 
 almost worn out. 
 
 In the choosing of seats he had lost sight of the girl 
 in the theatre, and, except for a cursory glimpse of 
 her red hair in the crush of people leaving the house, 
 had seen nothing more of her. 
 
 As far as the play was concerned, he had seen none 
 of its allusions, topical, cynical and whimsical, and, 
 as he had expected, it had had but little interest for 
 him. 
 
 With regard to the incident, he had not been sorry 
 for its experience. The note which she had struck in 
 his mind when she had announced that she was going 
 in the morning to hear Mass at the Brompton 
 Oratory completely eclipsed all other thoughts that 
 had harassed him at first. 
 
 For one brief moment he had thought of rising 
 early and going to the Brompton Oratory himself, but 
 the next he had driven it from his intentions. That 
 would be carrying the interest he had taken in her 
 too far. Moreover, to go to the house of God for 
 any other reason than that of prayer, was strange 
 to him. He could not imagine why it had entered 
 his mind. 
 
 He had seen the last of her, and it was quite right 
 160
 
 THE MAN 161 
 
 that it should be so. The episode had taught him its 
 lesson, and he was quite thankful to have learnt it. 
 It had taught him that, had he not been a priest of 
 God and a celibate, he might have been drawn towards 
 her. But therein lay the uncommon strength with 
 which the vow of celibacy, by the grace of God, had 
 imbued the priesthood. 
 
 Then of course he still considered her to be the 
 exception to the rule in which he persisted in be- 
 lieving. 
 
 He had wondered vaguely as they walked back to the 
 studio whether the man, her companion, would take 
 advantage of the knowledge that she should be out 
 early the next morning. And that was probably the 
 last thought of her that entered his mind before he 
 laid his head down wearily on the pillow and fell 
 asleep. 
 
 Holland had put up a stretcher for him in the other 
 curtained-off recess, and into that, grateful for al- 
 most anything that would encourage the rest he so 
 needed, he was only too glad to retire. 
 
 He did not wake until the next morning, when the 
 sun began to find its way through a little circular 
 window shining full on to his face. But if he did not 
 wake until then, he lived in his sleep through the 
 second crisis of his life; another of those threads 
 which was drawing him on by subtle and intangible 
 degrees towards the realization of himself. 
 
 He dreamt. 
 
 It was a dream destined to play a vital part in all 
 his actions, all his thoughts. 
 
 It seemed to him to be the day of the patron saint
 
 162 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 of Rathmore. A day when all the country people 
 for miles around came into the village that they 
 might receive the blessing of the saint by visiting the 
 ruins of his holy well and drinking the blessed water. 
 It was a custom that had been maintained ever since 
 the oldest people in the place could remember, and 
 with constant use, the expression patron day had 
 worn itself into pattern day. The pattern day in 
 Rathmore was known all over the county of Water- 
 ford. 
 
 No matter upon what day of the week the anni- 
 versary fell, its most elaborate celebration was held 
 on the Sunday following, and thither to Rathmore 
 came some hundreds of people walking or driving in 
 high country carts which were unhorsed and put for 
 safety into any yard that was available. 
 
 The little village itself was suddenly overwhelmed 
 by this fluctuating population, and up and down the 
 main street, which was converted into a promenade for 
 the enjoyment of those who had gone their rounds 
 of the sacred ruins on the cliff, the crowd swayed 
 backwards and forwards in noisy hilarity. Here, all 
 the afternoon, the people thronged to and fro in the 
 vulgar gaudiness of inharmonious colours, the cru- 
 dity of which the owners themselves were the least 
 conscious. Here were men with battered roulette 
 tables crying out the chances of life. In corners 
 formed by the juttirig-out of receding cottages, 
 groups of men would be clustered playing forty-five 
 with cards, the faces of which were black with dirt 
 and greasy with handling. 
 
 A little further on an acrobat in thick, white,
 
 THE MAN 165 
 
 woollen tights would be waiting until he could attract 
 a sufficient number of people to whom it would be 
 lucrative to prove the suppleness of his body. His 
 greasy, golden hair fell in obnoxious curls over an 
 ordinary black, short coat growing green with age. 
 Through the doors of the village hotel and Foley's 
 public-house a stream of men and women would be 
 passing, all in various states of inebriety, jostling 
 each other and shouting with heavy, sodden laughter. 
 And up on the high cliff, overlooking the stretch of 
 the broad bay and the white-crested breast of the wide 
 ocean, the patron saint of Rathmore endeavoured to 
 shut his ears to all this aftermath and listen only to 
 the prayers that would shortly be forgotten in the 
 delights of the village. 
 
 There would be some indeed who took their pleasure 
 first. With wavering steps, heedless of the ghastly 
 blasphemies of the beggar women at the well, swaying 
 from one side to another as they knelt, they would 
 offer up their saturated prayers and drink the blessed 
 water with lips tainted by excess. 
 
 It was always very much life, very much humanity, 
 this pattern day in Rathmore. The grossness of 
 living and of pleasure blended itself incongruously 
 with the piety of religious fervour. It is not a thick 
 boundary line which divides in human nature the 
 spirit of worship from that of debauchery. Religion 
 is a cloak of densest texture, the magician's robe 
 under which, before the eyes of thousands, can be 
 performed the most wonderful feats of legerdemain 
 that the world has ever seen. And it is when that 
 religion plays violently upon the strings of emotion
 
 164 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 that the more complete and the more spontaneous is 
 the anti-climax of the mind. 
 
 In this throng of people then, where the grossness 
 of life trod close upon the heels of fanaticism, Father 
 Michael found himself in his dream. 
 
 He walked in the midst of the crowds that were 
 massed in the village street, laughing with this man, 
 talking with that; a state of affairs which even in 
 his sleep he knew to be ridiculous. And ever and 
 again for it seemed that the time of this dream- 
 consciousness extended over many hours the parish 
 priest, who had taken upon himself the likeness of 
 Maurice Holland, came to him, urging him to leave 
 these temptations of the crowd and return to the 
 studio in Regent Street. 
 
 It was all ridiculous. It was all dream-nonsense, 
 and yet through all its unreality the sense of some- 
 thing vital pressed against him pressed until it be- 
 came the pressure of some bodily reality being pushed 
 against his body in the crowd. He felt with an 
 unnatural distinctness the outline of the figure at his 
 back, and instinct told him who it was. 
 
 Suddenly all his laughter left him. He was unable 
 to answer the man who chatted at his side, and as he 
 walked through the street this pressure, full of its 
 bodily warmth which he felt like a hot breath against 
 him, followed in his steps until from sheer physical 
 weakness his mind became blank. 
 
 The next moment it seemed that the whole scene had 
 altered. 
 
 He was alone with the girl whom he had seen at the 
 theatre that evening, far away on the strand that
 
 THE MAN 165 
 
 led to Ballysheen. The tide was right out, and the 
 sand stretched with its path of gold where the sea had 
 once been and soon would come again. 
 
 She was laughing, and her laughter twisted his con- 
 trol into a quivering knowledge of desire. Far in 
 the distance, near the village, he thought he saw 
 the figure of her companion coming to claim her. It 
 seemed the early morning then, for the bell for Mass 
 was just ringing. 
 
 In that moment she laughed and looked into his eyes 
 and he knew that he was human ; knew that that which 
 he craved was what all men desired swore that his 
 vows were broken before they were, and the next 
 moment had crushed her in his arms. 
 
 But before his lips had met hers, before even he 
 felt her breath upon his cheek, his eyes had opened 
 onto the sunlight that flooded in through the little 
 circular window, and he was conscious that however 
 real it had all been a dream.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THAT morning at breakfast Holland remarked on 
 the pallor of his friend's face. 
 
 "You look absolutely worn out," he said. "Did 
 too much yesterday, I suppose. Didn't you sleep 
 well?" 
 
 " Yes, I slept." A trace of colour flushed into his 
 cheeks. " But I sometimes think I'm far from well." 
 
 Holland laid down his knife and fork and looked 
 up from his plate of bacon and fried egg. 
 
 "Look here," he said seriously, "you ought to see 
 a doctor. It's ridiculous to allow yourself to go on 
 suif ering like that and not do anything to remedy it." 
 
 "I went to the doctor in Rathmore. He told me 
 it was my digestion." 
 
 "The doctor in Rathmore! Good Lord! An old- 
 fashioned practitioner, I suppose, who's read of the 
 craze of indigestion and thinks the talking about it 
 brings him up to date. You want to go to a man 
 who's seen a little more of things than the doctor in 
 Rathmore." 
 
 "But their charge is so exorbitant here?" 
 
 " That's true. But there's a fellow I know here in 
 town. He's a great friend of mine. One of those 
 clever beggars who's bound to come out in the 
 counting." 
 
 "A doctor?" 
 
 "Of course. M.D. of London. He wrote to me 
 about a year ago. Wanted the original of a picture 
 
 166
 
 THE MAN 167 
 
 that I'd done for one of the Christmas numbers. 
 That was how I got to know him. He's come up to 
 my studio and brought one or two things since. I'll 
 give you a letter to him, or look here, you take a card 
 of mine and then he'll defer payment of his fee to 
 whatever time suits you." 
 
 " What is his charge ? " 
 
 " A guinea. That's less than they ask for usually 
 on a first visit/' 
 
 Father Michael remembered his other ailments, and 
 from Holland's eulogies he felt a vague confidence in 
 this man; confidence that never entered his mind 
 with regard to Dr. Giveen. 
 
 " I think I'll go," he said, rising from the table and 
 leaving his breakfast untouched. 
 
 "Yes, do. He'll probably give you a tonic. I 
 should think that that's what you want pulling 
 up," and he hunted among some of his papers for a 
 card. 
 
 "Dr. Madison," he said, giving him the little white 
 slip. " He lives in Upper Baker Street." 
 
 When he had received instructions about the way 
 Father Michael set off, promising to be back in good 
 time to pack up the few things that he had taken out 
 of his tin box for immediate use. 
 
 The house where the doctor lived was one similar 
 to many others that stretched to right and left of it. 
 He had no difficulty in finding it, and when he had 
 rung the bell he waited on the step feeling a sudden 
 reticence growing in his mind to speak of his 
 symptoms. 
 
 The door was opened, however, before this sensa-
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 tion had time to grow imperative, and, having given 
 Holland's card, he was shown into a waiting-room, 
 where a number of weekly papers were spread on the 
 table and two pictures by Holland adorned the 
 sparsely furnished walls. 
 
 He had been seated only for a moment when the 
 maid returned to show him into the doctor's study, a 
 room quietly papered in dark green and furnished 
 restfully with every comfort and convenience. 
 
 Dr. Madison himself was a middle-sized, clean- 
 shaven man with quiet but at times searching eyes. 
 His face was pale, almost that of an ascetic, which in 
 repose seemed taciturn and gloomy, but could on 
 occasions with his smile become kindly and genial. 
 
 He was just about to make some greeting, expect- 
 ing from the card he had been given to see his friend 
 the artist. When he beheld the face of Father 
 Michael the words he had half -framed died away into 
 a look of inquiry. 
 
 " Good-morning," he said. " I have here a card of 
 Mr. Holland's." 
 
 "You have. He is a friend of mine. He recom- 
 mended me to come and see you." 
 
 " Ah, yes. Now I understand. Sit down, will you." 
 
 In a swift moment of thought the priest could not 
 help comparing this man's manner with that of Dr. 
 Giveen. The one quiet and attentive, the other genial 
 and neglectful. 
 
 " Have you been running yourself down ? " 
 
 His practised eye had made a shrewd guess at 
 Father Michael's condition. 
 
 " I have, I suppose."
 
 THE 'MAN 169 
 
 " Or is it climatic? " His eyes smiled as he put the 
 question. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Climatic. The atmospheric conditions of your 
 country are rather conducive to this sort of thing." 
 
 "Ireland? I do come from Ireland." Father 
 Michael smiled. This man was making him feel per- 
 fectly at ease. " But I don't fancy it has anything 
 to do with the climate." 
 
 " Well, tell me what you feel." 
 
 With this encouragement Father Michael described 
 his symptoms, losing his reticence as he proceeded, 
 and Madison listened, making sympathetic remarks 
 when he paused. As soon as he had finished the 
 doctor leant forward with his chin on his hand and 
 studied him for a moment. At first the priest met 
 his eyes, and then his own fell from nervous embar- 
 rassment. After the pause Madison rose from his 
 chair, brought the priest over to the window and care- 
 fully examined him, then they sat down again. 
 
 "Now tell me," said the doctor considerately. 
 "Have you been working a good deal?" 
 
 " Not exactly working. I do a lot of reading." 
 
 " But not under pressure for time ? " 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "And you smoke?" 
 
 " I used to in the evenings, but I've given that up." 
 
 "Do you drink much alcohol?" 
 
 " None at all." 
 
 "None at all?" 
 
 The doctor raised his eyebrows. 
 
 " I drink tea. Three times a day. Weak tea."
 
 170 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 A smile began to spread over the doctor's eyes. 
 
 " Of course," he said. " How old are you? " 
 
 " Twenty-six." 
 
 "You're not married?" 
 
 For a moment Father Michael wondered why he 
 did not realize that he was a Catholic priest. Then 
 remembered that, in the thin black overcoat which 
 he had slipped on at the last moment because it 
 threatened rain, he must look like an ordinary lay- 
 man. 
 
 "I am not," he replied, and he was just about to 
 make explanations when the doctor added another 
 remark. 
 
 "Of course I don't wish to be personal, and 
 naturally I know nothing whatsoever about your 
 means but as soon as you can afford to marry, 
 I'd do so, if I were you." 
 
 Father Michael felt a nauseating sense of fear rise 
 in his throat. He moved uncomfortably in his chair ; 
 crossed and recrossed his legs. 
 
 "That is impossible. I'm a priest of the Roman 
 Catholic Church." 
 
 Imperceptibly Madison sat a little more upright 
 in his chair. For a moment he looked thoughtfully 
 at Father Michael; and then, taking a large red 
 book from a little bookshelf at his side, he wrote 
 something from it onto a slip of paper and handed it 
 to the priest. 
 
 " You are suffering from a form of neurasthenia," 
 he said quietly, while Father Michael looked down at 
 the little piece of paper on which he could see that an 
 address was written.
 
 THE MAN 171 
 
 " Neurasthenia," Madison went on, " is a degenera- 
 tion of the nerves. Your nerves are in a bad condi- 
 tion. I have given you there the address of a doctor 
 who, like yourself, is a Roman Catholic. I know him 
 to be a very clever man, and I fancy he will know 
 better what to say to you than I. You say you are 
 a Roman Catholic priest and a celibate. Well, of 
 course I hope you understand, I don't want to hurt 
 your feelings, and so I am sending you to Dr. King- 
 ston. He will probably see the case in a different 
 light from what I do. You understand I don't 
 expect a fee for this short interview." 
 
 He leant across his desk and rung a small bell. The 
 maid came at once to the door, opened it and then 
 retreated to the hall-door to show Father Michael 
 out. 
 
 " Good-morning," said Madison kindly, holding out 
 his hand. 
 
 Father Michael took it almost unconsciously. From 
 the moment that the doctor had spoken about mar- 
 riage the priest had been steeling his mind to fight 
 for his point of view. But before he could bring 
 forth his weapons, or even show that he was armed at 
 all, the combat was over. He was alone on the field. 
 It was the most disconcerting victory that he had 
 ever experienced. 
 
 "You won't give me any advice?" he asked, feeling 
 that he would never go and see this Dr. Kingston, 
 and being still impressed by the assuring manner of 
 the man before him. 
 
 " I'll just ask you one question," said the doctor on 
 impulse, " which you are at perfect liberty to refuse to
 
 172 THE APPLE OF. EDEN 
 
 answer if you wish. When did you take your vow of 
 celibacy ? At what age ? " 
 
 "Twenty-one," Father Michael replied. He was 
 proud of it. " But won't you give me any advice? " 
 
 " My advice to you," said Madison quietly, " would 
 be worth nothing."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 " MY advice to you would be worth nothing." 
 
 In the half -hour or so that it took him to return to 
 the studio from the house in Upper Baker Street those 
 words of Dr. Madison's were wandering aimlessly 
 through his mind. At first, in the subtlety of their 
 full meaning, their significance had been almost im- 
 possible to grasp. But by degrees, as he turned 
 into Regent Street, the full force of them had begun 
 to make itself clear to him. 
 
 Had the doctor aired all the opinions of his scien- 
 tific beliefs the priest would have been able to meet 
 him on his own ground with his theological convic- 
 tions. But such had not for a moment in the whole 
 interview been the case. And it was not that he 
 appeared in Father Michael's eyes as a man of com- 
 monplace or unconvincing ideas. On the other hand, 
 from the very beginning of their conversation he had 
 assessed him at a high intellectual value, and conse- 
 quently his refusal to accept and treat the case on 
 grounds, not of inability, but of principle, was all 
 the more disconcerting. 
 
 He fully realized all that the doctor had implied. 
 He would have asked him to consider a course of 
 action that Father Michael would have found impos- 
 sible. And because he could see no other means to 
 benefit the case, he had refrained from enlarging upon 
 the delicate suggestion that he had made when he had 
 been unaware of the full nature of the circumstances. 
 
 173
 
 174 THE APPLE OF. EDEN 
 
 And it was this silence, had Madison known it, 
 which it is likely that he did, that more cruelly and 
 poignantly drove its conviction home into the mind 
 of Father Michael. Turn how he might he could 
 not get away from the unavoidable impression which 
 it had left in his thoughts, because there was no tan- 
 gible object to avoid, no definite obstacle to fight or 
 leave. 
 
 There was no use in saying to himself, as most 
 undoubtedly he would have done, that it was not 
 true, because there was nothing said upon which he 
 could place his accusation. There was nothing to 
 be gained in railing against the opinions of the scien- 
 tific world, because none had been held out to him. 
 Yet, undeniably, irrevocably he felt the presence and 
 the force of their existence. 
 
 Had he possessed the mind of Father Connelly 
 that son of nature, natural in his celibacy he would 
 have laughed in Madison's face and gone off to Dr. 
 Kingston with a spirit of investigation and a clear 
 conscience. But that possession is one upon which 
 nature makes but few of her children to count. Priest 
 of God, as he was destined and made to be, he had 
 reckoned without the man, and now the reckoning 
 was coming too late because the demands upon his 
 nature had been made too soon. 
 
 It chanced, as though by the spinning of a coin 
 that has a bias to fall one way, that he was not of 
 that rare breed which makes and moulds the morbid 
 ascetic. It was only in one respect truly that he 
 fell short of this distinction, yet it was in that respect 
 which was to be the basis of his downfall; in that
 
 THE MAN 175 
 
 respect, without the consideration of which he would 
 not have been permitted to call himself a priest of 
 God. 
 
 The man who becomes a priest must be physically 
 and mentally whole in every portion of his body and 
 mind. The Holy Church will not accept deformities 
 amongst their priesthood. 
 
 Father Michael's thoughts reverted to that moment 
 in his life when, at the command of the Bishop, he 
 had stepped through the first portal leading into that 
 house of life which he had chosen for his abode. If 
 it were true, he argued to himself, that that step had 
 brought upon him the sufferings of the body, what 
 did it matter so long as it did not bring a suffering 
 of the mind? What were the physical ills of this 
 life compared with the spiritual welfare of the soul? 
 Nothing! Nothing! He would suffer them a thou- 
 sand times sooner than be otherwise than an avowed 
 celibate and a priest in holy orders. 
 
 When he reached the studio Holland, who had been 
 working at his picture without the model, rose from 
 his high four-legged stool and covered the baize over 
 the canvas. 
 
 " Well," he said, drawing no attention to his action, 
 " did you see him? " 
 
 " I did of course." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "What did he tell you?" 
 
 " Nerves. He said I was suffering from some long 
 name which he explained quite voluntarily meant 
 nerves."
 
 176 THE APPLE OF. EDEN 
 
 Holland pardonably drew the mistaken inference 
 from this veiled sarcasm that Father Michael had no 
 great opinion of the ability of his friend Dr. Madison. 
 
 " Oh," he remarked, turning away to his besmeared 
 palette, and the rest of the sentence that had risen 
 to his lips he kept to himself. 
 
 This was all that passed between them on the subject 
 of his visit to the doctor, and soon after, having 
 nothing better to do, the priest packed up the few of 
 his belongings that had been called into requisition 
 during his short stay in London. 
 
 By the time that they had finished lunch it was 
 close enough to the moment of Father Michael's 
 departure for a cab to be called, and together they 
 drove down to Charing Cross, from which station the 
 priest was to commence the rest of his journey into 
 another and yet stranger country. 
 
 Bereft of ideas for conversation, they maintained 
 an almost continuous silence until they reached the 
 station. There the need for action, such as the label- 
 ling and registration of luggage, became the object 
 of a few remarks, but otherwise they spoke of no per- 
 sonal matters. 
 
 At last the final whistle was blown, and Father 
 Michael leant out of the carriage window, holding 
 out his hand. 
 
 "Well, good-bye," he said quietly, "and many 
 thanks, indeed, for your kindness in giving me 
 room." 
 
 Holland grasped his hand. A sudden sentiment 
 rose to his mind that this man was one who had 
 Fftrped his own understanding of nature for reasons,
 
 T.HE 'MAN 177 
 
 noble reasons, which no one could but admire him 
 for. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said, "perhaps we shall see each 
 other again." 
 
 " Possibly," replied Father Michael, with an answer- 
 ing smile. 
 
 And then the train moved slowly out of the station, 
 leaving one of them convinced that their roads in life 
 lay no more in the same direction than do the paths 
 of the sun and the wind ; bearing away the other who 
 felt that the destiny of his existence could never join 
 in companionship again with the man who had once 
 been his friend.
 
 "And the Lord God said, It is not good that the 
 man should be alone; I will make him an help meet 
 for him. And the rib, which the Lord God had taken 
 from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto 
 the man." Gen. ii. 18, 2-2.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 DURESNE is one of those out-of-the-way, obscure, 
 little villages lying some twenty or thirty miles south 
 of Paris. There is nothing uncommon about its 
 appearance, either in detail or to the casual observer 
 who flies by in the Lyons express on his way to the 
 south. 
 
 The lofty, tiled spire of its miniature church rises 
 high above the cluster of white houses that cling 
 together in friendly intimacy, but beyond that and 
 the woods which lie wrapped in a blue haze in the 
 background, it has nothing to mark it as an exception 
 to the rest of its kind. 
 
 Long, uninteresting roads, lined with their monot- 
 onous rows of poplars, stretching to north and south, 
 lead out of it from either side. In itself it contains 
 one principal street together with a few by-lanes and 
 alleys, but nothing beyond that. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding all this apparent lack of 
 interest which it seems to display, the woods in the 
 background and the marshy land with its stagnant 
 pools and long-reeded grass escaping the eye of the 
 passing traveller, have become a well-known resort for 
 that class of artist which cannot afford to travel far 
 or meet any heavy expenses of living. 
 
 Aumonier's exhibition of pictures in London some 
 years ago can easily be brought to mind, and it was 
 no doubt from the many studies, water-colours and 
 etchings done about Duresne which he hung in promi- 
 
 181
 
 182 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 nent places that aspiring students heard about it and 
 made their way there. 
 
 In this little village then, waiting in Paris only 
 while the change of trains compelled him, Father 
 Michael found himself in the space of some seven or 
 eight hours, and it being too late in the evening 
 to go to the convent to see his sister, he contented 
 himself with a meal and went to bed. 
 
 The pension, as his sister had chosen to call it, was 
 merely one of the many white houses which con- 
 stituted the principal habitations of the village. Cer- 
 tainly it was a little larger than the rest, that is to 
 say it possessed greater accommodations, but in 
 other respects it did not stand out conspicuously 
 from among its fellows. 
 
 Mrs. Warren, to whom it belonged, was a great 
 personal friend of the Reverend Mother's at the con- 
 vent. The latter, seeing that many artists and visit- 
 ors were coming to the village, and complaining of the 
 want of a suitable place of temporary habitation, had 
 written to her friend in Paris. Then, having secured 
 the offer of this house, she had advised her to come 
 and take the opportunity of remaining in comfort for 
 the rest of her life. 
 
 Mrs. Warren was a widow, teaching English to a 
 few pupils in Paris was not lucrative, and she had a 
 small balance at the bank, all of which things were in 
 favour of the suggestion, and so the place had become 
 her own. 
 
 For the first three years it had paid. It had 
 brought her into everyday contact with a friend for 
 whom she had the dearest admiration, and conse-
 
 THE WOMAN 183 
 
 quently the little widow with her homely face and 
 maternal manners was thoroughly contented. 
 
 In recommending her brother to Mrs. Warren's 
 charge, Sister Mary Conception who, from a red- 
 faced little girl with simple features, had changed but 
 slightly indeed, since she had left the world had not 
 only pleased herself with the possibility of seeing 
 Father Michael. She had also endeavoured to do 
 something that would please the Reverend Mother, 
 for whom she, with every one who knew this admirable 
 woman, had the greatest feelings of respect. 
 
 The priest was shown at once to the small room 
 immaculately clean that was to be his for the next 
 three weeks, or however long he chose to stay. He 
 felt a great sense of relief, after the various experi- 
 ences of his journey from London, to hear English 
 spoken once more and, with the information from 
 Mrs. Warren that they were all looking forward to 
 seeing him at the convent in the morning, he went to 
 bed. Coming down the next day to breakfast, he 
 found that he was the only visitor in the house, Mrs. 
 Warren officiating as hostess at the head of the table. 
 
 She chatted to him brightly about his sister, drew 
 from him his opinions on the various places he had 
 seen on the journey, and asked him what he thought 
 of London and of Paris. When she heard that he 
 had seen nothing of the latter city beyond what he 
 had passed through during his exchange from the 
 Gare du Nord to the Gare de Lyons, she waxed 
 enthusiastic on the beauties of the city and per- 
 suaded him that before he left France he must spend 
 a day there at least.
 
 184 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 So it was, before the meal was over, that he felt 
 the return of all his good spirits. He came to the 
 conclusion, with this atmosphere of happy simplicity 
 all about him, that life was not all a struggle against 
 inclination and the inviolable laws of nature. There 
 were corners of the world where such struggles could 
 be avoided. This was one, Rathmore was another, 
 and he rose from the table when breakfast was finished 
 feeling that that one day and night in London had 
 been all a cruel dream of which this return of content 
 was the merciful awakening. 
 
 " You have no other visitors then ? " he said as he 
 pushed his chair under the table. 
 
 Mrs. Warren accepted the reminder quite cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 "The greatest number come in the late spring or 
 the beginning of autumn, you know. Those are very 
 favourite seasons of the year. But you're not the 
 only visitor, Father. There's a lady artist. Well, I 
 ought really to call her a student, she doesn't profess 
 to be anything greater than that. Roona Lawless 
 she's Irish, of course. Why, we shall all be Irish here 
 when she comes back. It'll be quite a national con- 
 vention. She's been away for a week or ten days, 
 but I've just had a letter from her this morning 
 telling me that she'll be back to-night. The same 
 train that you came by last night." 
 
 " Does my sister know her ? " 
 
 "Yes slightly. But she's always out sketching 
 a most enthusiastic worker she is and so they see 
 very little of her at the convent. I must confess 
 myself and I really pride myself on my judg-
 
 THE WOMAN 185 
 
 ment " she laughed, "I really don't understand 
 Roona in the least. She's ridiculously young. I'm 
 sure she can't be more than twenty-two at the most 
 but the ideas which that child gets into her head ! 
 You see, whenever she's not sketching, she reads. I 
 believe she reads when she goes to bed. I haven't 
 caught her at it yet though. I'm sure it 'ud do her 
 a great deal of good if you talked to her a little, 
 Father." 
 
 The priest smiled brightly. This little woman's 
 volubility amused him considerably. She seemed to 
 find so great an interest in everything around her. 
 But he knew perfectly well that if he only gave her 
 the opportunity she would talk away the whole 
 morning with the greatest east and delight. 
 
 " Well," he said, with a laugh, " I shall have to talk 
 to her as you say. But hadn't I better be getting up 
 to the convent ? " 
 
 " Of course, of course," and she proceeded to give 
 him the most minute directions, though a child could 
 have found its way there without any difficulty. 
 
 It seemed strange to him coming out of the house 
 that morning and stepping into the village street, on 
 to which the front windows of Mrs. Warren's house 
 looked. Talking to her as he had been doing for 
 the last half-hour or more in his own language, he 
 had almost forgotten that he was in France, and then 
 in one moment the chattering of a strange tongue at 
 every corner filled his ears and he found himself 
 trying to realize that they were thinking the same 
 thoughts or saying the very same things that he 
 might say or think.
 
 186 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 Surrounded by a high white wall, above which rose 
 a line of poplar trees that skirted the wall on the 
 inside, the convent stood a little aloof from the rest 
 of the village on a high piece of ground. From its 
 upper windows one could see across the marsh land, 
 with its ribbons of light reflected in the strips of 
 water, to the woods beyond and out from there over 
 the great stretch of level country. The open 
 jalousies of those upper windows threw deep, quiet 
 shadows on the white walls of the house, and the whole 
 place was imbued with a restful mingling of sun and 
 shade. A profound silence clung to the surround- 
 ings, a silence that was wakened almost rudely by the 
 clanging of the bell which Father Michael rang as he 
 reached the wooden door, the only means of entrance 
 into the convent. 
 
 After a few moments the little grating door within 
 the wooden structure was opened and he saw the white 
 gamp and headdress of the lay sister as she peered 
 through the lattice to see who it was. The next 
 moment the little nun, guessing his identity, had ad- 
 mitted him. Her face was benign with smiles and 
 her gestures grotesquely, delightfully French as, 
 chatting away in very broken English which en- 
 deavoured to express how glad his sister would be to 
 see him, she led him up to the house. He did not 
 know it, but many a pair of eyes, from behind the 
 closed jalousies, were watching his approach. 
 
 Scarcely was he shown into the reception room when 
 with a rustling of robes, Sister Mary Conception 
 hurried in to greet him. It did not matter in the least 
 that they hardly recognized each other it had no
 
 THE WOMAN 187 
 
 bearing on the case that she had last seen him as 
 little Michael, sitting near the blind man in the farm 
 kitchen at Ballyporeen he was Father Michael her 
 brother and the blood that is thicker than water 
 takes no important count of remembrances. 
 
 All she realized was that very few of the other nuns' 
 brothers ever came to see them, and that he had 
 travelled all the way from Ireland especially to visit 
 her. She was without doubt the proudest sister in 
 the convent that day, the good-natured envy of every 
 one of her fellows. 
 
 Their first consideration was the times that were 
 past. Days of happy memory were recalled; days 
 which in their immediate moments had passed each of 
 them by in the casual course of events, containing 
 not one trace of the sentiment which they now dis- 
 covered in them. And all this combined to make 
 Father Michael forget his time in London with its 
 cruel realizations. He might have been back in 
 Rathmore again, or in Ballyporeen, for all the 
 simplicity of life that was around him. Yet never- 
 theless, deep in the soil of his mind the seed of reckon- 
 ing had been sown, ready for the favourable wind and 
 the fructuating rain of circumstances to bring it 
 suddenly and imperishably into being. 
 
 They had by no means exhausted their stock of 
 memories before the Reverend Mother came into the 
 room and was introduced to Father Michael. Then 
 the conversation became usual with commonplaces, 
 and after a few moments the priest was asked if he 
 would like to see the chapel. Every convent is in- 
 ordinately proud of its chapel. And so he was
 
 188 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 brought to the little building that stood in the 
 grounds a little apart from the house. The graves 
 of the departed sisters marked with their plain, black, 
 wooden crosses, lay in a plot of grass by its side. 
 
 Quiet and still, with that strange peacefulness that 
 is apart from the world and its struggles, the interior 
 of the chapel was the most restful spot in the whole 
 convent. The stone-paved floor was lit with great 
 patches of light where the sunshine flooded in through 
 the windows, and the polished deal-wood stalls, where 
 the choir nuns sat every morning at Mass, caught 
 and reflected the rays of the sun in little points of 
 light. 
 
 There was a simple lack of that grandeur which is 
 to be seen in nearly all Roman Catholic places of 
 worship, a simple absence of colour in the decoration, 
 which spoke of the no great opulence of the order, 
 and, to the mind that is crossed with imagination, had 
 its story to tell of simple prayers and simple lives and 
 simple women. 
 
 Father Michael stood for a few moments looking 
 towards the altar, then with a thoughtful genuflexion 
 he walked up the aisle to the altar rail and knelt down, 
 so that when the other nuns, hearing of the arrival of 
 Sister Mary Conception's brother, had hurried down 
 to the chapel to be introduced, they found him 
 engaged in prayer.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 HE was given a midday meal at the convent, some 
 of the sisters waiting upon his wants with an old- 
 fashioned assiduity, whilst others sat at the far end 
 of the room and watched him with an almost childish 
 curiosity. 
 
 That day, as he thought of it in the evening when 
 he retired early to bed, had contained all the first 
 happy moments of his holiday. The change of air, 
 the change of scene, were beginning to work their 
 beneficial effect upon him. All the weight of useless 
 introspection that had burdened his mind with its 
 morbid imaginings during his short stay in London 
 had in these few moments been entirely taken from 
 him. He felt that his health was improving. He 
 knew that he was in his natural element, and with 
 that knowledge came the strength to thrust all his 
 experiences of the last few days into the background 
 of oblivion. He had nothing in common with them. 
 They were not in the nature of his being, and since he 
 had not chosen their life, but another and a higher 
 calling, he could dispense with them, and whatever 
 truth they happened to contain, for ever. 
 
 With these consoling thoughts acting upon his mind, 
 to a far greater degree of efficacy than any sedative 
 which Dr. Giveen could have given him, he fell asleep ; 
 slept with the rest that comes to a little child and 
 woke the next morning to greet the sun which seemed 
 
 189
 
 190 THE APPLE OF. EDEN 
 
 to blend with the new life that he felt tangibly before 
 him. 
 
 Coming down to the breakfast-room he found that 
 he was early. Mrs. Warren herself, early riser and 
 indefatigable housekeeper as she was, had not yet 
 made her appearance, so he contented himself with 
 looking out of the window on to the square of garden 
 that was set behind the house. The masses of flowers 
 in that miniature space would have appeared 
 cramped, almost ridiculously so, had they been any 
 less beautiful than they were. Their scent seemed to 
 reach him where he stood. He was tempted to open 
 the long windows, step out into the garden and sit 
 down on the garden seat that faced the back of the 
 house, but at that moment the maid brought in the 
 letters and, turning, he found that one had been laid 
 on his plate. Another lay in the third place which had 
 been set, he rightly supposed, for Miss Lawless, the 
 lady art student. He saw the name Roona Lawless 
 written across it in cramped, small handwriting, 
 and as he was taking his eyes from it in the cursory 
 glance which he had bestowed upon the envelope 
 he caught sight of the postmark, Lee: Lee, the 
 largest town in the south of Ireland, not thirty 
 miles or so from Rathmore. Father Connelly knew 
 intimately one of the parish priests there, and he 
 occasionally asked the good man to preach there in 
 his church, St. Peter and Paul's. Father Michael 
 himself had been there only once or twice and knew 
 but little of the place. Yet it was strange, almost 
 a coincidence, that this girl should come from a town 
 so close to Rathmore as was Lee. Lee that was
 
 THE WOMAN 191 
 
 where his father had purchased the threshing machine 
 which had been the wonder of Ballyporeen for nearly 
 a year. He remembered the day that the old man had 
 driven over to Waterf ord and thence gone up by train 
 to buy it. 
 
 As soon as his first interest in this incident had lost 
 its savour, he turned to his own letter and broke open 
 the envelope. It was from the parish priest, and 
 his face was forced many times into a smile as he read 
 through the pages. 
 
 " DEAR FATHER MICHAEL," it began " I have been 
 trying to remember whether I ever wrote a letter in 
 my life before, when I was not absolutely compelled 
 to by the force of circumstances, and when I had fin- 
 ished writing to you I came to the qpnclusion that this 
 was the first and should be the last, for since I have 
 read it through it seems the greatest nonsense 
 something like my sermons, I suppose that was ever 
 put from a pen on to a piece of paper. You may 
 wonder how I have been able to read it through before 
 I have begun it ; but, as with my sermons and, 
 mind you, this is the closest of secrets between us I 
 made a copy of it. I was quite expecting and, 
 mind you, I am quite prepared to find that I was all 
 wrong that the first few days in your change of 
 surroundings, you would feel considerably on the 
 wrong side of things. Of course, I am only speaking 
 from experience; and I know that when I first went 
 abroad, I felt like a chicken with a brood of young 
 ducks who is wondering what in the name of goodness 
 makes them able to swim; and it struck me that
 
 192 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 probably you would find the same sort of thing with 
 the French language, so I thought a little of my 
 inferior English I would write Gaelic, but you 
 would not understand it might be a little cheerful 
 to you. Mind you, I know that you're apt to worry 
 over things, but if you had reared the cattle and 
 brought up the crops of potatoes that I have, you 
 would know there's no worry in this world but what 
 will be set to rights in the next season's harvest. If 
 you want to know why I am writing all this, I will 
 tell you. Another of my heifers has perished, and I 
 had to ease my feelings somehow, so I thought the 
 best thing I could do was to write and tell you not to 
 worry because you find yourself in a strange country. 
 How was your friend the Belfast man? I think you 
 told me he was an artist. Are you sure he came 
 from Belfast? You ought to cultivate him if he 
 did, because he is the first man from that city who 
 ever achieved the distinction, I should think. Are 
 you sure it isn't a painter he is? By the way, Mr. 
 Power came to me the other day in the guise of the 
 most injured man in this country, and that is by no 
 means an easy role, mind you. He told me you'd 
 been after interfering with him when he abused little 
 Annie Foley for grazing her father's cattle on his 
 land. Now, maybe you did right; mind you, I'm 
 not denying it, because I only heard Mr. Power's 
 side of the story, which was a long one, and did not 
 seem to have any opposite to it at all. He said that 
 you'd objected to his using the language he did to a 
 little girl. Well, mind you, Father Michael, all that 
 sounds very well if we were in high-class society, and
 
 THE WOMAN 193 
 
 I dare say you were right in fact, I told Mr. Power 
 you were; but there is a meting out of justice that 
 has not always got a highly classical dictionary at its 
 elbow to refer to, and it seemed to me, though I didn't 
 say so, mind you, that this last suited the case in 
 question. I'm only telling you the thing for your 
 good, because I know you did it out of kindly feel- 
 ing for the young child. But the only way to treat 
 the weaker people and the weaker sex in this world 
 is to have as little sympathy for them as you can 
 spare. If sympathy were minted and stamped, you'd 
 find that people would think a great deal more of 
 you for giving it. Poor little Mary Troy died quite 
 suddenly last night. She slipped down the cliff up 
 by the ruins and cut her head open. When her 
 mother came to tell me of it and I was right out at 
 Ballysheen, mind you I had to ask the good woman 
 not to cry so much, because she made me feel quite 
 silly myself. Good-bye to you now, and let me see 
 a change in you when you come back which mind 
 you, I don't expect. Yrs. truly, 
 
 "THOMAS CONNELLY." 
 
 So the letter ended abruptly, and as he looked up 
 Mrs. Warren made her appearance at breakfast. 
 
 " Letters ? " she said, raising her eyebrows, with a 
 smile. " They've soon found you out. I never get 
 any at all since I came to Duresne. Oh, here's Roona 
 I must introduce you." 
 
 A rustling of skirts announced the approach of 
 Miss Lawless, and the next moment she had walked 
 into the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ^ 
 
 IN the act of pulling out his chair under the 
 table, Father Michael looked up as Mrs. Warren, 
 formally but genially, as though they were children 
 of her own, mentioned their names. 
 
 Life is a series of turning-points, some of which we 
 pass in all consciousness, at others remaining ig- 
 norant that another aspect of things, another view 
 of the future, is stretching out before us. And it 
 was when Father Michael looked up, recognizing in 
 Roona Lawless the girl whom he had seen and dreamt 
 of in London, that he passed a turning-point of life, 
 fully realizing that a fresh landscape was before him, 
 but utterly unconscious of the path he would take or 
 whither it would lead him. 
 
 It was impossible to grasp the situation in that one 
 small moment of recognition impossible to realize 
 any one definite sensation amongst the many that, 
 like a crowd of children freed from the toils of school, 
 with rampant haste crushed through his mind. 
 
 But there was one thought, one idea that, above all 
 the others, struck a deeper chord upon the strings of 
 his emotion. He had thought it fate that she should 
 have come behind him in the queue that had formed 
 outside the theatre ; he had thought it fate when, by 
 her announcement, he had learnt that she was of the 
 same religion as himself ; but how far greater, deeper, 
 and more subtle a degree of chance it was that she 
 
 194
 
 THE WOMAN 195 
 
 should be Roona Lawless, the art student, living in 
 the very same house with him, sitting opposite to him 
 at the breakfast-table, and looking once more into 
 his eyes, as in that formal moment of introduction 
 she was doing then! 
 
 Over all other ideas, when once the note of this last 
 was sounded, it seemed to ride predominant. He felt 
 that there was some meaning in it. He knew that it 
 had not been brought about without a cause. And 
 yet, when she held out her hand in a natural sim- 
 plicity of friendliness, even this last thought of all 
 was bound to bend its neck to circumstance and take 
 the course of things just as they were. 
 
 Accepting the facts of the case as they appeared 
 upon the surface, there was no reason why it should 
 not have been this girl as well as any other ; and yet, 
 regarding the facts of the case as he saw them, deep 
 down in the heart of things, could he have imagined 
 in the wildest effort of his thoughts a more wonderful, 
 more telling and more stirring coincidence than this? 
 
 She held out her hand with a smile, and in that 
 queer way which Fate has of making us accept her 
 situations with the rest of life without comment or 
 surprise he took it in his. 
 
 "How d'you do?" she said. It was all she said. 
 The most commonplace and usual words that a 
 person can utter ; but with her voice, as she said them, 
 came the recollection to Father Michael's mind of all 
 that he had heard her say before. 
 
 At first when he sat down to the breakfast-table his 
 hand was shaking and his sight could not focus itself 
 to the proper proportion of anything. But as time
 
 196 THE APPLE EDEN 
 
 went on, the realization of the food he was eating and 
 the heat of the coffee on his tongue such little 
 natural things as these combined with the bright- 
 ness of her conversation with Mrs. Warren to adjust 
 the natural reason of his senses ; and he found him- 
 self putting a word into the conversation almost 
 before he was aware of his intention of doing so. 
 
 So this third meeting, the strangest of them all, 
 was passed over and fitted itself into the routine of 
 existence as births, deaths, marriages and all the 
 greater events of life will do. And only a ripple 
 disturbed the surface of the stream which died down 
 after a few circles of vibration into the usual and 
 placid state of affairs. 
 
 "And I got some new books," Roona announced, 
 after she had recounted all that had befallen her in 
 her last visit to London. " I spent about twenty-five 
 shillings on books, and now I suppose I shall have to 
 go without another new hat this summer. Well, 
 it can't be helped. Hats wear out." She smiled 
 across the table at Father Michael. 
 
 " What sort of books do you read ? " he asked. 
 
 "Well, do you mean what did I buy in London?" 
 
 "If you like. Yes. What books did you buy in 
 London ? " 
 
 She made a mental effort to remember them all 
 and, when she was satisfied with the result, lifted her 
 head with a jerk so that her red hair came in contact 
 with a ray of sunshine that lit it up into burnt gold, 
 all of which things awakened recollections in the 
 mind of the priest. 
 
 "First I bought an edition of Browning. A
 
 THE WOMAN 19 1 * 
 
 cheaper one has not long been out. I don't mind 
 the cheaper editions, you know. Then I got some- 
 thing of Swinburne. Something very small, because 
 he's alive. Dead poets are always cheaper. It was 
 some selections of his. Then the other books, I 
 really can't remember them all, but I know they cost 
 twenty-five shillings." 
 
 " You never read philosophy ? " asked Father 
 Michael. 
 
 " Only when I can get hold of it. Philosophy's so 
 expensive." 
 
 " I think I can lend you some books. I've got one 
 of the earlier works of Mivart in my box. Mivart 
 on Truth." 
 
 Her eyes lit up with delight at the prospect, and in 
 a moment her face was animated with an expression 
 of pleasure. 
 
 "It's awfully kind of you," she exclaimed. "I 
 shall never do any work so long as Father Everett's 
 here, Mrs. Warren, if he's going to take me through a 
 course of philosophy." 
 
 " That'll probably do you a lot more good, my dear, 
 than poring over those moist, lead colours of yours. 
 I'm sure all oil paints are mixed with some sort of 
 lead, and I always think that artists will be poisoned 
 to death if they live long enough." 
 
 Neither Roona nor Father Michael knew anything 
 about the matter so they kept silence. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over the priest announced 
 his intention of taking his first long walk into the 
 country. 
 
 " I want to investigate those woods, Mrs. Warren,"
 
 198 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 he said, " and if I go up to the convent every morn- 
 ing I shan't see any of the scenery at the best time 
 of the day. Moreover, I don't want to worry the 
 Reverend Mother." 
 
 And so, Roona having gone up-stairs to finish her 
 unpacking, Father Michael put on his hat and, turn- 
 ing his face to the south-west as soon as he got out 
 of the village, started off on his excursion. 
 
 Nothwithstanding Aumonier and his exhibition of 
 pictures, notwithstanding the attraction to artists 
 who endeavoured to follow in his steps, Father 
 Michael took but little heed of the scenery through 
 which he passed. His mind was wrapped up with the 
 incident of the breakfast-table, and it had been rather 
 his intention to come out to think over the matter 
 than to appreciate any of the scenery which Mrs. 
 Warren had so recommended him to notice. 
 
 Quite suddenly, as he walked, he realized that she 
 could not have seen him the first time that they had 
 met in London, when she had looked into his eyes; 
 or he had made practically no impression upon her 
 mind, for she had not shown the slightest sign of 
 recognition when they had been introduced. He sup- 
 posed he was not the sort of man who would attract 
 her attention as she had attracted his. 
 
 But how thoroughly her character fell in with his 
 delineation of it from her face! She was unlike, 
 absolutely unlike, the rest of her sex. What girl of 
 twenty-one or twenty-two, which ever she might 
 happen to be, would take the interest in serious 
 matters of life, such as philosophy, as he did? He 
 was afraid, nevertheless, that he had given way to
 
 THE WOMAN 199 
 
 impulse when he had offered to lend her his Mivart. 
 As she had already anticipated, it would probably 
 lead to his coming more frequently into contract with 
 her than he intended should be the case. Perhaps 
 he ought to avoid that. He did not tell himself 
 why. It is quite possible that he would have been un- 
 able to give any satisfactory answer had he been 
 asked. 
 
 In this way his thoughts led him through the 
 country, and there was not one that fastened itself 
 upon his mind which did not bear upon Roona 
 Lawless and the existence that she had suddenly 
 made for herself in his consideration. 
 
 In one who had never taken into account the 
 presence of women in the scheme of things such a 
 state of mind may seem incongruous. But one 
 factor should be considered when question is made of 
 it. As with the sprig of a tree, the blade of grass, 
 anything of nature that grows by natural laws, so 
 with the human mind. It is a slow and laborious pro- 
 cess to twist it into unnatural and contorted shapes, 
 yet when left alone it will return to its original out- 
 line with a greater ease and celerity than was found 
 in the effort to contort it. 
 
 And it was so with the mind of Father Michael. 
 Bent into an abnormal condition of unnatural intro- 
 spection he was beginning in the quiet simplicity of 
 his surroundings to relax into that state of mind 
 which can only be described as healthy. Not that 
 it is meant to convey that his mental contemplation 
 of Roona Lawless or of any woman is naturally the 
 normal condition of thought for a priest of his
 
 200 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 Church, but that in considering her existence he lost 
 for the first time all sight of himself and his mor- 
 bidity. And so it is from this point onward, that a 
 change will be seen in Father Michael ; a change that 
 will bring him on to the more rational levelof man- 
 kind, and fit him for a more interesting place in 
 story. 
 
 After he had been walking for an hour and more, he 
 came so far into the contemplation of commonplace 
 things as to look at his watch. It needed but forty 
 minutes to the hour at which Mrs. Warren expected 
 her guests to be ready for dinner, and he faced 
 quickly about to make the journey back. 
 
 But facing about does not always point to home, 
 and when, after walking for some time through the 
 woods he could not find a path, or even see in the 
 distance any sign of the church spire, he came 
 to the inevitable conclusion that he had lost his 
 way. 
 
 Seen from the upper windows of the convent, the 
 country through which he had passed showed no 
 visible signs of intricacy of arrangement, yet it was 
 not the first time that a visitor to Duresne had lost 
 himself in the woods behind the village. 
 
 Having wandered for some time with no result 
 through the thick brambles and closely-growing 
 trees, he consulted his watch again. Fifteen minutes 
 had slipped away, and it was now useless to think 
 that he could get back in time for the meal. There 
 was nothing left to be done, he decided, but to con- 
 tinue aimlessly in his rambling, trusting entirely to 
 chance to bring him into the right path.
 
 THE WOMAN 201 
 
 This lasted for another quarter of an hour, when, 
 coming noiselessly across an open space of grass, to 
 which the sun had lent the warmth and richness of 
 its light, he saw Roona Lawless, her back turned 
 towards him, sketching by a little stream that made 
 its way out of a dense growth of copse-wood into the 
 sudden light of the sun. 
 
 Her hat was off, lying on the ground by her side, 
 and she was seated on a small artist's stool, in front 
 of her easel. Every moment as she turned to the 
 palette, which rested on her arm, to dip her various 
 brushes into the daubs of colour, he saw the bare 
 outline of her cheek, which, when the light fell on it, 
 looked like ivory set in copper. 
 
 For a moment he watched her without changing 
 his position, studying all her actions oblivious of his 
 own existence. It was the first time he had seen, the 
 first time he had realized the individuality of a woman, 
 and he was unconsciously marvelling at it. It was as 
 though, sleeping alone on a bed of earth in the wild 
 and solitary silence of some Garden of Eden, he had 
 been wakened by the master hand of some omnipotent 
 power and shown the existence of a companion, the 
 presence of a woman, and as yet had not forgotten 
 his surprise. 
 
 From the moment that he had seen this girl in 
 London, though he himself had been quite unaware of 
 of the change, his physical faculties had begun to 
 grow by themselves, as in his youth his mental 
 qualities had developed. Nature had first asserted 
 her rights upon his nerves ; now she had changed her 
 tactics, and having found an object wherewith to
 
 202 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 work, was commencing to issue her commands upon 
 his senses. 
 
 When these few moments had passed, with no 
 conscious struggle of resistence in his mind, he 
 crossed the space between them, making as much noise 
 as he could, in order to attract her attention.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ROONA looked up quickly from her easel and 
 turned round. 
 
 "You, Father!" she exclaimed. "Mrs. Warren 
 told me you were coming back to dinner." 
 
 " So I was until about an hour ago. Then I dis- 
 covered that I'd lost myself, and I've been trying to 
 find my way ever since." 
 
 She raised her eyebrows questioning whether he 
 really meant what he said, then, seeing that he was 
 speaking the truth, she laughed. The same expres- 
 sion came into her eyes which he had seen that day 
 in Regent Street. But he did not understand that it 
 merely implied the lightness of her spirits and was 
 intended to convey nothing of the intimacy which 
 others, before Father Michael, had fancied they had 
 seen in it. 
 
 She was one of those creatures of natural condi- 
 tions, who feel life as plainly as the athlete feels the 
 beating of his heart after a race; as keenly as the 
 swimmer feels the warmth of his own blood when he 
 emerges from the water. 
 
 From her very earliest days it had always seemed 
 to her that she was conscious, sensitively conscious of 
 every minute as it passed. It was not that she 
 thought introspectively in these moments, but that 
 she was supremely aware of her own presence and its 
 existence. And when she was in good spirits, a state 
 of mind that was common to, if not persistent with 
 
 203
 
 204 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 her, the knowledge of it always found expression in 
 her eyes. 
 
 Green eyes are deceptive. They often look more 
 than they mean to convey. Some for the sake of 
 boldness, or maybe it is to rhyme a couplet, have said 
 that they are destined for hell. But whatever truth 
 there is in this statement, Roona's eyes, excepting 
 perhaps her hair, were the most attractive features 
 that she had. As they might have said of them in 
 her own country "Her eyes weren't made for the 
 good of her sowl " and if the goodness and peace of 
 the soul do lie in the eyes then there would have been 
 truth in the saying. Her mouth was usually in a 
 serious setting, and, though the lips were deep- 
 coloured with a subtle fascination of their own, it 
 was her eyes that held all the expression in her face. 
 
 And it was into her eyes that she found Father 
 Michael mostly looked. 
 
 In the first moment of seeing her that morning at 
 the breakfast-table his pale face and long features, 
 sensitive mouth and deep-set eyes had made no great 
 impression on her. She had heard that he was a 
 priest from Ireland; what part she had not been 
 sufficiently interested to ask. But as a priest he had 
 possibly seemed a little different from what she had 
 expected. Otherwise she had accepted his presence 
 at Mrs. Warren's as one is forced to accept the exist- 
 ence of many of the people whom, in moving across 
 this " chequer board of nights and days," chance 
 throws in our way. And so she had intended to 
 accept him until that moment when she turned 
 suddenly and saw him looking down into her eyes.
 
 THE WOMAN 205 
 
 Women have instinct, men have it too, but one 
 possesses an entirely different quality from the other. 
 With a man it is nervous, hysterical, with a woman 
 it is natural. And with Roona, as she looked up into 
 the priest's eyes, full of the intentness of his interest 
 in her, her instinct was perfectly natural and unpre- 
 meditated. She felt intuitively that she influenced 
 him. She knew, as deeply as belief could give her 
 knowledge, that he was drawn towards her, and the 
 first thought of him as a priest of God, when the 
 realization came upon her, was one of almost horror 
 horror that was neither loathing nor disgust, but 
 the horror of fear which one, holding a sacred vessel 
 of the Church, must feel lest it should fall and be 
 broken. 
 
 She did not gloat over the knowledge. She did not 
 feel inclined for one moment to glory in the power 
 over him which she thought she possessed. In fact, 
 with an almost nervous timidity she plunged wildly 
 into conversation, hoping to distract his mind and her 
 own at the same time. 
 
 "Well, I suppose I shall have to give you some of 
 my sandwiches," she remarked, bending down quickly 
 to avoid the drawn look in his eyes which with almost 
 puerile unconsciousness he did not seem to realize was 
 there. At the moment when she had turned and 
 seen him standing by her side she had observed that 
 same appearance in the very pose of his body, a sort 
 of servile obedience, and had && little understood the 
 real significance of its meaning then as she did now. 
 
 " I always bring some sort of a meal with me when 
 I come out," she went on, drawing some sandwiches
 
 206 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 from a tin box. "You know you couldn't get back 
 in less than three-quarters of an hour from here. 
 Duresne's nearly four miles very nearly." 
 
 " But you won't have enough to eat if I take some 
 of these?" 
 
 "Oh, I shall, Father. I've got a good many more 
 than I really want." 
 
 She halved the little bundle, giving him one portion, 
 and, laying the rest on her lap, put her palette on to 
 the grass. 
 
 Then they began their meal, Father Michael stand- 
 ing by her side. When he grew tired of the attitude 
 he seated himself on the grass a few feet away from 
 her, leaning for support against the withered stump 
 of a tree. It was an ideal place for such an im- 
 promptu meal. No sound of human life was within 
 hearing. Only the pattering of the stream over the 
 pebbly bottom, the chirping of birds that waited in 
 the branches of the trees for the meal that was 
 already being left for them, and that incessant yet 
 almost imperceptible hum of insect life which seems 
 to breathe out of the very earth itself, came sooth- 
 ingly to their ears. And overhead, changing with its 
 wondrous alchemy the green leaves into gold, the sun 
 burnt in the heavens, paling all the colours of the sky 
 into a bleached and cloudless blue. 
 
 " I never knew I was so hungry," he said, looking 
 up at her with a smile after he had finished the first 
 sandwich. " I don't know what I should have done 
 if I hadn't come across you." 
 
 " Did you think that when people went out sketch- 
 ing they lived on nothing ? "
 
 THE WOMAN 207 
 
 "No, I fancy they eat a good meal when they can 
 afford one." 
 
 " Art's so poorly paid is it ? " she asked ingenu- 
 ously. 
 
 "No; I mean from what I've heard, it's not that 
 it's so poorly paid, but that there's so little of it." 
 
 She laughed and looked down at him. He was 
 watching her as she put the food into her mouth. 
 
 " I want you to tell me a little more about your 
 reading," he said when he had finished the last sand- 
 wich. Manlike he had satiated his appetite as 
 quickly as he could. He could not dally over and 
 enjoy its satisfaction as she was doing. 
 
 " Well? What sort of reading? " She felt uncom- 
 fortably self-conscious each time that she raised the 
 food to her mouth. 
 
 " Who is Browning ? " 
 
 He was sublimely ignorant of what she would think 
 of this question. 
 
 "Browning?" she repeated it seemed incredible. 
 "Why he's the greatest poet that ever lived. The 
 only man who could talk in verse or rhyme a truism 
 without your knowing that he'd done it." 
 
 " What poems has he written ? " he asked vaguely. 
 " You'll have to forgive my ignorance, but where I 
 come from we don't hear of poets. Tell me the 
 names of some of them." He said all this to raise 
 himself in her estimation. He knew he had fallen, 
 though he could not believe it to be over so small a 
 matter. His question might have entailed a lengthy 
 answer, but she only repeated the names of those that 
 were her favourites, and " Night and Morning,"
 
 208 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 though one of the shortest, she declared she liked 
 the best. 
 
 " What is that one about ? " he asked. His interest 
 in her was monopolizing his thoughts. He could 
 not see where he was drifting, did not realize in fact 
 that he was drifting anywhere at all. There was 
 none of that usual routine of duties to remind him of 
 his calling. His office, every day since he had gone 
 away on his holidays, he had read through before 
 breakfast, and it was not that he ever lost sight of his 
 calling as a priest, but merely that, in the absence of 
 his duties as one, he had found another side of life, 
 another phase of existence to be full of an absorbing 
 interest. 
 
 It was the first time in his life that he had taken 
 notice of any one to the oblivion of his own person- 
 ality, and it chanced quite naturally that this person 
 was a woman was Roona Lawless. Her being of 
 another sex made the interest more vital because it 
 was stranger to his mind. 
 
 She repeated the poem to him word for word, and 
 when she came to the last lines 
 
 " And straight was a path of gold for him, 
 And the need of a world of men for me," 
 
 she had almost forgotten his existence, though he 
 was doubly aware of hers. 
 
 " And is that your favourite poem ? " 
 
 " I really think it is. It's one of the simplest." 
 
 He looked at her critically. 
 
 "I suppose there must be something wanting in 
 me," he said after a pause. " But in the little that I
 
 have read of verse" in calling it verse he uncon- 
 sciously imitated her, such literature had never been 
 anything but plain poetry to him before "it has 
 always seemed to me that the writer goes such a long 
 way round to say so very little." 
 
 "Little?" She crumpled up the paper that had 
 contained the sandwiches and threw it away into the 
 thick growth of brambles. "Why in that poem 
 there's more of a story than half the writers of prose 
 could put into a hundred pages." 
 
 His eyes watched her with admiration as she spoke. 
 To him, with his very limited knowledge of those 
 sides of life which are known by that crude definition, 
 artistic, she seemed extraordinarily clever. It was 
 not that kind of cleverness which crams French, 
 Latin and Greek into a mind fit for millinery and 
 gains for its final ambition in a woman the distinction 
 of being an M.A. That cleverness he had no sym- 
 pathy with. But this was intellect of quite another 
 class, and the perception of it in her appealed to him. 
 And so, even more unconsciously in this intellectual 
 appreciation than in his admiration of her bodily 
 attractions, he was drawn still further towards her. 
 
 Yet, though it was unconscious in him, he displayed 
 the most obvious signs of it to her, and her mind 
 was in a bewilderment of apprehension. 
 
 She would not encourage it, because she felt sure 
 that sooner or later he would come to realize its 
 existence. But at the same time, with the need of 
 companionship which she sometimes felt in the loneli- 
 ness of her surroundings, it was certainly a relief to 
 the monotony of things. And what woman is there
 
 210 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 who will repel the obvious admiration of a man, if he 
 be the only one within calling? If she did buy books 
 instead of a new hat she was still sufficiently a woman 
 to appreciate being found interesting. 
 
 It was quite another question whether she found 
 Father Michael as interesting as he found her; it 
 was moreover a question that she had not thought of 
 asking herself. He was certainly remarkably simple. 
 Imagine his seeing no story in "Night and 
 Morning" ! 
 
 " Can't you see," she went on, " there's almost a 
 lifetime of story in it, though it does only spread over 
 one night and morning ? " 
 
 "Then what is the story? Tell it to me." 
 
 She looked down at him in surprise. 
 
 "Tell it to you? I'll lend you my Browning so 
 that you can read it for yourself until you see all the 
 story that there is. Then you can tell it to me 
 instead." 
 
 "Very well. You lend me your Browning and I'll 
 lend you my Mivart." 
 
 She laughed. " Fancy having read Mivart and not 
 Browning." 
 
 He smiled up into her face. 
 
 " Fancy having read Browning and not Mivart," he 
 retaliated; and for the first time she saw an expres- 
 sion of humorous intelligence in his eyes, and it 
 attracted her. 
 
 From that moment she treated him no longer as the 
 child that he had seemed at first, but rather as one 
 who has come from another sphere of intellect prob- 
 ably higher than her own and finds himself awkward
 
 THE WOMAN 211 
 
 and out of his element in the shallower water. She 
 was by no means one of those importunate members of 
 her sex who claim an assertive superiority over a man. 
 But the more they talked together, the more she met 
 him in the casual way at breakfast and the other 
 meals of the day, the less she used the appellation 
 "Father." For as time went on she grew accus- 
 tomed to his clerical garb and began to look upon him 
 as the ordinary man, since she had never met him in 
 his professional capacity. Familiarity, so they say, 
 breeds contempt, but that is not the only child of 
 her womb. Roona had no contempt for Father 
 Michael's calling. Had he once held up his hand in 
 the act of blessing she would have stopped aghast at 
 the familiarity with which she treated him; but as 
 there was no call for him to perform his priestly 
 duties she forgot that he was anything but a man 
 amongst men. He gave her no opportunity to treat 
 him as anything more than that. 
 
 She quite realized after a day or two of his acquaint- 
 ance that he was clever, probably exceptionally so. 
 But in what exact direction she was not destined to 
 discover until she had seen him officiating as the 
 priest. This knowledge certainly increased her 
 interest in him. He always gave her the impression 
 that a clever mathematician, in learning to paint, 
 would give to an artist. He seemed unconsciously to 
 be concentrating his mind upon a subject that was 
 utterly new to him, and try as she might she could 
 not arrive at that side of his mind which she felt 
 instinctively to be far superior to her own. He 
 stayed with her for some little time after they had
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 finished the sandwiches and their conversation wan- 
 dered over a whole range of subjects, from poets to 
 the more commonplace things of life. At last, when it 
 had reached the middle of the afternoon and she had 
 opened up to him yet another interest in the works of 
 men other than philosophers, she insisted upon his 
 returning as quickly as possible for fear Mrs. Warren 
 should grow uneasy about him. 
 
 Very reluctantly he rose from the grass and, re- 
 ceiving instructions as to the quickest way he could 
 take, set off for Duresne. Before he was quite out 
 of sight he turned round for the last time to look at 
 her. She saw the action ; took it all in and realized 
 exactly how much it meant in him. But, as she did 
 not take her hand from the canvas or perceptibly lift 
 her head, he fancied that she had not noticed him. 
 
 In another moment she was out of sight, and when 
 there was no longer an opportunity of watching her 
 his steps quickened, and in twenty minutes or so he 
 saw the village spire and the white walls of the con- 
 vent rising up into the distance. 
 
 A great many different points of the view of life 
 came to his mind during that return walk to Duresne. 
 Amongst others the example of St. Aloysius fell 
 heavily to the ground. It might have been possible, 
 he argued, in excuse for its destruction, to have 
 avoided the face of one's own mother in the days of 
 that particular saint, yet he must have been strangely 
 susceptible to the faces of women when he was driven 
 to such an extreme of precaution as that. 
 
 In these latter days, when a priest must pay after- 
 noon visits to one and all of his parishioners of both
 
 THE WOMAN 213 
 
 sexes and principally the weaker of the two, it was 
 obviously impossible to follow such an example. 
 Then again, was it unchaste to find an interest in con- 
 versation with a girl whose ideas were out of the 
 common rut of her kind ? Might he not just as 
 likely have met her and found the same interest in her 
 amongst those parishioners upon whom he was ex- 
 pected to call? 
 
 He admitted that she did interest him, but then 
 Father Connelly had often said he had not a sufficient 
 diversity of interests in life. He sought too much 
 after the philosophy of books, and left too much 
 alone the philosophy of nature. In the future he 
 would avoid that. He would take more interest in 
 the things and people around him. 
 
 It was not human, it was not natural to closet one- 
 self with one's own personality and see nothing what- 
 soever of the outer world. Had he wished to do that 
 he would have become a monk. But it had been his 
 ambition to be a priest. Many boys are expected by 
 their parents to be priests without any particular 
 choice of their own. They are brought up to antici- 
 pate it. But he, of his own wish, had longed to j oin 
 the Church. The longing had grown firmly and 
 fixedly in his mind from the moment when he had 
 heard his father and mother speaking of it in the 
 kitchen at Ballyporeen. 
 
 In Ireland it is a great and glorious thing to be a 
 priest. It spells power. It means local omnipotence 
 to sway a whole community with one wave of the 
 hand. He had wished to be a priest, to teach those 
 who had not learnt as yet; yet how could he learn
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 the mind of others, to lead and teach them, if he shut 
 himself away from the world and its kind? He felt 
 in that one conversation with Roona Lawless he had 
 looked further into a woman's nature than he had ever 
 seen before. 
 
 Yes, undoubtedly he had made one great mistake, 
 and Father Connelly had proved himself right after 
 all. 
 
 It was from nature itself that nature was to be 
 learnt, and all the philosophies of Mivart, Ward or 
 the Jesuit series on the manuals of philosophy could 
 not teach him life only the way to live when he had 
 learnt what life was. 
 
 Father Connelly had seen what life was. He had 
 found it, as he had often said, in the potato crop and 
 the wheat yield in the rearing of cattle and the 
 cares of agriculture. But as Father Michael had 
 declared, and it was a truthful declaration, we can't 
 all grow potatoes. He was not a farmer. He would 
 learn it from human kind and, closing his eyes as he 
 walked, he said a prayer for guidance.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 IT was quite impossible, living in the same house as 
 they were doing, for them not to see a great deal of 
 each other; and Mrs. Warren in her matronly way 
 persisted in persuading Father Michael to take 
 Roona in hand. 
 
 Not that these persuasions had any particular 
 power with him beyond being the means of allaying 
 the occasional tremors of conscience that were apt at 
 night to question the wisdom of his friendship with 
 this girl who had stirred him so deeply the first time 
 they had met. But the act of living, of having their 
 meals together in the same house, .shattered all these 
 questions in the morning. It was all so different 
 from the moments when he had seen her suddenly and 
 then as suddenly lost sight of her. That had been 
 foolish emotional. There was no scope for emotion 
 in this quiet, every-day life. And so he stilled his 
 conscience with the sedative of reason. 
 
 There were times, almost every day, when he paid 
 a visit to the convent and talked with his sister or 
 the Reverend Mother. In the short period of his 
 acquaintance with the latter he found that he 
 really preferred her conversation. She was one of 
 those quiet women, who seem to have chosen her life, 
 not from the persuasion of custom, but with the 
 deeper purpose which orders the coming and going 
 of events with mental precision and regularity. 
 
 215
 
 216 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 On these occasions, bearing Mivart's philosophy 
 under her arm, her easel and other impedimenta in 
 her hands, Roona would set off for the woods or the 
 grey-green marshland, whichever happened to be 
 most interesting to her at the time, and thither 
 Father Michael would make his way as soon as the 
 duties of the nuns compelled him to leave the 
 convent. 
 
 In return for Mivart she had lent him her new copy 
 of Browning, in which he had read " Night and Morn- 
 ing" so many times that he not only knew it off by 
 heart but had built up the story for himself. The 
 careful study of those sixteen lines had brought him 
 the discovery that poets can sometimes hide the 
 deepest meaning in the fewest words. In its entirety 
 " Night and Morning " seemed to describe Bally- 
 poreen as no other words in no other way could have 
 drawn its picture; and after the first night of his 
 reading it, he had come to Roona and told her that 
 he would not have thought it was possible to make 
 words so beautiful. 
 
 "But the story?" she had asked him. "That is 
 the most beautiful part of it all." 
 
 And when he had returned to it that night, he 
 suddenly perceived lying between the lines the story 
 of Molly the maid-of-all-work, as though the author 
 had known and placed it there. So it became doubly 
 dear, if not more beautiful. He had never forgotten 
 the unhappy girl's kindness to him, or the last words 
 that she had said when he had overtaken her depart- 
 ing figure on the high road. 
 
 Thus they found one point in common, and when
 
 THE WOMAN 217 
 
 it came to the study of Mivart, he discovered that she 
 was marvellously perceptive and wonderfully quick in 
 grasping the gist of his most abstruse theories. And 
 all of these things added links to the chain which was 
 to drag his manhood out before his eyes. 
 
 One day, being compelled to leave the convent 
 sooner than he expected, he overtook Roona on her 
 way to the woods. She turned as she heard the 
 sound of his footsteps, the eagerness of which he was 
 doing his utmost to conceal. 
 
 She waited for him to come up with her and then, 
 when he had reached her side, she looked up quickly 
 into his face. 
 
 "Why do you always come after me in the morn- 
 ing? " she asked. 
 
 The abruptness of her question . took the smile of 
 eagerness from his eyes, leaving an expression of 
 sensitive concern that twisted his upper lip. 
 
 "You object to it?" he said quickly. 
 
 " I didn't say so." 
 
 " No, but you implied it." 
 
 " I didn't intend to." 
 
 " Then why did you ask it? " 
 
 " Because I wanted to know your reason." 
 
 He looked down at the broad toes of his boots, and 
 as he raised his eyes he realized that she was carrying 
 at least three cumbersome articles in her hands. 
 
 " I'm terribly thoughtless," he exclaimed. " Let me 
 carry your easel." 
 
 "You can carry all that I am carrying on one 
 condition." 
 
 ' What is that ?"
 
 218 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "That you answer the question I asked you." 
 This was a consciously unselfish effort on Roona's 
 part to bring Father Michael to the realization of the 
 direction in which he was drifting. She had gone 
 over the whole matter in her mind the night before, 
 and it was not that she really offered to understand 
 the deeper reason of his continual attentions but she 
 knew that he was being drawn into a state of infatu- 
 ation for her. It would be quite ephemeral, no 
 doubt, but could that excuse the fact of her knowl- 
 edge that is was there? Yet, after all, what was it 
 to her? She found him greatly interesting, even 
 amusing at times when he was in good spirits. How 
 could she be rendered accountable for what he was 
 so obviously doing of his own free-will, without any 
 encouragement on her part? He was not a fool, 
 he was not a child. But there she was mistaken. 
 He was both. She had read her Browning and she 
 should have known 
 
 " Yet think of my friend and the burning coals 
 He played with for bits of stone ! " 
 
 If the verse did occur to her mind for a moment it 
 was the first half of it and not the second that she 
 quoted to herself 
 
 *"Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, 
 And matter enough to save one's own." 
 
 Still her conscience had not permitted her to sleep 
 until she had promised herself to make one effort to 
 bring him to his senses. He was drifting drifting 
 headlong as the twig is hurled onward in the eddies
 
 THE WOMAN 219 
 
 of the mountain torrent, and she was unable to tell 
 whether or no that rushing stream led to still water. 
 And if it were still, then it would be sure to be deep. 
 
 It was not for her own sake that she wished to 
 make the effort, for she was just as much fascinated 
 by the danger as he was. But he was a priest of the 
 Holy Church and she was a Catholic, and the sin of 
 it all frightened her. Moreover, whereas he was 
 blind, her eyes were open, and, to quiet the persistence 
 of her conscience, she had promised to herself that at 
 least she would try. This question of hers, then, was 
 the effort and, feeling that she had not done her duty 
 until it was answered, she persevered in order to 
 receive his reply. 
 
 "Ask me again," he said doggedly. "What was 
 it?" 
 
 She hid her amusement at his awkward evasion 
 and kept the serious expression of her lips. 
 
 " Why do you always come after me in the morn- 
 ing ? " she repeated mechanically. 
 
 He walked along quietly by her side and for a time 
 said nothing. He was sure his attentions annoyed 
 her, and acting at last on this thought, he said, 
 "You'd rather that I didn't come? I worry you?" 
 
 A frown crossed Roona's eyes. This was not what 
 she wanted or expected. If he were going to imagine 
 that she had spoken entirely from her own point of 
 view then her good intention would be wasted. 
 
 Then, again, was that her point of view? It was 
 not. She knew that. His presence did not worry 
 her ; but beyond that she would not permit herself to 
 go. She thought of him only as a friend, though
 
 220 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 instinct told her that, did she but lift her little finger 
 to him, he would be at her feet, and it seemed, 
 whenever the thought did cross her mind, that he 
 would be a lethargic lover. But a lethargy of pas- 
 sion did not appeal to her. 
 
 She was one of those women, or would become so, 
 who pray for the brutality of a man and his strength 
 for the cruel pain rather than the happy ease of 
 pleasure. 
 
 And so, when she found that instead of being 
 answered in her question, she had become the object 
 of his, it was hard to know which way to turn. 
 
 " I've never said that you worried me," she replied. 
 "Besides that hasn't anything to do with what I 
 asked you." 
 
 "Then what am I to answer? I'm not over-fond 
 of being by myself." 
 
 Her lips tightened on each other, but he did not 
 notice in her voice, when she spoke, the deeper under- 
 current of disappointment, of almost humiliating re- 
 gret at the explanation that he had given. She even 
 began to fancy that all her surmises about his attrac- 
 tion to her had been wrong. 
 
 " Well," she said very quietly, " that is your answer. 
 That is what I wanted." 
 
 "How do you mean?" he asked quickly. Intui- 
 tively he realized that he had been misunderstood. 
 
 "There is no one else to talk to. One must pass 
 the time somehow or other, naturally. Of course, I 
 understand." 
 
 "I don't think you do." 
 
 He looked down at her encumbrances.
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 "Won't you let me carry your easel now?" 
 
 She held her head a little higher. 
 
 " Oh no, thanks. It's quite light." 
 
 He had so far learnt of women from her as to know 
 that in some way he had displeased her, but in what 
 way he was not sufficiently possessed of conceit as to 
 guess. It never struck him that in what he had said 
 she had considered he was not paying her enough 
 attention; in fact, he still clung to the impression 
 that his constant companionship annoyed her. So, 
 determining to discover the real reason of the sudden 
 change in her manner, he put his idea into plain 
 speech. 
 
 " If you'd rather," he said, " I'll go back to Duresne 
 now." 
 
 " Wouldn't that be a pity ? You'd be thrown back 
 upon yourself. You'd have no one to talk to," and 
 her expression was a little bitter when she smiled. 
 
 They had just come to a glen rich with hart's 
 tongue and other ferns. She stopped and opened her 
 easel. Then planting it in a preliminary attitude, 
 she settled her stool preparatory to beginning to 
 sketch. 
 
 He stopped as well, but, whilst there was hesitation 
 in his action, a petulant decision was plainly evident 
 in hers. In a business-like way, as though she were 
 almost unaware of his presence, she took the little 
 bottle of turpentine and the paint-box from her 
 satchel and placed them on the stool by her side. 
 With each action he felt the more poignantly the 
 expression of her annoyance and imagined vividly all 
 the words that they were meant to convey.
 
 222 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 As soon as she had seated herself he began to turn 
 away. 
 
 "Perhaps I'd better go," he said tentatively. 
 
 " Of course, if you want to," she replied. 
 
 She would not look up at him. In her own mind 
 she fancied that she was adding one discouragement 
 to another. At least that was what she hoped. 
 
 "But I thought you were not fond of being by 
 yourself," she added. "Mrs. Warren is sure to be 
 busy. Of course there's the convent." 
 
 " I've been to the convent this morning." 
 
 " Then I suppose you had better go back. I'm an 
 exceedingly bad makeshift in the way of conversation, 
 I know." 
 
 He turned sharply, seeing at last where he had 
 offended her. 
 
 " Why do you say that? " 
 
 " I'm just repeating the reason you gave for coming 
 with me every morning." 
 
 " I never said that you were a makeshift." 
 
 " No, those weren't your exact words. But you 
 implied it, Father. You implied that you talked to 
 me because there was nothing else to do no one 
 better to talk to." 
 
 She purposely called him " Father," because she 
 imagined that in the tacit acquiescence which he had 
 shown to her omission of the appellation he would be 
 offended. 
 
 "No one better to talk to?" he repeated. If she 
 really thought that she would probably never allow 
 him to come with her in the mornings again. 
 
 He glanced at her quickly. She was painting
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 energetically. It seemed to him that she was intensely 
 engrossed in her work. He was certain that she 
 despised him, and with this assurance the whole of 
 his holiday appeared suddenly to be darkened. 
 
 Excepting Father Connelly, whose views of life he 
 had not ever agreed with, he had made no friend but 
 this girl in the whole course of his existence. He had 
 always put philosophy, his own capacities for teach- 
 ing others and his mission to teach first and foremost 
 in his life. He had never thought that there could 
 be so much interest in the society of another ; yet here, 
 through the foolishness of his inconsiderate words, it 
 seemed that he was about to forfeit all this new-found 
 enjoyment which had come into his holiday and his 
 life. 
 
 "Do you think then," he began quickly in self- 
 defence, " that I come out here, or wherever you may 
 be going, morning after morning, thinking to myself 
 that as there's no one better, I may just as well talk 
 to you? When I said that I was not over-fond of 
 being by myself, did you think that I would prefer 
 conversation indiscriminately with any one at all?" 
 
 " That was what I gathered from what you said." 
 
 She was determined that she would not give way to 
 him at once. He had certainly hurt her feelings, and 
 in her desire to show him that she was offended she 
 forgot her intention to make him aware of his own 
 state of mind. 
 
 " But can't you believe me when I assure you that I 
 did not mean that ? " 
 
 " If I do believe you then I am still without an 
 answer to my question."
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 He sat down on the grass and looked up at her as 
 she was working. 
 
 " Supposing I were to tell you a lot .about myself," 
 he said impulsively, " would it worry you very much 
 to listen?" 
 
 Roona looked down at him with a smile. 
 
 "It would interest me very much indeed. I don't 
 understand you in the least, and I'm dreadfully 
 curious." 
 
 ** Curious about what ? " 
 
 "You." 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 A thrill of exhilarating excitement passed through 
 him. 
 
 "What about me?" 
 
 Up to the present he had found all his delight in 
 listening to her and her quaint little stories about 
 herself; now suddenly a new pleasure was being 
 drawn into his existence, the fascinating pleasure of 
 talking about himself to a sympathetic listener. 
 
 "Oh, everything about you. Mostly what you 
 think about. I often think that perhaps underneath 
 all your pretended ignorance of the books and the 
 things that I like, you're really awfully clever in your 
 own way." 
 
 She looked down into his eyes and laughed gently. 
 It was what many women would have said to encour- 
 age a man to talk about himself if they were inter- 
 ested in that subject. Roona was far from being 
 the exception that he thought she was. She pos- 
 sessed no real originality of mind. It was merely 
 that he had discovered humanity for the first time in
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 his life. It chanced to be in her, and it was quite his 
 mistake to think that she was an exception to her sex. 
 
 But when she laughed into his eyes he could not 
 laugh in return. All sense of feeling rose suddenly 
 in his throat and the veins swelled spontaneously 
 upon his forehead. 
 
 " Oh, I'm not clever," he tried to say inconsequently. 
 
 He was sure that she had not noticed his confusion, 
 but she had and very hastily returned to her painting. 
 
 " You say that," she said quickly, " but I don't think 
 you're the best judge in the world on that particular 
 matter." 
 
 In the pause that followed she could not trust her- 
 self to look at him again. 
 
 "Well," she exclaimed impatiently, "aren't you 
 going to begin ? "
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 FATHER MICHAEL laughed. 
 
 "When you put it that way," he said, "I don't 
 know how to." 
 
 He was doing his utmost to control the feeling of 
 self-consciousness that had taken possession of him. 
 
 "I thought it was all going to be by way of 
 answering my question," she said encouragingly. 
 
 " Well, so it shall be," and he began. 
 
 But this narrative of introspection was far from 
 being as egotistical as he had intended. The attrac- 
 tion to him of hearing her speak of herself was still 
 predominant, and it was not long before the note of 
 conversation was changed. 
 
 "You want to know why I come along so often 
 with you when you're sketching?" he commenced. 
 "I told you it was because I liked to talk to you. 
 That's quite true. Do you know, Miss Lawless, 
 you're the only interesting woman I've ever met." 
 
 The words seemed extravagantly bold to him as 
 he said them, and the using of her name which he 
 employed only on such very few occasions made them 
 appeal directly to her. Yet with a truly feminine 
 ambition she combated his statement that he might 
 strengthen it by contradiction. 
 
 " Oh, but that's quite silly. I'm absolutely common- 
 place. And I'm by no means all I might be." 
 
 It seemed that she spoke definitely of something 
 226
 
 THE WOM'AN 227 
 
 in her conscience, for having added the last sentence, 
 which was evidently an afterthought, she sighed. 
 
 " I think you ought to be quite satisfied with what 
 you are," he said, as she had hoped he would. "I 
 couldn't possibly find you more interesting." 
 
 His compliments were clumsy, but they were com- 
 pliments. 
 
 " You always apply that word interesting to 
 me," she said. "Why?" 
 
 He shifted his position as though he were uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 " Do I ? It's the one that comes first to my mind." 
 
 "I don't think any one ever found me interesting 
 before." 
 
 She was plying her brush at a delicate moment 
 so that her sentence was broken, and so simply was 
 it said that he failed to see the trap she had unin- 
 tentionally laid for him. 
 
 "But people, surely other people," he objected, 
 "have shown you that they were interested in you?" 
 
 He was thinking of her companion in London. 
 
 "Probably, but no one ever went so far as to say 
 I was interesting. I never thought that men found 
 women interesting." 
 
 "Then what did they tell you you were?" 
 
 It was very gradual but very sure, this placing of 
 himself upon the level of all mankind. So gradual 
 that he did not for a moment realize the existence 
 of it. Yet it led him into the expression of thoughts 
 that he would not have dared to utter at any other 
 time. He was dazed by the pleasure of the actual 
 moment, intoxicated by this mad, new interest in
 
 228 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 life. To talk to a woman his own thoughts as they 
 came into his mind, to escape from that saying of 
 things that he was not actually thinking about, and 
 to be listened to with a sympathy that he had never 
 known before a sympathy gentle, ever alluring, 
 which only a woman can possess it was all very won- 
 derful, very strange and very new. Father Michael 
 was being lost in the whirlpool of its enchant- 
 ment. 
 
 The great change had come over him at last. Nature 
 had insisted upon her right and, despite all his ascet- 
 icism, had looked to it that she was obeyed. She 
 had cast him into a trance, administered to him her 
 most powerful narcotic pleasure and, whilst he 
 was slumbering under the influence of the drug, she 
 had made a man of him. 
 
 " What did they tell you you were ? " he repeated. 
 
 " Oh a lot of very stupid things." 
 
 " Tell me one." 
 
 "That I was pretty." 
 
 It was not an easy thing to say without the evidence 
 of conceit, yet it could not have been said more 
 unaffectedly. 
 
 He looked at once at her face, into her eyes, for 
 she had turned with a laugh in his direction when 
 she had said it. 
 
 " Now, wasn't that silly ? " she added. 
 
 He felt suddenly as though his mind was being 
 contorted with the violence of his thoughts as 
 though it were a wet rag which was being twisted to 
 wring the last drop of water from its texture as 
 though like a string it was being drawn taut until
 
 THE WOMAN 229 
 
 with the persistent strain it must inevitably snap in 
 two. Yet his eyes were fixed on hers and he could 
 not draw them away. 
 
 " Don't you think it was stupid ? " she repeated. 
 
 He began to speak, but his voice was thick. He 
 coughed. Then he began again. 
 
 " It doesn't seem silly to me." 
 
 " Oh, but it is. I've got such horrid red hair." 
 
 " Why do you call it horrid ? " 
 
 "Because I hate it. I'm sure people laugh at me 
 for it." 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 "Perhaps you don't. But then it doesn't matter 
 to you what colour it is." 
 
 " It was the first thing I noticed about you." 
 
 "When? At breakfast that morning?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But that was the first time you saw me? " 
 
 " No it wasn't." 
 
 " It wasn't. When did you see me before then ? " 
 
 "In London." 
 
 Her cheeks suddenly became scarlet. She did not 
 know why. She could not have said why. And then 
 in that moment she understood or partially guessed 
 why his interest in her had seemed so sudden. He 
 had seen her before, when or how she did not know. 
 And yet why should that have created for him the 
 attraction he had found in her? Unless he had seen 
 her frequently. Had he seen her frequently? 
 
 "You saw me in London!" she exclaimed in her 
 surprise. 
 
 " Twice ! Once in that principal street I forget
 
 230 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 its name. The other time you were behind me in 
 the queue at the Globe Theatre." 
 
 At any other time he would have hesitated before 
 he let her know that he had been to a theatre, but 
 now he was carried away by his eagerness to tell her 
 that he had seen her before. 
 
 " Was I with any one? " 
 
 "A man. I didn't notice him." 
 
 "And didn't I see you?" 
 
 "I suppose not, though you smiled right into my 
 face when I saw you first in the street." 
 
 " Did I really ? Fancy my not seeing you ! And 
 then you saw me again at the Globe, wasn't that 
 strange ? " 
 
 " In a way yes." 
 
 " Why in a way ? It was quite a coincidence." 
 
 " No, it wasn't a coincidence." 
 
 He was trying to conquer the desire to tell her 
 why, yet he longed to do so with all his heart, and 
 knew that finally he would. He wanted her to know 
 that he had gone there solely to see her. It seemed 
 natural to wish to tell her. Why should he not tell 
 her? 
 
 " Wasn't a coincidence? How do you mean? " 
 
 Her eyebrows were raised almost unnaturally. 
 
 "When I saw you in the street I heard you say 
 that you were going to the Globe." 
 
 " You heard me say? And then you came? Why? " 
 
 He rose uneasily to his feet. The stress of -circum- 
 stances was urging itself against him. He knew if 
 he gave a reason, he must tell her the truth, and now 
 he did not want to felt afraid to. It seemed that he
 
 THE WOMAN 231 
 
 was being hemmed in on every side and, as in a 
 nightmare of sleep, he would have run away only 
 his body felt incapable of the action. 
 
 " Why ? But why ? " she persisted. 
 
 He had turned away from her and was looking down 
 through the field of bracken and hart's tongue that 
 stretched away to where the broad country opened 
 out like the drop scene of a play. But, though it 
 all reflected itself in his eyes, he saw nothing of it 
 in his mind. He felt he was in danger. It was not 
 that he knew what he would do, or what he would 
 say. Wild and inconsequent things entered into his 
 mind. He remembered his dream of her not by any 
 means for the first time how he had taken her in 
 his arms, crushed her and kissed her. But that 
 had been a dream, only a dream. If in a moment of 
 madness he were to do that now, of course she would 
 spurn, hate and despise him. 
 
 But he was afraid. He could frame no definition 
 of what he really desired, but still he was afraid of 
 himself. And all these thoughts, as in the manner 
 of dreams which are supposed in one moment to pass 
 and vanish with all the perfection of their detail, flew 
 through his mind in the one second that he looked 
 away from her. 
 
 But when she insisted again upon an answer, he 
 suddenly faced her. 
 
 " Miss Lawless," he said quickly, speaking at ran- 
 dom, yet with a full conception in his mind of what 
 he wanted to convey, "I think I think I ought to 
 be getting back to Duresne." 
 
 And not considering how his action might appear
 
 232 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 in her eyes, only seeking to free himself from the 
 maelstrom of his expressionless desires, he turned 
 without another word and left her to gaze after his 
 receding figure as he pushed his way through the 
 high-grown ferns.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THAT night at tea, which in Mrs. Warren's estab- 
 lishment was the last meal of the day, Father Michael 
 was unusually silent. Generally at these times, when 
 they were all together, the priest was frequently the 
 brightest among them; so much so, that those who 
 had known him in Rathmore would scarcely have 
 recognized him as the same man. But that night 
 he seemed to have fallen back into the old manner 
 which characterized all his actions in the place where 
 he was priest. 
 
 With Roona herself, when he had left her sitting 
 before her easel and tramped his way out of her 
 sight, there had been more amazement than any other 
 sensation in her mind. She could only surmise that 
 he had suddenly realized his position in the drifting 
 current of their conversation and had been ashamed 
 of it. That was the only construction that she 
 could place upon the peculiarity of his behaviour. 
 
 It would not have entered her mind that he had 
 fled from a greater temptation. She had lived 
 amongst the priesthood in Ireland for the whole of 
 her life where such things were never heard of, 
 certainly not talked about. It would have seemed 
 incredible to her that, like an ordinary-minded man, 
 he could really have wanted to crush her in his 
 arms. He had felt their conversation tending towards 
 channels that were too personal, and in his own in- 
 
 233
 
 234 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 experienced and uncouth way he had put an end 
 to it. 
 
 Once or twice their eyes met across the table, but 
 invariably his were the first to fall. It is a character- 
 istic of the celibate that he cannot look for long in 
 the eyes of another. 
 
 " What were you painting to-day, Roona ? " Mrs. 
 Warren asked brightly, with an effort to quicken the 
 flagging conversation. 
 
 Roona controlled the inclination to cast a glance 
 in Father Michael's direction. Had she done so, she 
 would have found that he kept his eyes fixed sedu- 
 lously on the plate before him. 
 
 " Just a small scene in the woods oils." 
 
 The answer was not encouraging, and Mrs. Warren 
 turned to the priest. 
 
 " Have you seen it, Father ? " she asked imperturb- 
 ably. 
 
 "Yes oh yes." 
 
 He passed his cup awkwardly for more tea. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of her work ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's not fair ! " Roona interposed, smiling. 
 
 That smile relieved the tension of the moment. 
 Father Michael looked up and laughed. 
 
 "Why not fair?" he asked. "Surely it doesn't 
 matter when an opinion is given, so long as it's a 
 true one." 
 
 " But the person whose work the opinion is on 
 ought not to be present." 
 
 " Oh, that's quite silly, Roona. It'll do you good." 
 
 Mrs. Warren had a fixed belief in the efficacy of 
 contradiction to make conversation, and so long as
 
 THE WOMAN 235 
 
 her boarders were engaged in friendly argument, she 
 felt her responsibilities at rest. 
 
 " You mean it's sure to be a poor one," said Roona. 
 
 "Well, I'll ease your mind on that score, Miss 
 Lawless," the priest joined in. " I have a friend who 
 is supposed to be a very good artist ; I've seen a lot 
 of his work, and it's not nearly so good or so healthy 
 as yours." 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 "I don't mind the good but the healthy seems 
 rather doubtful. A healthy picture is always what 
 you expect it to be. If it's a sunset it's red and 
 yellow, and if it's a river or a stream it always has a 
 plank bridge and three cows up to their knees in 
 the water. It's a nice way of saying that a person is 
 no artist. You don't think my work original? " 
 
 "There I'm no judge." 
 
 " Father Everett's like me," said Mrs. Warren, " he 
 thinks good what he likes." 
 
 " Then it's all good," he replied, " excellent," and 
 just at that moment the maid came in with a letter 
 which she laid by Roona's side. 
 
 Father Michael, presumably occupied with his tea, 
 saw a look of annoyance pass over her face as she 
 began to read. For a moment of speculation his 
 mind flew to her companion in London, but then on 
 the envelope which she had laid on the table he saw 
 the French stamp and Paris postmark. 
 
 Almost jealously he wondered whom she knew 
 there, but having learnt so little of her circumstances, 
 he felt supposition to be useless. Accordingly, when 
 his tea was finished he made his excuses and left the
 
 236 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 room. As soon as he was in the hall, he put on his 
 hat and started for a solitary walk. 
 
 Directly he was gone Roona rose from her chair, 
 crumpling the letter up in her hand. 
 
 " I have to go to Paris to-morrow, Mrs. Warren," 
 she announced. "Isn't it a horrid nuisance? Just 
 when I wanted to finish my sketch. I shall never 
 get the same light three days running." Her dis- 
 appointment was perfectly genuine. 
 
 Mrs. Warren sympathized with her as well as she 
 was able. Going to Paris seemed a luxury to her, 
 and personally she would scarcely have been disap- 
 pointed at being obliged to go, even had she been 
 painting the greatest picture in the world. She loved 
 Paris. 
 
 "Perhaps you'd be able to do a little painting 
 before you leave ? " she suggested. 
 
 " Oh no, it wouldn't be worth while. Some one 
 has come over from Ireland to see me. I've got to 
 meet them at the Louvre at half -past two, so I might 
 just as well go in the morning. I'll go by the eight- 
 thirty, the ten is too slow. I shan't want a proper 
 breakfast, so you needn't worry about getting up 
 early. Jeanne will get me something to eat." 
 
 " As you like, dear," Mrs. Warren agreed, and soon 
 after ten o'clock, having written some letters, Roona 
 went up to her room. 
 
 There was an entrance to the back as well as to the 
 front of Mrs. Warren's house. The former led 
 through the garden full of the flowers at which 
 Father Michael had looked that first morning when 
 Roona came down to breakfast. The little path
 
 THE WOM'AN 237 
 
 that bisected the close-cropped lawn, terminated in a 
 coloured-glass door which opened on to a passage 
 connecting the back with the front of the house. 
 
 At the other end of this well-cultivated little patch 
 of land, and on the other side of the high, thick, yew 
 hedge there ran a lane that led eventually to the road. 
 Down this, passing quietly through the wicket gate, 
 for which an archway had been cut in the yew hedge, 
 Father Michael came after his walk. He shut the 
 gate gently after him. It was quite dark, just after 
 ten o'clock, and he knew that the noise of the closing 
 gate might disturb Mrs. Warren's peace of mind. 
 She was always imagining that that unpretentious 
 entrance would one day prove to be temptation for a 
 night marauder. 
 
 It had been his intention to go straight into the 
 house and then to bed, but the somnolent, suggestive 
 scent of the tobacco plants that mingled seductively 
 with the odour from the tall lavender bushes induced 
 him to step acros the piece of lawn and sit down on 
 the garden seat. 
 
 The cool air of the evening combined with the 
 energy of his walk had succeeded in supplying that 
 healthy stimulant to his mind which the cold bath 
 brings to the body. 
 
 He stretched his legs out before him, and throwing 
 back his head looked up into the sky towards the 
 broad belt of stars that marked the path of the Milky 
 Way through the blackness of the heavens. 
 
 He had often watched that broad road of the night 
 dusted white with its myriad of stars when at similar 
 times he had walked on the strand at Rathmore. It
 
 238 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 all carried with it to his mind a great sense of famil- 
 iarity such as only the stars are able to bring. It is 
 little to be wondered at that these lanterns of the 
 sky are the friends of those men who go down to the 
 great sea in little ships ; for wherever on the broadest 
 and loneliest ocean they may be, yet the stars they 
 have seen shining over the roofs of their own cottages 
 at home, for ever find a place in the great firmament 
 above their heads ; always present, always constant. 
 
 He would soon be back again in Rathmore, he 
 pondered soon back amongst the old duties, and 
 then all this strange newness of life that had been so 
 pleasant would be gone, perhaps for ever. 
 
 He wondered whether he would miss it, for though 
 he had read philosophy, he was no philosopher of life. 
 He did not know that the way we live is utterly 
 subservient to the prime factor of living. Broken 
 hearts are hard to find. It is only when one man 
 gives up all for the sake of the world and the world 
 despises him that the blood is turned to water and 
 the heart snapped in twain. 
 
 Short as his holiday had been Father Michael could 
 not fully realize that he would so soon be returning 
 to his duties as priest celebrating Mass morning 
 after morning at the convent hearing confession 
 every Friday and Saturday doing all the things 
 that, until he had gone away for his holidays had 
 seemed to make up the entire horarium of his exist- 
 ence. And all this with no other companionship than 
 that of Father Connelly. 
 
 He felt sure that he would mis"s these daily conver- 
 sations with Roona Lawless. By his action that
 
 THE WOMAN 239 
 
 afternoon he had certainly admitted to himself that 
 they were dangerous, unwise; yet there on that seat 
 in the garden, in the cool, calculating air of the night, 
 it all appeared very foolish and weak-minded. 
 
 He imagined Platonic friendship to be quite a 
 feasible state of affairs. But he did not take into 
 consideration that the writer of the Republic was 
 almost fifty years of age when he had completed that 
 work, whereas Father Michael was but twenty-six. 
 
 Other than the poet there are classes of men who 
 are born and not made. Celibates and philosophers 
 are amongst them. 
 
 However, he did not think of these things. He 
 began to gain confidence in the belief that when he 
 went back to Rathmore, she would have no further 
 effect upon him. But when a man takes a seat in the 
 tribunal of his mind upon his own thoughts and feel- 
 ings he hears only one side of the question. The 
 other that he ignores is left to the ever-watchful pen 
 of the recording angel. 
 
 He had been seated for scarcely ten minutes in the 
 garden when the sudden light of a match in one of the 
 upper windows at the back of the house attracted his 
 attention. At first he could see but indistinctly the 
 hand that held the light, as the person, whoever it 
 might prove to be, waited for the sulphur to burn 
 itself out and the wood to break properly into flame. 
 
 As it did so, flashing up in the first moment of com- 
 bustion, he felt his heart hang as though suspended 
 in its action and a cold breath blow on to his temples ; 
 just as they feel who hear a strange and jarring noise 
 in the loneliness of the night.
 
 240 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 It was Roona. 
 
 She was going to bed. 
 
 He watched her as one who watches the reflection 
 of his fate in the blackened mirror of the magician. 
 He saw her light the two unburnt candles that stood 
 on the dressing table. He followed her slightest 
 action as, raising her hands over her shoulders, she 
 began to unfasten the hooks of her blouse behind her 
 back. 
 
 Then he felt the sweat break out over his hands 
 and forehead. He told himself to get up and go, but 
 his body refused to stir. He covered his face with his 
 hands, pressing his fingers mercilessly into his eyes as 
 though he were blinding himself to the sight of the 
 approach of some terrible calamity. 
 
 She would be sure to draw the curtains, he kept on 
 telling himself. But Duresne is a quiet, country 
 village, and when he looked up again the blinds were 
 still undrawn, Roona was still standing before the 
 table. 
 
 She had divested herself of her blouse, but, without 
 any further attempt to undress, had commenced the 
 taking down of her hair. 
 
 On one side it was falling down in folds like twisted 
 copper that the air has tarnished brown, and through 
 the richness of its tresses he could see the soft, cream- 
 white skin and the fulness of her shoulders, for her 
 arms were bare. This was the first time in his life 
 that he had seen a woman. 
 
 Under the ordinary circumstances of nature, by 
 which Father Michael cannot be reasonably judged 
 as yet, what would another man have done? Such
 
 things must often occur in this cramped existence of 
 ours, where, as Herr Teufelsdrockh would say, we are 
 packed like salted fish in a barrel, upon whom he, in 
 the altitude of his attic alone with the stars, looked 
 down in wonder. 
 
 There are two feasible things that a natural-minded 
 man would have done. He would have laughed to 
 himself and watched the matter through, considering 
 that it was more or less of a joke; or he would have 
 gone away, not caring to take advantage of what the 
 principal actor in this little dumb show would most 
 assuredly wish to avoid. 
 
 But in failing to exhibit the qualities of a natural- 
 minded man, Father Michael did neither of these two 
 things. 
 
 Mankind is not naturally virtuous and likewise it 
 must be said that mankind is not naturally vicious. 
 Rather it is neutral, becoming virtuous with the 
 concrete knowledge of and distaste for vice, and 
 vicious, with the concrete knowledge of and distaste 
 for virtue. 
 
 And so it was that, knowing but little indeed of 
 vice by an intimate contact of temptation with it, 
 Father Michael was not truly virtuous ; no more than 
 in his knowledge of virtue was he truly vicious, since 
 that virtue which he did know of he had no distaste 
 for. 
 
 So, in what he did in this moment, which was 
 nothing less than temptation to him, he cannot be 
 judged from a normal standpoint. 
 
 He neither treated the matter as a jest, nor did he 
 leave the place where he was sitting, but clenching
 
 his hands over his eyes, he tried to pray. And the 
 more the vision of Roona unloosening her hair rose in 
 his mind the louder he cried to God in his heart. 
 
 "If there's any power of will or any strength of 
 body that Thou canst give me, O God, let me have 
 it now and let me use it to the glory of Thy Holy 
 Name. O God, help me, for I cannot help myself ! " 
 
 And hearing his prayer the Great Being who of 
 His Pride leads us into temptation and of His Mercy 
 leads us out again did what only could have given 
 the priest that strength for which he asked. 
 
 After his prayer Father Michael looked up again 
 fearfully at the house. The light was out! 
 
 All was dark once more, and only the seductive 
 scent of the tobacco plants appealed itself to his 
 trembling senses.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 FATHER MICHAEL rose from his seat in the garden 
 and walked into the house with one determination 
 fixed firmly in his mind. He would not throw him- 
 self into the way of temptation the next day. He 
 would not put himself into the position of having to 
 fight the inclination that he knew he would have to 
 accompany Roona on her sketching expedition. 
 
 He would take Mrs. Warren's advice and go up to 
 Paris. Up to that moment the idea had never re- 
 entered his mind. He had been perfectly contented 
 with his surroundings as they were ; absolutely happy 
 in her companionship. 
 
 Now it was different. He knew that he could not 
 trust himself with her ; at least, not so soon after the 
 thoughts that had passed through his mind in the 
 foregoing minutes. It was far better that he should 
 see nothing of her for a day or two. There was really 
 no necessity for it to be longer than that. It would 
 so soon be all over, and then quite unlikely that they 
 would ever see each other again. 
 
 For the moment that was a comforting thought, 
 and he clung to it desperately. It would soon be all 
 over, and then quite unlikely that they would ever see 
 each other again. 
 
 Finding Mrs. Warren in the sitting-room he told 
 her of his intention. 
 
 " Oh, Roona's going to Paris, to-morrow as well," 
 she said, " you'd better go with her." 
 
 The temptation rose at him like a wild beast which 
 243
 
 244 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 he had thought to be asleep. He beat at it mentally 
 in his endeavour to cast it down. 
 
 " What train is she going by ? " he asked slowly. 
 
 " The eight something." 
 
 There was his escape. He took it. 
 
 " Oh, that's too early for me," he announced, with a 
 forced laugh. "A train between ten and eleven is 
 what I want." 
 
 " There's one at ten o'clock exactly." 
 
 " That'll suit me splendidly. Then I'll have break- 
 fast with you at the usual hour. You see, I don't 
 want to be in Paris too long. Sight-seeing's a very 
 tiring business." 
 
 "I'm afraid Roona won't change her train and go 
 by the ten." 
 
 " There's no need for her to," he said quickly. 
 
 "You see, she has to meet a friend from Ireland 
 at the Louvre at half -past two. They've come over 
 specially to see her. I suppose she thinks that there 
 wouldn't be time to do any shopping if she went up 
 later." 
 
 "Of course. Quite naturally. I expect the ten is 
 rather a slow train." 
 
 "It is." 
 
 " Then, of course, it wouldn't be any good to her." 
 
 He felt a certain sense of relief. 
 
 " What time are there trains back? " 
 
 "Oh, Roona's coming by the five. You'd better 
 come by that as well. Then I'll have a good tea 
 waiting for you both. You're sure to be hungry." 
 
 He laughed unnaturally, and then they said good- 
 night.
 
 THE WOMAN 245 
 
 He had made a firm resolve that he would go to 
 Paris to avoid Roona, and now he found that she was 
 going as well. Why did he not put aside the resolu- 
 tion and determine to go the next day instead? 
 Because human nature is stubborn in refusing to 
 admit that it is wrong. He had said that he would 
 go to Paris ; he had fixed his mind upon it as a cer- 
 tainty and he utterly failed to reconstruct his calcu- 
 lations, even when by so doing, that which he wished 
 to avoid came in his way again. 
 
 Far down in his mind beyond the reach of his in- 
 trospection, beyond his conscious knowledge of him- 
 self, he was glad that she was going to Paris. It 
 entered his thoughts in the form of a casual satisfac- 
 tion that he would not after all miss a day with her 
 at her sketching. To be away from her now was 
 unavoidable. She was going to meet some one in 
 Paris, but it was quite within the bounds of possi- 
 bility that he would meet her coming back in the 
 train. 
 
 He had made that decision to go to Paris out of 
 the strength of his will. It had cost him an effort, 
 and why should it prove to be useless? He failed 
 to see that in that very point of argument lay the 
 cunningly-hidden kernel of his temptation. 
 
 In his heart he hoped that he would meet her in 
 Paris. In his heart he knew that he would meet her 
 in the train coming back. And, knowing that in his 
 decision to leave Duresne he had done his best to 
 make a sacrifice, he was too much biassed in his 
 desires to turn again and shun the thing that was 
 drawing him onwards.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE incidents that lead up to, and the circum- 
 stances that surround, a crisis are frequently the 
 most commonplace in the world. Fate, chance, or 
 the god of circumstance, call it what you will, has the 
 shrewdest eye for dramatic effect. Ever since the 
 days of ^Eschylus the theatre stage has been descend- 
 ing in the quality of its dramatic effect in the plays 
 which it brings forth behind its lights. It has become 
 more of a stage and less of life with every little 
 scenic accessory that has been added to the require- 
 ments of the show since the time when a man labelled 
 himself as a brick wall and put up his fingers in 
 the shape of an O to indicate a hole in the struc- 
 ture. 
 
 With every addition of footlights and limelights, 
 ceilings and reversible scenery, a little more of life 
 has gone out of the play and a little more reality has 
 been added to the canvas of the scene. 
 
 Now, the dramatic effect comes after two acts of 
 prolonged anticipation, and the crisis is but the 
 bursting of the bubble in a gale of wind that in the 
 first act has begun to moan through the tree-tops. 
 
 This is not the case in real life. Actors and 
 audience are all unconscious of those subtle and in- 
 tangible steps that intensify and* concentrate into 
 the great outburst of the final result; and the last 
 links which connect the crisis with the plot, for the 
 
 246
 
 THE WOMAN 247 
 
 matter bears repetition, are frequently the most com- 
 monplace of all. 
 
 What could be more usual than that a man should 
 wander aimlessly about the footpaths in Paris, stop- 
 ping at the Madeleine, entering its doors and coming 
 out again in a few moments with a grievous sense of 
 disappointment? Taking a river-boat down as far 
 as Notre Dame and visiting the old cathedral with 
 the wonder born of much reading and hearsay and 
 fancying that it fulfilled all his expectations ? What 
 could be more within the inveterate scheme of things 
 than that an obvious foreigner, a priest of some other 
 country, should stand in the Place de la Concorde, 
 endeavouring with the best will in the world to 
 imagine that in that cleanly space of ground with 
 no outward and visible signs of the coruscating grime 
 of ages, but with stones white and new as though just 
 freshly powdered with the dust that rose from the 
 mason's chisel that there, not so many years ago, 
 the allied armies were encamped and that there the 
 guillotine found its place in history during the bloody 
 Reign of Terror? What could be more common a 
 sight than that? Yet who of the audience the 
 many passers-by who just cast a glance at his thin 
 figure, would have known that he stood upon the eve 
 of his crisis when even he was utterly unaware of 
 it himself? 
 
 Having visited these places and then partaken of a 
 light lunch in some unpretentious-looking cafe, 
 Father Michael consulted with himself as to where he 
 should go next. 
 
 An English waiter who was doing his utmost to
 
 248 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 learn French had attended him. As Father Michael 
 demanded his bill he asked this man to direct him to 
 the tomb of Napoleon. 
 
 " It's a good distance from here," the man answered, 
 " and then it's not open to-day." 
 
 Father Michael smiled. 
 
 " That's not much good then." 
 
 "Have you seen Notre Dame?" asked the waiter. 
 
 " I have. I've just come from there." 
 
 " The Salon." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " Picture gallery. New pictures. French artists." 
 
 " I don't care for them." 
 
 "The Louvre?" 
 
 " No, I haven't been there." 
 
 He felt the words come slowly and unnaturally. 
 
 "It's worth seeing; well worth seeing," said the 
 waiter who had never been there himself. 
 
 "What is the time? " Father Michael asked. 
 
 " Ten minutes past two." 
 
 " What is the Louvre noted for? " 
 
 " Sort of mixture of the National Gallery in London 
 and the British Museum." 
 
 British Museum those words brought back a host 
 of memories to his mind. He inquired the way, paid 
 his bill and came out again into the street. She was 
 going to the Louvre at half-past two to meet some 
 one, a friend of hers who had come over from Ireland 
 especially to see her. The question in his mind was 
 not, should he go, but should he not go? After all 
 she was going to meet a friend. At the utmost he 
 would only see her at a distance. How ridiculous it
 
 THE WOMAN 249 
 
 was, as Father Connelly would have said, to worry 
 oneself over such infinitesimal details. It was per- 
 fectly natural that he should go to the Louvre at that 
 hour, and there really seemed to be nothing left to be 
 seen. 
 
 He went. 
 
 Gambetta's statue was the first landmark at which, 
 without the bias of hearsay, he stopped to admire. 
 Such, he thought, as he looked high up to the stern, 
 carved face, was the strength of manhood that he 
 would wish to possess. But he knew that it was not 
 his. 
 
 In the last week or so of his holidays there were 
 but five more days to run he had come to the reali- 
 zation that his strength of will was not so great as he 
 had supposed it to be; yet even with this realization 
 he still classified himself as a priest. He was a weak- 
 minded priest, a forgetful priest, a priest without a 
 full sense of the stern deprivations of his calling, but 
 he was never a man with human passions and human 
 desires. 
 
 Drilled at a tender age when all impressions last 
 sufficiently to be detrimental or to be of benefit his 
 schooling had sunk very deep. The keynote of his 
 vocation had been struck too loud and the knowledge 
 of his manhood too much suppressed for him to think 
 otherwise. All reasoning had been biassed in his 
 mind, and that process of unnatural counterpoising 
 had been effected too early for anything short of a 
 crisis to upheave and set the balance right. 
 
 "Attenta raritate vocationum," as Pius IX. has 
 written. The fewness of vocations must be avoided
 
 250 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 at all costs, and so the time for taking the vow was 
 lowered to that frail and susceptible age when we 
 make ghosts of shadows and damnation of death. 
 
 Nothing short of a crisis can be effectual in such a 
 state of affairs, and to some that crisis comes with the 
 rising and setting of the day's sun, but to others, as 
 In the case of Father Michael, it arrives with all the 
 sudden and dramatic outburst of the thunder-cloud 
 that breaks upon the world at the beginning of a 
 great storm. 
 
 He had gone round to the back of the statued 
 group that surrounds Gambetta and was gazing up 
 at its huge proportions when a clock struck the half- 
 hour. He looked round quickly. The note of the 
 gong had swiftly altered the current of his thoughts. 
 This was the hour at which Roona was to come to 
 the Louvre to meet her friend. He turned to every 
 side in the vague expectation of seeing her, but she 
 was not in sight, and then he made his way into the 
 building. 
 
 Had he been conversant with the history of France 
 the interior of the Louvre might have been as interest- 
 ing as he had found the British Museum ; but he was 
 familiar with few indeed of its details, and so he 
 wandered aimlessly from one room to another, being 
 attracted here and there only by the glittering of 
 some priceless jewel in a glass case or the striking 
 subject of a vast canvas. 
 
 Before " The Last Supper," with which certainly he 
 was as well acquainted as with the Stations of the 
 Cross that adorned the walls of the little chapel in 
 Rathmore, he stayed for some time. Then in one
 
 THE WOMAN 251 
 
 sudden moment all his pious meditations were roughly 
 awakened by the sound of Roona's voice. 
 
 He knew it at once. The senses of a man, once 
 roused, are as keen as the edge of a knife, and with 
 Father Michael there was no mistaking that bright 
 laugh which sometimes accompanied her words. To 
 him it always seemed to convey that spirit of the 
 brighter side of life in which she had initiated him in 
 his holiday. 
 
 " You can't say that I induced you to come," she 
 was saying as she passed behind his back, and after 
 her words followed the light laugh so untouched by 
 the seriousness of life. 
 
 He controlled his immediate inclination to turn 
 and continued looking at the picture, of which he saw 
 nothing. When he judged by the receding sound of 
 her voice that she was well past him he cautiously 
 turned his head. He knew that he would dislike 
 being discovered there by her. It would seem as if 
 his curiosity were uncontrollable, and he felt sure that 
 she would despise him for it. 
 
 His first thought when he made out her figure 
 amongst the other visitors a matter that was 
 attended with no difficulty for him was to look at 
 her companion. 
 
 Some instinct, the root of which he could not 
 explain, told him it would be a man and his instinct 
 was right. 
 
 But there could have been no sense acute enough to 
 have foretold this man's identity. 
 
 He looked backwards over his shoulder as the priest 
 turned, and then Father Michael felt that slow, creep-
 
 252 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 ing realization of things which does not come in one 
 sudden, palpitating shock, but grows up the limbs 
 leaving each part of the body cold as it passes 
 onwards and upwards to the heart. And for a 
 moment the heart stands still, then beats on again 
 with fearful energy. 
 
 He felt sick and cold. The roof of his mouth 
 became in one moment as dry as a piece of bone. 
 He tried to catch at one tangible thought in his mind, 
 but there was none. 
 
 It was a face he knew, a face he had seen before. 
 
 It was the man who had confessed to him in Rath- 
 more, to whom at first he had refused absolution. 
 
 And she she was the girl with the red hair !
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THEN his thoughts were loosed. They crowded 
 through his brain like a leash of hounds set free on a 
 prey that is in sight. 
 
 She was the girl whose face had drawn the young 
 man into sin. Her eyes had taunted and tempted 
 him. Her hair had bewitched him. 
 
 From that one moment Father Michael was a 
 different man, and in his eyes she was a different 
 woman. 
 
 He had railed at that man in the confessional, and 
 every word that he had said came back to his mind, 
 falling upon his scattered senses like the tumbling 
 of some structure on his head. He was amazed. 
 
 With almost a laugh he remembered that in his 
 prayer, when he gave the absolution, he had prayed 
 for her; prayed that she might not draw other men 
 after her, and he, the irony of it, had been the very 
 next. He knew it then. It was no longer possible 
 for him to deceive himself. Every thought that had 
 passed through that young man's mind had probably 
 passed through his, and in that though he had 
 had no sympathy with him in the confessional he 
 realized that there was but little difference between 
 them. 
 
 But with regard to Roona, how had his opinion of 
 her been altered? Certainly she was not the same 
 in his eyes. There was some one great and essential 
 difference, and it broke into the essence of his 
 
 253
 
 254 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 thoughts, forcing ideas into his mind to which before 
 he would not have dared give expression. 
 
 It seemed that the zest of their companionship had 
 vanished. In her thoughts he knew that he held no 
 place of prominence. Had it been otherwise, had he 
 known that she thought of him with more than a 
 merely passing interest, it might have been different. 
 His feelings towards her might have been more gentle, 
 more sympathetic, whereas they were bitter and 
 almost unforgiving. 
 
 Not for a moment did he offer to arrest one of the 
 thoughts that passed through his mind and under- 
 stand it before it had gone. When it struck him that 
 she had not treated him fairly, that in an inexplicable 
 way he had been subject to her injustice, he let it 
 pass without realizing that he had no personal reason 
 to complain of her action in the past. 
 
 Yet insensibly in the short time since he had known 
 her he had grown to think of her as some one apper- 
 taining more particularly to himself. Only in this mo- 
 ment of sudden understanding did it make itself appar- 
 ent; but, nevertheless, it had been there all the time. 
 
 It seemed to him that she had willingly laid a trap 
 to catch him ; consciously and with determination she 
 had sought to waylay him with the danger of her 
 eyes and the seduction of her lips, and all for the 
 mere enjoyment of the moment. Thinking that, how 
 coulgl he feel pity for her sin or sorrow for her un- 
 doing? It was impossible. The crisis had partly 
 come; he was judging as a man. The priest, apart 
 from his duties, was forgotten. The mind of the 
 celibate was almost dead.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 FEW of the carriages of the five-o'clock train from 
 the Gare de Lyons were occupied that evening as, 
 having looked in vain for Roona Lawless, Father 
 Michael walked down as far as the engine and then 
 turned round. 
 
 She had not come as yet, but it wanted still ten 
 minutes to the hour of starting and he quite expected 
 her to arrive. 
 
 Recalling to his mind the words he had heard her 
 say to her compaion in the Louvre he had reason- 
 ably deduced that what the young man had told him 
 in his confession had come to pass. She had grown 
 tired of him. 
 
 "You can't say that I induced you to come," she 
 had said. Quite probably she had not done so. 
 That then pointed to another side of the matter. 
 Drawn by the magnetic remembrance of his passion 
 for her the young man had broken his promise and 
 come to see her. That seemed quite natural to 
 Father Michael then, for after the first tumult of his 
 thoughts had died down he had found that none of his 
 desire for her companionship had lessened. He no 
 longer held her in that same regard as when he had 
 called her his friend. He doubted even whether he 
 had the same respect for her as he had previously 
 felt when in her presence. 
 
 He remembered the time when, because he had not 
 dared to face temptation any longer, he had left her 
 
 255
 
 256 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 without a word of explanation. Then he had 
 thought she would have spurned and despised him 
 had he clutched her in his arms as for one second 
 he had felt inclined to do. But now he could think 
 that no longer. She might not wish him to do it 
 certainly, but she would probably not resist it so 
 forcibly as he had imagined if he did. 
 
 No, she was entirely changed to him, and that side 
 of his nature which had craved the interest of con- 
 versation with her was now utterly subservient to the 
 more brutal passion of desire. 
 
 He did not tell himself why, as he waited for her 
 arrival, why he was longing to be in her presence, 
 talking to her again. He would not tell himself 
 for fear his conscience would rise against him ; yet in 
 his mind there was a fixed and pressing determi- 
 nation. 
 
 The guard was beginning to shut the carriages. 
 He stepped into the one that was opposite to him and 
 having closed the door turned round to look out of 
 the window. 
 
 The hand of the clock was almost casting its 
 shadow on to the hour of departure when Roona 
 hurried on to the platform. She did not see him 
 leaning out of his carriage and took the first that 
 she came to. 
 
 It was the moment for a great victory or a complete 
 defeat and the two factions of his nature raised them- 
 selves to their highest and their utmost in their last, 
 great struggle. As though in a contest of mere and 
 brutal strength the man fought with the celibate. 
 Should he stay where he was or should he join her
 
 THE WOMAN 257 
 
 in the carriage? In the answering of that one 
 question lay the whole issue of the conflict. 
 
 It was not an even fight from the beginning. In 
 the first moment he had laid his hand upon the 
 handle of the door and that was half the battle. It 
 only needed one short turn of the wrist and the way 
 was free. 
 
 He did not think to call to mind the words of Ezra 
 the scribe, but there in that moment assuredly lay the 
 truth of them. 
 
 " Yea, and if men have gathered together gold and 
 silver and every other goodly thing, and see a woman 
 which is comely in favour and beauty, they let all 
 these things go and gape after her, and even with 
 open mouth fix their eyes fast on her; and have all 
 more desire unto her than unto gold and silver or any 
 goodly thing whatsoever." 
 
 Of what use were his vows at that moment? Only 
 the power of the all-powerful God could have availed, 
 and how can one give forth reasons for the silence of 
 the Almighty Creator? 
 
 It cannot at least be said with the mocking of Elijah 
 the Tishbite that He is talking, pursuing, on a 
 journey or peradventure sleepeth. But one solution 
 there seems to be, and that may be taken or left at 
 the reader's will. What has been ordained and 
 decreed by the Maker of all things, that He does not 
 alter or undo for the importunate prayers of one 
 man. 
 
 "And the Lord God said, It is not good that the 
 man should be alone; I will make him an help meet 
 for him. And the rib, which the Lord God had taken
 
 258 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto 
 the man." 
 
 Still whatever It may be, no sudden and all-powerful 
 strength did fall upon Father Michael. The battle 
 was over almost before it was begun. The handle 
 of the door was turned. He descended trembling to 
 the platform. He knew the end to which he was 
 going, but he could not hold himself back. 
 
 "En voiture! En voiture!" called the guard in 
 excitable, high-pitched tones. 
 
 Father Michael ran down the platform looking into 
 the last carriages as he passed them. 
 
 There she was alone. He opened the door. She 
 looked up and smiled with evident pleasure when she 
 saw him, and as the train began to move he stepped 
 in and closed the door behind him.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 " I NEARLY missed it too," she said as he sat down in 
 
 the corner opposite to her. 
 " Oh, I didn't have to run to catch the train, I have 
 
 been here about a quarter of an hour." 
 " Why were you in such a hurry then ? " 
 She was reading a paper, and left it lying idly on 
 
 her lap. 
 " I saw you get into this carriage. I was up at the 
 
 other end of the train." 
 " And it took you till the last minute to decide that 
 
 you'd come and join me?" She looked reproach- 
 fully at him. 
 
 "Why, you've only just come." 
 " Oh no, I've been here fully three minutes." 
 " Well, it took me three minutes to decide." 
 Her eyes opened. There was almost an aggressive 
 
 tone in his voice that she had never heard before. 
 
 He noticed it himself, but was quite unable to 
 
 change it. 
 " Don't you think that's a very poor compliment? " 
 
 she asked, with an effort to relieve the strain that 
 
 seemed to be upon their conversation. "You knew 
 
 I was coming. Mrs. Warren told me that she had 
 
 told you I was returning by the five." 
 " Oh yes, I knew you were coming. I expected 
 
 you." 
 He looked out of the window. They were rushing 
 
 past the flat fields with their inadequate relief of 
 
 259
 
 260 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 poplar trees. He tried to concentrate his mind on 
 the scenery as they flew past it, but that was 
 impossible. 
 
 He was endeavouring to understand why it all 
 seemed different from what he had expected. In 
 the knowledge that he had unintentionally gained of 
 her past, he had felt that he held the mastery over 
 her. The thought had expressed itself in his voice in 
 the first moments of their conversation. But now 
 that he was in her presence all the sense of mastery 
 was vanishing. Unconsciously she cowered him into 
 his former spirit of submission, and he would have 
 obeyed her implicitly in everything. Not because he 
 doubted the fact of her being the same girl of whom 
 the young man had spoken to him in the confessional. 
 It was more than instinct that lay at the root of his 
 belief. 
 
 He had fancied that because of the knowledge he 
 had gained she would seemed confused, show signs in 
 every word she said of the consciousness of her 
 having sinned. Yet on the contrary, she appeared as 
 natural, as unconcerned as ever, and the realization 
 of it had disarmed him. He knew that he was not 
 the master, that whether she encouraged or deterred 
 him he was bound to obey. 
 
 It was just his inexperience. Another man of 
 precisely similar temperament to Father Michael, 
 but who had been brought up in different ways of 
 life, would not have been so influenced by the outer 
 semblance of her casual conversation. Knowing 
 what Father Michael knew he would have seen below 
 the surface of her apparent unconcern he could
 
 THE WOMAN 261 
 
 have traced the haunting shadows of her folly in a 
 chance word or a hurried look. 
 
 She may not be aware of it herself, but a woman 
 is irredeemably altered, irrevocably changed by the 
 influence of one act of folly. She can be more sym- 
 pathetic, but she has gained in cunning she can be 
 more affectionate, but she has gained in the art of 
 simulation; there is an alluring seductiveness in her 
 to a man, but once that is past she yields him the 
 depth of her nature quickly, spontaneously with no 
 charm of reticence or regret. 
 
 Yet it is only by comparison that we see these 
 things ; and it was because with Father Michael com- 
 parison was impossible that it seemed to him in spite 
 of everything, that she was the same as ever. 
 
 Not in any measure had the tumult ceased in his 
 mind. He only felt that her presence and the usual 
 conventionality of her manner were thwarting its 
 expression ; yet notwithstanding this check, it surged 
 and swelled with its intensity. His thoughts were 
 unnatural, almost brutal. He did not know and 
 could not have recognized himself in his mind; yet 
 there he sat, to all appearances quite calmly, watch- 
 ing the fleeting scenery from the window as the train 
 carried them on to Duresne. 
 
 " Well, what did you think of Paris ? " Roona asked, 
 when the silence that followed his last remark brought 
 with it no explanation. 
 
 He turned and looked at her, hearing her words but 
 scarcely realizing their meaning in its application to 
 himself. 
 
 "I wasn't very much impressed," he said vaguely,
 
 and then he added with poorly concealed meaning, 
 " in fact, I was disappointed with the Louvre." 
 
 She flushed as she had done before when he had told 
 her that he had seen her in London. The colour in 
 her cheeks only intensified his admiration for her 
 face, and at the same time almost angered him, for 
 then, at least he knew what she was thinking of. 
 
 " You went to the Louvre ? " she asked, looking 
 quickly down at the paper in her lap. 
 
 He leant forward with his elbows on his knees. 
 
 "I did." 
 
 He tried to make her eyes meet his, but she kept 
 them fixed upon her paper. 
 
 " At what time did you go there ? " 
 
 Of course he knew very well that she had not seen 
 him, and yet it seemed the most obvious dissimulation 
 to him, the most palpable deception. He could not, 
 had not the mind to judge of her otherwise, just as 
 he had been unable to mete out human justice to the 
 young man in the confessional. 
 
 " Some time after two. I only stayed there for 
 about an hour and a half." 
 
 He was still striving to force her eyes to his, but 
 persistently she avoided the closeness of his gaze. 
 
 " How strange," she exclaimed, " I was there at just 
 about that time too." She was sure he would have 
 said if he had seen her, and consequently had no 
 compunction about making this admission. 
 
 It was accordingly much to her surprise and con- 
 fusion that he told her the contrary. 
 
 " I was looking at a picture when I heard your voice 
 behind me, and you laughed."
 
 THE WOMAN 263 
 
 She tried to meet his eyes unflinchingly. 
 
 "What was I saying?" she asked. 
 
 " Your exact words ? " 
 
 " Can you remember them ? " 
 
 By an effort he steadied his voice. 
 
 " I don't think I've forgotten them," he replied, and 
 imperceptibly he changed the angle of his elbows, 
 bringing himself slightly nearer to her. 
 
 "Well," her laugh was dry and unnatural, "what 
 were they ? " 
 
 " * You can't say that I asked you to come,' was 
 what you said, and then you walked on into another 
 gallery." 
 
 " You saw I was with some one then ? " 
 
 "I did." 
 
 She looked out of the window. There was a sense 
 of hesitancy about her action, as though she. had been 
 about to say something else, to confide something in 
 him which on secondary consideration she thought 
 better of. 
 
 Father Michael had noticed it in the inflexion of 
 her voice, and for a short space of time he waited for 
 her to go on, but she was silent. 
 
 " Mrs. Warren told me that you were going up to 
 Paris to meet a friend," he went on, with more gentle- 
 ness and less of the tone of mastery in his voice. 
 "Was that the friend?" 
 
 Again her eyes turned towards his, and he saw in 
 them the wistful expression of an appeal for sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 " That was the friend," she replied. 
 
 " Only a friend ? " he asked slowly.
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 She thought that he had asked the question in 
 kindly good-nature out of his interest for her, and it 
 was just the spark of sympathetic encouragement 
 that she needed to fan the flame of her desire to 
 confide in some one. 
 
 That day with Charles Morough at the Louvre had 
 been one of the most trying that Roona had ever 
 experienced. It is not easy for a woman to tell the 
 man to whom she has yielded herself that her deepest 
 passion for him has not been lasting, more especially 
 when his passion for her has but increased. Yet that 
 was practically what had occurred, and, unstrung by 
 many of the things that he had said to her, she had 
 become possessed of a violent and exaggerated idea 
 of her own guilt, so that when Father Michael re- 
 peated his question, " Only a friend ? " in precisely 
 the same tone of voice she felt the necessity for sym- 
 pathy call for speech. 
 
 "That's all now," she said softly. "We were 
 engaged." 
 
 " Engaged? You were engaged? " 
 
 " Yes. It's all over now." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 She utterly misunderstood the directness of his 
 tone. She thought he was merely interested and 
 sympathetic. 
 
 "It's been all my fault," she suddenly broke out, 
 speaking quickly, " I I thought it would last with 
 me, but it didn't. It began too suddenly, and now," 
 she paused, "he doesn't seem the same. It's im- 
 possible to force feeling like that." 
 
 She was laying herself utterly at his mercy, and
 
 THE WOMAN 265 
 
 swept away beyond thought or reason by the sense 
 of the impending crisis, he dragged her thoughts 
 from her. 
 
 "You care for some one else?" he asked. Had 
 she looked into his eyes then she would have plainly 
 seen the light of his passion which for the moment 
 was brushed into a dull gleam by the jealousy that 
 crossed his thoughts. 
 
 " You love some one else ? " he repeated, and still 
 she thought the tone of his voice was one of interest. 
 How could she think otherwise? How could she 
 know all? 
 
 "I don't," she exclaimed bitterly. "I don't think 
 I shall ever love any man again. I want you to tell 
 me, you ought to know, whether I have done anything 
 very wrong in breaking it all to pieces? How could 
 I tell him a lie to please him when I really had grown 
 tired? I know it has made him miserable, but but 
 surely the truth is better, once it's out ? " 
 
 She made her declarations, she asked her questions 
 as though he were listening to them in the confes- 
 sional. It seemed natural enough to her, once the 
 first reserve had been broken, to speak to him, a 
 priest, as freely as she was doing. She had made 
 confession before in the sacristy at the knees of a 
 priest who could see her as she spoke. There she 
 could reserve nothing, or the confession would not 
 have been complete, but here, in the solitude of this 
 carriage, she could keep to herself just what she 
 wished and yet confide in him, ask his opinion. 
 
 "What would have been the good of concealing it 
 from him ? " she asked again.
 
 266 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "None," he said, and he clenched his jawbones 
 together so that deep shadows fell on his cheeks. 
 
 There was a pause. He was leaning still nearer to 
 her now, his eyes watching her face. She did not 
 look down at him, but from the sound of his voice he 
 seemed strong, reliant to her a personality on which 
 she could lean mainly because his opinion coincided 
 with the one she most wished to adopt. 
 
 But it was no real opinion of his. He had not 
 given his mind to it as such for a moment ; in fact, he 
 had no mind to give. He only felt the presence, the 
 existence of himself as a creature of instinct; one 
 mass of quivering humanity, wrapped, tied, bound in 
 the cords of his own sensations and with but one 
 desire to free himself, throw off the toils of his 
 bondage and be a man. 
 
 There were others who had been men before him. 
 He looked at her lips. Others, one other at least, 
 who had loosed the whole tide of his craving in order 
 to gain her caresses. Why should not he? Because 
 he had vowed that he would not do so? Yes, he 
 had vowed, he had taken the step, but when it was 
 accomplished had he been one wit the wiser of the 
 real deprivation with which he was binding him- 
 self? 
 
 Had he ever had the opportunity to gain that 
 wisdom? Did he ever think that it would be like 
 this, this vital, gnawing craving for what in that 
 moment of existence seemed to be the very essence of 
 life ? How could he have thought it ? How could he 
 have known? He could not he could not he could 
 not have known ! Swiftly he remembered the be-
 
 THE WOMAN 267 
 
 ginning of Holland's explanation of his reason for 
 shirking the vow of chastity. 
 
 "There was a girl in Belfast " 
 
 That was all he had said, but now Father Michael 
 understood it. And there had not been one woman 
 in the world to him until now now when it was too 
 late. Was it too late ? Oh, it could not be anything 
 else. Such a state of affairs could not continue. 
 He knew it was impossible. He was a celibate, but 
 of what use on God's earth was a celibate with a mind 
 like his? 
 
 He looked up at her again and then their eyes 
 met. 
 
 She felt he was strong, but with what strength she 
 did not guess. She thought she could lean on him, 
 but what that action would incur or what call forth 
 from him did not enter her mind. 
 
 " I think you're very good," she said, and she smiled, 
 " very good to listen so patiently." 
 
 Her hand was near one of his as she leant forward 
 to speak and then he lost sight of everything. The 
 next moment he had seized her hand. Not violently 
 but with a strange and impulsive strength. 
 
 "You think I'm good, do you?" he said hoarsely. 
 "You think I've been listening to your story feeling 
 only sympathy for you and nothing for myself ? " 
 
 As yet she did not understand or realize, but the 
 tone of his voice disconcerted her and her hand still 
 lay in his. 
 
 " Do you imagine ? " he went on quickly, " that I 
 feel nothing for myself? Do you think that I've 
 been with you, in your company day after day, as I
 
 268 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 
 
 have been, without one moment's growth of something 
 that must find expression like this ? " 
 
 " Like what ? " she stammered. She was beginning 
 to see. 
 
 " My God ! " he whispered. " You have seen men 
 loving you and you cannot see that I am burnt with 
 what I feel for you ? You cannot see that I love 
 you?" 
 
 She looked about the carriage quickly and tried to 
 free her hand. 
 
 "Father!" she exclaimed, and though her voice 
 was filled with the reproach of the moment, it passed 
 him by unnoticed. 
 
 " It's too late to call me that," he said wildly, " why 
 haven't you called me it before? Why have you 
 always dropped it when we've been out together? 
 Why ? Oh you how I love you ! " 
 
 It was an effort to make her voice sound; she felt 
 it clinging in her throat, but, nevertheless, she spoke. 
 It was only a whisper, yet he heard it. 
 
 " You mustn't say all this," she said, " it isn't right 
 it's wrong wrong you'll hate yourself for it 
 afterwards." 
 
 "Wrong?" 
 
 In that crucial moment the little detail of the brakes 
 being clamped on to the wheels forced itself in upon 
 his mind. He felt the dull vibration through his body. 
 They were going to stop. It would be Duresne, and 
 after that 
 
 With the hand that he held he drew her into his 
 arms. She fell forward on his breast and for one 
 brief moment, one that seemed to be the longest in
 
 THE WOMAN 269 
 
 his life and yet the very shortest, he found her lips 
 with his and burnt them with his kisses. 
 
 The next second the first light on the platform 
 passed them by, and he put her back into her seat as 
 though she had been a little child. 
 
 "There!" he said with his eyes alight, "God help 
 me!"
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 THE LAW
 
 "You do not believe, you only believe that you 
 believe." COLEEIDOE. 
 
 "First recognize what is true, we shall then dis- 
 cern what is false; and properly never till then." 
 "The Hero as King," THOMAS CABLYLE.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 IT was without doubt the wettest day that had been 
 in Rathmore for three weeks or even longer; since, 
 in fact, the day when the long boat had come back 
 nearly swamped with a huge catch of whiting, and 
 that, in the certain memory of Kennedy the master, 
 was exactly three weeks and two days. 
 
 The little main street was utterly deserted except 
 for an occasional figure wrapped in a brown shawl 
 that would make a hurried exit from the door of one 
 cottage and a more hasty entrance into another. A 
 stray dog and an ambling procession of ducks ap- 
 peared to be the only living creatures impervious to 
 the rain, and truly it seemed as though the heavens 
 were bent upon purging to the last drop their great, 
 heavy cloud-cisterns that hung overhead in masses 
 of leaden grey. 
 
 The sea at the end of the viHage street was a dull 
 patch of ugly green with splashes of foam here and 
 there, as though in some gigantic scheme of things 
 an artist had squeezed daubs of vivid white upon a 
 palette dark with angry colours. 
 
 It was about four o'clock in the afternoon. The 
 rain had been falling since midday and little rivers of 
 water were coursing through self-made channels in 
 the roads, laying bare the white stones beneath the 
 outer covering of mud. The heavy trees over- 
 shadowing the beginning of the old road to Anesk 
 
 273
 
 274. THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 which led into the village at the further end from the 
 sea were dripping with water, and except for the 
 swish of the rain as it fell on to the outer leaves there 
 was not a sound to be heard. The whole world 
 seemed to be deserted. 
 
 But a solitary pedestrian, had he stopped in his 
 walking, would have heard the dull rumbling of a 
 distant car. Slowly it drew nearer and nearer, until 
 at last with a sloshing of horse's hoofs in the puddles 
 it turned the far corner and began to bring some sign 
 of life into the almost stagnant state of the sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 The two occupants, the passenger wrapped in heavy 
 rugs with his face almost hidden in the collar of his 
 thick coat, the driver, heedless of the weather, with 
 only the slight collar of his house-coat turned up 
 inadequately round his neck, could easily have been 
 recognized as the car turned round from under the 
 thick archway of trees bearing sharply to the right 
 up to the little cottage past the post-office. 
 
 Three weeks before or thereabouts these two had 
 left the village for Anesk, and comparing his leave- 
 taking with his return, Father Michael for the pas- 
 senger was no other missed the sight of the familiar 
 faces that had bidden him farewell and Godspeed. 
 
 Yet in his anticipation of coming back to Rathmore, 
 suddenly, unexpectedly, as he had done, this lack of 
 a welcome did not seem unfitting to the opinion in 
 which he now held himself. He felt as though he 
 had cut himself off from the world, severed all the 
 ties which had bound him to the right of sympathy 
 from his fellow-creatures.
 
 THE LAW 275 
 
 In justice to the sensitiveness of his nature it should 
 be said that from the moment of his fall Father 
 Michael had learnt regret and sorrow. But the 
 Apple of the Garden had been eaten ; he knew that he 
 was naked, and was ashamed. 
 
 Telling Ryan to wait while he went into the cottage 
 he jumped off the car, opened the door and passed 
 into the kitchen. 
 
 Mrs. McGrath gave way to an exclamation of sur- 
 prise for probably the first time in her life. 
 
 " Glory be to God, Father Everett ! Is that your- 
 self?" she ejaculated. 
 
 At any other time the priest might have smiled ; he 
 could not smile then. 
 
 " It is, Mrs. McGrath," he replied. " Can you tell 
 me whether Father Connelly's in the village?" He 
 added the latter part of his sentence immediately 
 after the other. It was all that he had come into the 
 kitchen to say. 
 
 The day was a Thursday and it was most unlikely 
 that the parish priest would be in Rathmore; not 
 that he minded the state of the weather. Such con- 
 ditions of nature as that, with all its variations, 
 passed him quite unnoticed. 
 
 " He's not then, Father," Mrs. McGrath replied, as 
 he had expected she would, and, without waiting to 
 hear any more or give her the reason of the sudden- 
 ness of his return, he hastened out of the cottage and 
 jumped again on to the car. 
 
 "Drive out to Ballysheen, Ryan," he said, pulling 
 the rugs round him. 
 
 The driver's mouth half opened with surprise, then,
 
 276 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 suddenly whipping up his horse, they clattered down 
 the street once more and on to the long road upon 
 which he had walked back from the parish priest's 
 house on that afternoon when he had met little Annie 
 Foley. 
 
 The details of the different parts of that particular 
 journey, with every place they passed which brought 
 his memory into action, came back vividly to his 
 mind. He could see in the distance, misted and 
 blurred by the trails of falling rain, the field where he 
 had gone up and spoken to the ploughman. 
 
 "Why had Shaun married the tinker's widow who 
 was already possessed of two children by her first 
 husband?" 
 
 That he remembered was the question he had asked 
 him. And what had been the ploughman's reply? 
 
 " A wife with two children is better than none at all, 
 when yeer afther wantin' to get married." 
 
 And he had gone away thinking that that man's 
 philosophy was at fault. Wearily he came to the 
 conclusion that there were many things yet to be 
 learnt in the world of which he knew nothing. 
 
 The drive up to Father Connelly's house, bright as 
 it had been the last time he had seen it with the little 
 splashes of sunlight that were falling through the 
 trees, was now gloomy with the oppression of the 
 ceaseless rain. In the distance at the end of the 
 avenue the space before the house showed a promise 
 of light as with the termination of a tunnel, yet when 
 they came to it and pulled up before the hall door 
 the sky was just as dark as ever. 
 
 Father Connelly was in, and, dismissing Ryan, the
 
 THE LAW 277 
 
 curate walked into the house. A savoury smell of 
 the approaching dinner reached his nostrils, and in 
 another moment, having been acquainted with his 
 arrival, Father Michael heard the voice of the parish 
 priest beginning already, before he had seen him, to 
 proclaim his welcome in tones that resounded through 
 the whole house. 
 
 A hundred recollections of things that the homely 
 man had said came to Father Michael's mind when 
 he heard these advancing proofs of hospitality; 
 words, the truth of which he had refuted in his mind 
 at the time, but which now returned to him in all 
 the glowing light of his experience. 
 
 Presently the huge, gaunt figure of Father Connelly 
 appeared at the head of the stairs. There he 
 stopped and looked down at the curate. 
 
 "In the name of goodness!" he exclaimed, in a 
 brogue that to Father Michael sounded even broader 
 than ever, " what's the attraction about this country 
 that ye come back to it on a day like this before yeer 
 holiday is over?" 
 
 Then he laughed loudly as he descended the stairs. 
 
 Father Michael waited until he had reached the 
 hall, and then they shook hands. 
 
 " I want to have a talk with you," he said. 
 
 Father Connelly's eyes were small. To a casual 
 observer it would have seemed that very little ever 
 attracted their attention, but in one swift glance, 
 after Father Michael had spoken, he had taken in 
 more than most people who knew him well would have 
 given him credit for. In that brief moment he pieced 
 together with native intuition the curate's unexpected
 
 278 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 return, his coming to Ballysheen on such an after- 
 noon, and with it all the tone of his voice and what he 
 had said. 
 
 What Father Michael wished indeed to tell him he 
 did not know, but he was by no means incapable of a 
 shrewd guess that there was something weighing on 
 his curate's mind. The haggard look in his eyes, the 
 listless motions of his body and the fixed expression of 
 his face all combined to show the suffering he had 
 undergone. 
 
 For one moment Father Connelly paused, and the 
 next, with a laugh, he had drawn his guest into the 
 dining-room. 
 
 "Ye've got something to tell me?" he said, with 
 his genial attempt at a casual manner. "Indeed 
 then ye'll have something to eat with me first. Shure, 
 Molly's got a fine, large leg of mutton inside there, 
 and she won't be five minutes cooking it." He sniffed 
 the air. " Faith, I can smell it now. 'Twill only be 
 a moment. Shure 'tis coming, I can hear it coming. 
 Take yeer coat off, man," and helping Father Michael 
 off with his coat he almost forced him into a seat at 
 the table.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 So they dined off the leg of mutton. It was not the 
 first time that Father Michael had seen evidence of 
 the parish priest's appetite, but on this particular 
 evening, when all food seemed distasteful to him, he 
 marvelled at it. 
 
 Father Connelly took his usual portion of whisky, 
 which he never increased and never diminished, but 
 with all the insistence of his persuasion he could not 
 induce Father Michael to allow even the bottom of 
 his glass to be covered. 
 
 As soon as dinner was finished they went into the 
 drawing-room. During the meal Father Connelly 
 had endeavoured by adroit and untiring questioning 
 to draw from the curate his opinions upon the various 
 places that he had seen, and all the answers he 
 received but confirmed his idea that some serious 
 matter was weighing on Father Michael's mind. He 
 was therefore not in any way surprised to hear him 
 say, no sooner was the door closed behind him 
 
 " I haven't been to confession, Father Tom, since I 
 went away." 
 
 This was it then. He had some grievous thing, or 
 what he considered grievous, to confess, and in 
 coming to lay it bare to him, Father Connelly did 
 not fail to fully appreciate the confidence which the 
 curate was about to place in him. Any other priest 
 under similar circumstances would have gone to make 
 his confession to a priest of another parish where he 
 
 279
 
 280 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 was unknown. It is, in fact, the custom. There- 
 fore, in coming to him, Father Connelly knew that it 
 implied not merely ordinary confidence but a degree 
 of friendship which he also felt for the young priest 
 beside him. 
 
 " Was it a pilgrimage ye went on then ? " he asked 
 with a serious face, " faith, I thought it was yeer 
 holidays." 
 
 " I know it was." 
 
 There were times when to Father Michael even the 
 parish priest's levity seemed out of place; yet there 
 was scarcely any one who knew better than Father 
 Connelly and it was solely intution where a light 
 remark, a seeming jest could blunt the too-keen edge 
 of super-serious sensitiveness. He was fully prepared 
 to hear that his curate's confession was of a sin that 
 he himself imagined to be abnormal in its guilt, yet 
 into which many a better man had fallen. 
 
 " And in the name of goodness," he said, " is it 
 because ye are a priest that ye can't take a holiday 
 as it was meant to be? Shure when I have a holiday, 
 faith I don't leave it, I take it. Isn't it only because 
 he can't celebrate Mass that a priest has to make his 
 confession before every Sunday? Ye don't mean to 
 tell me that ye have so many sins on }reer soul that 
 yeer compelled to go once a week in holiday time? 
 Yirra! I said we'd find ye just the same when ye 
 came back." 
 
 " But I'm not the same." 
 
 "Faith, then, it'll need a more crabbit man than I 
 am to see it." 
 
 "But I'm not the same," Father Michael repeated
 
 THE LAW 281 
 
 vehemently. "I'm changed, utterly changed. I've 
 fallen. I've broken my vow." 
 
 He said all this quickly, spontaneously, in a rush 
 of sudden feeling. It was understood, as he meant it 
 to be, that he implied his vow of chastity. 
 
 In that one moment, just as swiftly as he had 
 learnt it, all the expression of levity dropped from 
 Father Connelly's eyes. For perhaps the first time 
 in his life, as he came forward and laid his hand on 
 Father Michael's shoulder, there was a note of real 
 pathos in his voice, though the curate himself was too 
 agitated to notice it. 
 
 "My poor child," he said. 
 
 And in those simple words was conveyed the whole 
 difference in their natures, their age and everything 
 about them. With what greater degree of serious- 
 ness did not this confession come from one priest to 
 another than it had done from the young man, 
 Charles Morough, to Father Michael? Yet all the 
 difference in the world lay between the ways in which 
 each had taken it. 
 
 There is a natural celibate, but he is hard to find. 
 He is a man so full of nature and the contemplation 
 of it in everything and every one but himself that his 
 actions with regard to his own body are almost 
 mechnical. Deep-rooted in his mind is a love for 
 all human kind and all the things of nature, but it is 
 altruistic to the very core. Your lover, your sensu- 
 alist, your friend and your husband even, they are 
 egotists all, in their kindest and most generous 
 thoughts; self-seeking in their most unselfish mo- 
 ments. But the natural celibate it must be re-
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 peated he is hard to find he is an altruist, one of the 
 few men who can be cruel to be kind. 
 
 Such a man was Father Connelly, and in thinking 
 that Father Michael imputed to himself the utmost 
 limit of his sin his first impulse was one of purest 
 sympathy. 
 
 It had never been an expressed opinion of his, but 
 he considered that the unspared rod should be ad- 
 ministered before and in the face of the sin rather 
 than after it when it was accomplished. 
 
 "My poor child," he repeated, and his fingers 
 tightened on the shoulder that he held. "Don't 
 worry yerself by telling me about it, shure the ways 
 of the world are all alike, once ye've heard them from 
 one human being ye know them all through. Faith, 
 I was wrong, mind ye, ye have changed. Glory be 
 to God, who'd have thought it?" 
 
 He sank into a chair by the side of a small table, 
 resting his elbow on it and his face on his hand. 
 
 " Why don't you curse at me? " said Father Michael 
 bitterly. It was beyond him still to understand the 
 passive way in which the parish priest had received 
 his admission. 
 
 "Wisha, what would be the good of that? Ye 
 might just as well tell me to curse at me young heifer 
 that perished while ye were away. Shure she 
 couldn't help it." 
 
 " How do you know I couldn't help it? " 
 
 Having once sinned Father Michael was not pre- 
 pared to accept one point in his favour. Utterly 
 and thoroughly he condemned himself, and it seemed 
 to him that others should do the same.
 
 THE LAW 283 
 
 "How do you know I couldn't help it?" he 
 repeated bitterly. 
 
 "How do I know? Shure is it how do I know 
 that yeer asking me? Faith, because ye wouldn't 
 have done it if ye could have helped it. Shure 
 what's the good of damning yeerself before yeer 
 dead?" 
 
 " My God ! " said -Father Michael, his mind was 
 utterly confused, " then where's the justice of any- 
 thing if I couldn't have helped it ? " 
 
 Father Connelly looked up slowly into his eyes. 
 
 "Tell me now," he began quietly, "d'ye think that 
 when the Almighty God gives a man the strength to 
 do a great deed of virtue for some great motive of 
 His own that He has no motive when a man commits 
 a great sin ? " 
 
 Father Michael's surprise at the words escaped from 
 him in a quickly-taken breath. 
 
 "You think God makes us sin?" he exclaimed. 
 
 Father Connelly held up his hand. 
 
 "Whisht!" he said. "Mind ye, I wouldn't have 
 said such a thing as that to any one but yeerself. If 
 I were to say that down in Rathmore, shure the whole 
 parish would be drunk the same evening. Now listen 
 to me. What I mean is this. We pray that God 
 should not lead us into temptation, and those were 
 the words of Christ Himself. Well, mind ye, if He 
 does, shure then He has a reason for it." 
 
 " But a priest, breaking his vow ? " 
 
 " Can ye see the first sign of blight coming on a 
 crop of potatoes ? " Father Connelly asked with seem- 
 ing irrelevance.
 
 284 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "I cannot of course." 
 
 " Then Glory be to God, how d'ye expect to be able 
 to see the motives of the Almighty in the bottom of 
 yeer sins ? There's a reason for that fly that's walk- 
 ing up the wall there to that spider's web, and faith 
 it's about time Molly came round here with a sweeping 
 brush, shure there's cobwebs all round the ceiling." 
 
 Mechanically Father Michael looked above his head, 
 then back again to the ground. 
 
 " But I haven't told you it all yet," he said. 
 
 " Shure I told you I didn't want to hear it." 
 
 " But I must tell you. I hate to, I despise myself, 
 but I can't keep it to myself." 
 
 " Faith then, my boy, if it'll ease yer mind ah 
 wisha, God help us! The ways of this world must 
 come out in the next, shure if they don't we'll be 
 groping about in the dark for ever. Tell me it, yirra 
 tell me it," and he covered his face in his hands. 
 
 Father Michael thought that the action implied his 
 despair ; but in reality he was hiding his face in order 
 that the curate might feel less reluctance in his 
 confession. 
 
 So there in that high-ceilinged drawing-room with 
 its old oil-lamp and faded embellishments Father 
 Michael dragged from himself the whole tale of his 
 misery. 
 
 Every word as he uttered it stung his memory with 
 remorse, and yet underlying it all there was the un- 
 conscious presence of the love for Roona Lawless 
 which the heat of those stolen kisses had burnt into 
 his nature. Had her sin been a thousand times 
 greater, he would still have loved her, though he
 
 THE LAW 285 
 
 might succeed in bringing it under a stronger sub- 
 mission than he ever had or could have known before. 
 
 " And then," he concluded wearily, for the con- 
 fession had sapped from him all the passion of his 
 sorrow, " as we were coming back to Duresne I I 
 kissed her." 
 
 There was a long and heavy pause after his last 
 words. During the whole telling of the story Father 
 Connelly had kept his hands over his face, but now 
 in the expectation of Father Michael's continuance 
 he looked up. 
 
 " And was it that night ? " he asked gently. 
 
 He fancied that the curate's embarrassment had 
 overmastered him. 
 
 " That night ? " Father Michael repeated the last 
 words with an expression of amazement. "That 
 night? That is all I I kissed her." 
 
 When the mind has been concentrating itself upon 
 a point of extremest apprehension and suddenly finds 
 the tension released a few degrees the sense of relief 
 is almost disproportionate. 
 
 From the contemplation of the utmost limits of 
 Father Michael's first admission Father Connelly was 
 in a moment turned to see the whole matter in another 
 and a less serious light, and the spirit of cheerful 
 optimism rose exultant in him to accept and make 
 the best of it. 
 
 From a dogmatic standpoint there was no qualify- 
 ing outlook on Father Michael's sin. The breaking 
 of the vow of chastity is a mortal sin brought about 
 by thought, word, deed or contemplation, and, what- 
 ever it may be, as mortal it will remain and must be
 
 286 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 judged. But there are mitigating circumstances. 
 Had the curate gratified the desire of his sin to the 
 fullest measure, then the means to combat and con- 
 ceal the results in order to preserve the good name 
 and reputation of the Holy Church would need to be 
 stern, unrelenting and effectual. If need be, even the 
 threat of excommunication would have to be resorted 
 to with the persons concerned, that such disedifying 
 scandal might be suppressed. Then, indeed, the 
 matter would have been serious, demanding serious 
 treatment. But as it was, there could be no results, 
 no proof even of the action itself, though all this in 
 no way lessened the fact that his vow was broken ; that 
 he had committed a mortal sin. 
 
 In calling such reasons to his mind Father Connelly 
 acted with similar method to the machine. There 
 was no trace of sentiment in his thoughts as he 
 weighed the confession in this strange balance of 
 theological jurisprudence. It was the first point of 
 view that he was bound to take, and with the second, 
 the personal nature of his character alone was 
 brought into existence. 
 
 Father Michael had only kissed the woman. He 
 admitted to himself that he could see no great degree 
 of pleasure in such an action, but still it comprised 
 the breaking of the vow of chastity, and in that light 
 alone he looked at it. In that light alone he felt all 
 the sympathy and pity of his altruistic nature go out 
 to the man whose qualities he probably admired the 
 more for this sign of humanity. 
 
 He gave no word of expression to all these thoughts, 
 so that Father Michael himself was utterly unaware
 
 THE LAW 287 
 
 of all that was passing in his mind. In the first 
 moment that he heard the curate say he had sinned 
 no further than kissing her Father Connelly had felt 
 inclined to laugh; not out of amusement at the 
 admission, but from sheer relief. His friendship for 
 Father Michael had made him dread the impending 
 possibility of his having to recommend him to an 
 audience with the Bishop, and when he had found 
 that it was unnecessary his pleasure almost sought 
 relief in laughter. But such expression as that, he 
 was quick enough to see, would hurt Father Michael's 
 susceptibilities; although to all who knew him it 
 seemed that sensitiveness made up no intrinsic part 
 of his character. Yet he was very careful in his 
 shrewd, though often clumsy, way of the mental 
 hurts that he gave to others. 
 
 "You you only kissed her?" he said at length 
 when he had drummed out all his thoughts with his 
 knuckles on the table. 
 
 " That is all. Glory be to God, wasn't it enough ? " 
 
 Father Connelly looked up into the curate's eyes. 
 
 "Faith, it's well you found it so," he said. 
 
 " But what can I do ? " asked Father Michael wildly. 
 " I must go to the Bishop. I must be silenced. I've 
 broken my vow." 
 
 Father Connelly rose from his seat and took the 
 curate by the shoulders, holding him rigidly with his 
 strong hands as though he had been a child. 
 
 " There are some fools that are fools by choice," he 
 said slowly, " and some that are fools by nature, and, 
 in the name of God, don't ye be both. Ye made a 
 fool of yeerself with that woman, shure that's the
 
 88 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 nature of ye ; but, for God's sake, don't go bringing 
 the Bishop's remarks on yeer head when I can give 
 ye the worst talking to ye ever had in yeer life. 
 Yirra, man, have some respect for yeer sins. That 
 doesn't prevent ye from being sorry for them. It 
 isn't because ye made a mistake that ye must go and 
 tell the whole world about it. Take it as a lesson 
 and keep it to yeerself. Shure ye'll learn a mighty 
 lot from it that ye never knew before. Yirra, men 
 like you go and take the justice out of God's hands 
 and pronounce your own damnation before the 
 Almighty has had the time to see how much mercy 
 ye deserve. Make good come out of evil, man! 
 Shure if it wasn't for that sort of alchemy this world 
 would be one mass of stagnant, unconverted sin. Do 
 ye know this, Father Michael, ye must have been as 
 simple as one of those children down in the village 
 when ye went up to Maynooth? " 
 
 " I suppose I was." 
 
 The parish priest had released his hold of Father 
 Michael's shoulders and was contemplating him from 
 a distance. When he admitted the supposition 
 Father Connelly nodded his head. 
 
 "Ye didn't go to school anywhere else?" he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " Only at Ballyporeen. The village school." 
 
 "And how old were ye when ye went up to May- 
 nooth?" 
 
 "Fifteen. About fifteen." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 " I'm twenty-six." 
 
 Father Connelly turned round and looked thought-
 
 THE LAW 289 
 
 fully into the cheerless grate where no fire was 
 burning. 
 
 " Twenty-one then I suppose ye were when ye took 
 the step ? " he said without looking back. 
 
 " Yes twenty-one." 
 
 " Now tell me, Father Michael," he exclaimed, 
 suddenly wheeling round and facing his companion, 
 " did ye know what ye were doing all ye were doing 
 when ye took the step? Did ye know all that it 
 meant at all ? " 
 
 Father Michael moved uneasily on his chair. 
 
 " Shure I don't see how you mean ? " he said un- 
 comfortably. 
 
 Father Connelly closed his eyes patiently. 
 
 " I may be wrong, mind ye," he said, beginning 
 with his old formula, " but it seems to me that when 
 ye took the step ye knew no more of what ye were 
 doing than I do when I make an afternoon visit and 
 they give me a cup of tea and a piece of cake with no 
 plate to put it on. Now, I told ye I'd be having 
 something to say to ye, and I want to know why, in 
 the name of goodness, ye took the step at all ? " 
 
 Father Michael rose from his chair. This was the 
 last reproach he thought he deserved. Had he 
 known, it was far from reproach that lay at the 
 bottom of Father Connelly's words. He was indeed 
 but endeavouring to argue with himself the existence 
 of justice in a scheme of things where in reality there 
 was no justice at all, and the curate was but an 
 instance, far from personal, in his mind. 
 
 " It seems quite plain enough, without reminding 
 me," he said, " that I shouldn't have been a priest at
 
 290 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 all. But I didn't know, I didn't half realize all the 
 vow meant. I wanted to be a priest, my people 
 wanted me to be a priest. It seemed the noblest and 
 the grandest thing in the world to me then ; it seems 
 so now. Every one respects you, every one honours 
 you, but now I shan't dare to look any one in the face. 
 I shall feel a hypocrite. God help me ! " 
 
 " Shure ye may say that well enough, because ye 
 don't seem to be willing to help yeerself ." 
 
 " How can I help myself? " 
 
 " Go back to your duties like a man. It isn't every 
 one who can be a saint, and some of those who have 
 been began by sinning first. Shure the noblest call- 
 ing in the world is not pigs in a field of clover all 
 the time. It'll be hard work for ye to go on with yeer 
 duties and that thing lying on yeer conscience, and, 
 Glory be to God ! shure the harder it is the more credit 
 there is in doing it. Do you mean to tell me, Father 
 Michael, that ye would go to the next convention, 
 and look about ye, and say, 'All these priests are 
 saints, and I'm a sinner?' Would ye, now? Tell me 
 that; would ye?" 
 
 "I should; I should indeed." 
 
 "Wisha, then, may the Almighty give ye sense. 
 Faith, it's a fine thing to have a strong, talkative 
 conscience with a good pair of lungs, but I'd sooner 
 be able to get a word in edgeways myself I would 
 so. And, mind ye, I'm not saying but that what 
 ye've done isn't just as much a sin as ye think it is 
 yeerself; but it seems to me that what a man's once 
 done can't be undone; he can only build over it and 
 cover it up, so that when the day of reckoning comes
 
 THE LAW 291 
 
 it'll be missed or beaten out of shape in the counting. 
 But faith, if ye put it by itself and let it stare ye in 
 the face for the rest of yeer life, ye'll have wasted all 
 yeer valuable time looking at it." 
 
 " You haven't done what I have done," said Father 
 Michael bitterly. 
 
 " And how do ye know I haven't ? " asked the parish 
 priest quickly. "As it happens, ye're right. But 
 d'ye think I haven't done what I'm just as sorry for? 
 Faith, I should have been in Rathmore the night little 
 Mary Troy died if I'd only taken the trouble to 
 walk in. But my horse had gone lame and I was 
 too lazy. Not that I knew I'd be wanted like that, 
 mind ye; but I ought to have gone in, and then the 
 little child wouldn't have left this world without the 
 last sacrament. I can tell ye, Father Michael, I'd 
 sooner have yeer sin on my conscience not because 
 I'd have liked the pleasure of committing it, mind 
 ye but I'd sooner feel the sorrow for that than the 
 shame I felt when Mrs. Troy walked all the way out 
 here that night in the rain just simply to tell me 
 about it. Shure ye can talk about contrition and 
 penitence when ye're standing up in yeer own shoes 
 with every ability ye have still left to mortify yeer- 
 self for yeer sin, but ye can't administer the last 
 sacrament to any one that's passed out of this world 
 into the next. Ye cannot." 
 
 The remembrance of what he had done brought a 
 deep sign of regret from him, and when he looked 
 towards the light of the old oil-lamp there was an 
 unusual lustre in his grey eyes. 
 
 " Now tell me," he said fiercely, " tell me truthfully,
 
 292 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 is yeer mind firmly made up to have nothing more 
 to do with this this girl never to see her again? 
 Mind ye, I don't want any explanations ; I just want 
 to know whether ye've made up yeer mind to that or 
 not?" 
 
 Father Michael looked about him. The parish 
 priest gave him a moment's grace before he spoke, 
 and when he got no immediate answer he broke in 
 on the silence. 
 
 "I see ye haven't made up yeer mind," he said 
 conclusively ; " so now let me tell ye this and, mind 
 ye, I'm speaking as straightly as I want ye to speak 
 to me. If ye're going to remain in Orders, ye must 
 see nothing more of her. She may do her best to see 
 something of ye " 
 
 "No, she won't," Father Michael interrupted, re- 
 membering that at the time Roona had said it was 
 wrong ; " I'm nothing to her." 
 
 " Shure, that's better than I thought it was then. 
 It all rests with yeerself . So, if ye're going to remain 
 in Orders, there must be no more of her. It's the 
 law. Never mind how it was made, who made it, or 
 whether it's right or wrong if ye begin asking yeer- 
 self those questions ye're done for but it's the law, 
 and ye've got to choose between her and the law. 
 Now, man, as straight as I'm speaking, which is it 
 to be?" 
 
 The pause was almost imperceptible this time. 
 
 "The law," said the curate. "I've been a fool. 
 I'm nothing to her. The law," and he bowed his 
 head. 
 
 Father Connelly came a little closer to him.
 
 THE LAW 293 
 
 " But what is she to you ? " he asked in a strained 
 undertone. 
 
 " The law," Father Michael simply repeated, and it 
 might or might not have been an answer to the 
 question.
 
 BOOK V 
 
 THE SACRAMENT,
 
 1 1 am he indeed, thou knowest, and he is I. 
 Not man and woman several as we were, 
 But one thing with one life and death to bear." 
 A. C. SWINBUHNE, " Iseult at Tintagel."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE stress of circumstances is accountable for many 
 things, but perhaps it is most responsible of all for 
 the celebration of the sacrament of matrimony. 
 
 It was scarcely more than a week after Father 
 Michael's departure from Duresne that Roona re- 
 ceived a letter from her mother, telling her in a plain, 
 unvarnished way that they could no longer afford to 
 keep her in France at the apparently useless study of 
 painting. 
 
 Roona herself was fully aware that it was useless, 
 and was preparing herself to make the suggestion 
 that she should return. She was still filled with 
 ambition, but fate sometimes is unkind, and will not 
 allow that to spell ability. However, to be told that 
 she must return because they could not afford to 
 support her there, of course it was very depressing, 
 and certainly was quite another matter to coming 
 back of her own accord. 
 
 But she endeavoured to make the best of it. On 
 the evening that she had received the letter she had 
 retired early to her room, and read Browning by the 
 light of one small candle. When she came to " Night 
 and Morning," her thoughts reverted to Father 
 Michael. He had been in her mind many times 
 since his departure ; in fact, she found his personality 
 almost impossible to dispel. 
 
 Once, when the thought had flown through her mind, 
 she had considered that were such a thing possible 
 
 297
 
 298 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 he would prove a lethargic lover. In both respects 
 she had been wrong. It had been possible; and she 
 knew that never again in her life would she realize 
 from any other man the great storm of passion 
 which he had spent in those kisses on her lips. 
 
 At the time it had almost frightened her. Pressing 
 her lips against his teeth he had caused the skin to be 
 lacerated on the inside, and that had given her pain ; 
 but with all its tempestuous suddenness it had carried 
 her away. She could not forget it. Many times 
 since, she had wakened in the night feeling the power- 
 ful vitality of his strength, the crushing force of his 
 arms and his passionate breath on her cheeks. It 
 was all impossible to forget, and with the remem- 
 brance of it still haunting her she returned to Ireland. 
 
 Ireland is a small place, but then there are many 
 priests and she knew that she would never see him 
 again. Once, in as casual a tone as she could assume, 
 she had asked Mrs. Warren where in the south of 
 Ireland his parish was, but the good lady had not 
 known. 
 
 " Sister Conception up at the convent will tell you," 
 she had said, but at the last moment in the commotion 
 of saying good-bye to at least fifteen nuns she had 
 not had the opportunity to ask. 
 
 So Roona returned to Lee to find that Charles 
 Morough had already spoken to her parents and that 
 they were in the higher stages of enthusiasm at the 
 thought of her marriage. The death of a relative 
 had changed the world for him. 
 
 At the first opportunity she had of seeing him alone 
 she told him once more that all her caring for him had
 
 THE SACRAMENT 299 
 
 ceased. It was not so hard to confess for the second 
 time, and with the memory of some of the things that 
 he had said in Paris which still rankled in her mind 
 she did not try to spare him. It seemed to her that 
 he had taken a mean advantage of her absence, the 
 more so since her love for him was dead ; and knowing 
 that the minds of her parents were fixed upon the 
 consummation of his proposal, she thought this to be 
 the only opportunity of escape from a state of life 
 which she knew would be miserable to her. 
 
 But with the confidence that he had gained from her 
 father and mother he remained obdurate. He told 
 her, with a great display of dogmatic principle, that 
 it would be no less than a very grievous sin if she did 
 not marry him ; that in fact there only lay the way of 
 their reparation. All the threadbare right of con- 
 vention was on his side against her, and his words 
 sufficiently affected her to ask the question in con- 
 fession, where she only received the same answer. 
 
 " The reward of folly is pain," said the priest gran- 
 diloquently, and she felt that he had but little sym- 
 pathy with her, as indeed it seemed had the rest of 
 the world. 
 
 Perhaps the only result it all had was to harden her 
 mind and her heart. She gave way in the end to her 
 mother's importunity, as after her confession she had 
 felt that she would be compelled to do. 
 
 And so, in St. Patrick's Church, before what the 
 little local papers with no conscious intention of a 
 superfluity of journalism called a large and fashion- 
 able gathering, Roona Lawless was married to 
 Charles Morough.
 
 300 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 In the hushed silence of the church she answered 
 mechanically to the questions which sounded like iron- 
 ical shouts in her ears. Every word she uttered was 
 a probe to undermine her sentiment in religion, and 
 for a long time after that day it all seemed a mockery 
 to her. The priest who married them was the same 
 who had heard her confession. 
 
 It had been suggested that they should go to Paris 
 for their honeymoon; Paris, the zenith of ambition 
 with all newly and fashionably-wedded couples in Lee. 
 When they told Roona, she refused to go, protesting 
 that she preferred any place to that, and so they went 
 to Killarney. In a fortnight when they returned she 
 felt that life could offer nothing but the most weary 
 form of existence that a woman can endure ; the mind- 
 ing of a house whose master is her husband in little 
 more than name. 
 
 At first she thought it would be an impossibility, 
 but human nature can acclimatize itself to the most 
 foreign circumstances, and when a year had passed 
 over her head, though she had no child to compensate 
 for the uneven balancing of her life, the pendulum of 
 her existence seemed to swing if not less monoto- 
 nously at least more smoothly than at first. 
 
 And so this state might have continued, had not one 
 incident broken in upon the even and melancholy 
 routine of her life. As with most of the things that 
 are effectual, it was sudden and unexpected, and the 
 impression that it left upon her mind when it had 
 passed was one that, like the canker worm in the 
 heart of the plant, consumed its way into the very 
 centre of her being.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 ON the Sunday before the feast of the Ascension 
 it had been announced from the pulpit of St. Peter 
 and Paul's Church, where Roona had attended since 
 her marriage, that the Reverend Father Connelly of 
 Rathmore would preach the two following Sundays. 
 
 In itself it meant nothing to her beyond her deter- 
 mination to come to the twelve-o'clock instead of 
 some earlier Mass. Fond as she was of reading, 
 she had a critical appreciation also for oratory, and 
 whenever a strange priest preached at the church she 
 made a point of coming to hear him. 
 
 Father Tom Connelly indeed it was who had been 
 invited to come up to Lee and preach on the feast 
 day of the Ascension and the following Sunday within 
 the Octave. But had Roona read the church notices 
 pinned to the green-baize-covered board that hung 
 within the porch she would have seen during the week 
 that the name of Father Connelly had been changed. 
 His name was scratched out and that of Father 
 Everett written over it. 
 
 The good man had certainly been invited to preach 
 on those two Sundays and had accepted ; but seeing 
 in this invitation an opportunity to do a kind service 
 to his curate, he had written again to the parish priest 
 at St. Peter and Paul's, telling him that he found he 
 would be unable to come as he had promised, and 
 enthusiastically recommending Father Michael in his 
 place. 
 
 301
 
 302 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 He knew that this might bring the curate under 
 the notice of the Bishop a fact that he was most 
 desirous to accomplish; for though Father Michael 
 had to all outward appearance lived down the remem- 
 brance of his transgression yet the parish priest was 
 fully aware of the poverty of the curate's opinion of 
 himself. He hoped then that this opportunity would 
 raise him in his own estimation, and at the probable 
 expense of losing the chance altogether had sent this 
 generous recommendation of Father Michael in the 
 place of his own services. 
 
 Having announced that a new priest would preach 
 the next two Sundays, the parish priest of St. Peter 
 and Paul's did not like to withdraw the statement, 
 so the recommendation was accepted, and Father 
 Michael came up to Lee the next Sunday in time for 
 the twelve-o'clock Mass. That was the fashion- 
 able celebration at St. Peter and Paul's. 
 
 Going early to the church, and failing even then 
 to notice the alteration of the announcement, Roona 
 secured for herself a prominent seat near the pulpit. 
 
 For the last few months her husband never accom- 
 panied her to Mass, choosing rather to go to the 
 chapel nearest their house where the service was 
 not sufficiently fashionable to call for its being pro- 
 longed. 
 
 During the celebration the pulpit prevented her 
 from seeing the altar where the priests were offici- 
 ating, and as soon as the Mass was over, when those 
 members of the congregation who did not wish to 
 wait for the sermon had left the church, she sat down 
 in her seat, settling herself comfortably in anticipa-
 
 THE SACRAMENT 303 
 
 tion of the final part of the service to which she had 
 been looking forward. 
 
 She was not looking at the pulpit when Father 
 Michael entered it, but at the sound of his voice, as, 
 kissing the stole, he put it about his shoulders and 
 blessed the congregation "In the name of the 
 Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. 
 Amen," she turned quickly and looked up at his 
 face. 
 
 How vividly and vitally it brought all things back 
 to her, she could not have explained. In all the days 
 that she had thought about him since her marriage 
 she had realized more fully every time the violence 
 and the agony of the struggle which must have passed 
 through his mind before he gave way to the passion- 
 ate desire of his temptation. With the rush of blood 
 that it often brought to her cheeks, she had known 
 that even so, relenting and weak as he had been, 
 he had curbed himself from the satisfaction of the 
 greater sin, and seeing his white, expressive face 
 before her then, she knew that had he sinned to 
 the utmost it would but have increased her love for 
 him. 
 
 It was not a thought to pass under ordinary cir- 
 cumstances through a woman's mind, but in that 
 Roona had known life and found disappointment she 
 was different from others of her class. It was not 
 alone that she wished for love, passionate with all the 
 strength of its vitality, but that she knew also the 
 fierce pleasure of giving it herself, and as she saw 
 Father Michael again for the first time since he had 
 kissed her, she felt that with him only could such
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 mutual relationship be found. No sooner had the 
 thought entered her mind than, in terror lest it should 
 take hold of her, she put it away. But thoughts are 
 seeds, and if once let fall in the mind they take silent 
 root and grow into the flower of action. 
 
 As he announced his text, the sun outside, coming 
 from behind a cloud, shone through one of the church 
 windows full on the pew in which Roona was sitting, 
 and then it was with the glint of light on her red hair 
 that Father Michael saw her. 
 
 " Whosesoever sins ye forgive," he read out slowly, 
 " they shall be forgiven " then he stopped with a 
 breath, and Roona, feeling sure that he was aware of 
 her presence, felt as though her heart had stopped at 
 his silence, and then went bounding on again as with 
 a less steady voice he continued "And whosesoever 
 sins ye retain they shall be retained." 
 
 For one moment after his text was delivered, and 
 in the pause that followed its delivery, it seemed to 
 her that he was failing to continue, that she was the 
 cause of it, and that some terrible calamity was 
 about to happen. The inclination to get up and 
 leave the church was strong within her, but she had 
 not the courage to carry it into execution, and in that 
 moment when she thought that the strain could no 
 longer continue, he began his sermon. 
 
 Most Irishmen are possessed of some native elo- 
 quence; it is inherent in them; but amongst the 
 priesthood their language is sometimes of too flowery 
 a nature to be really convincing. But with Father 
 Michael, who from the very beginning of his clercial 
 education had bound himself to the study of dry-
 
 THE SACRAMENT 305 
 
 worded philosophy, the style of oratory was rather 
 didactic than verbose. And though at the commence- 
 ment of his discourse the emotion which he felt at 
 seeing Roona had made him nervous and hesitating 
 yet it did not take her long to realize that, as she 
 once had said in Duresne, he was clever, remarkably 
 so, in his own way. 
 
 From the subject of the Ascension and the text 
 which he had taken he drew forth his thoughts and 
 those of his congregation, upon the powers, duties, 
 and responsibilities of the priesthood with regard to 
 confession. 
 
 It was a most able sermon, the ablest and most 
 convincing that Roona had ever heard, and she lis- 
 tened to it though not daring to look up again 
 and meet his eyes with all the concentration of her 
 mind. 
 
 At the last words she ventured to raise her head, 
 and in the minute of silence that followed before the 
 blessing their eyes met with the full and open light 
 of recognition. In his she saw the gleam of fear 
 as when in the chase the quarry lifts its head and 
 scents the approach of the pursuer, and in hers, it 
 seemed to him, he saw a message of the same love 
 that he knew he still felt for her. 
 
 " In the name of the Father and of the Son and of 
 the Holy Ghost," he said again, and then having 
 crossed herself she rose and left the church. 
 
 During all the rest of the week until the next 
 Sunday her mind was harassed with doubt as to 
 whether she should go to hear his second sermon. 
 All her inclination prompted her to say that she
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 would; for in that last moment, in the meeting of 
 their eyes, the remembrance of his kisses came back 
 to her, and sin though she knew it to be, she felt 
 that she loved him to the entire yielding of herself, 
 as once she thought she had loved the man who was 
 now her husband. Physically and intellectually she 
 found in Father Michael the personality which she 
 was sure could fulfil all the desires of her life; yet 
 she was married and he never did she think that 
 passion could have carried her so far into sin he was 
 a priest of the Holy Church. 
 
 At night when her husband was asleep she kept 
 close to herself, and the more the thought of Father 
 Michael occupied her mind the more she shuddered 
 when her body came into contact with that of her 
 companion. 
 
 Before the week had half worri itself away she felt 
 that she could bear this mockery of intimate relation- 
 ship no longer. 
 
 "Would you mind if I slept in the spare room?" 
 she said one morning to her husband, when, in the 
 night before, her thoughts had reached a climax. 
 
 " Why? " he asked abruptly. 
 
 She had anticipated that her reasons would be 
 wanted, and so she was prepared. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," she replied, "but you keep me 
 awake." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Oh, you move about a great deal in your sleep." 
 
 " Not intentionally." 
 
 " Naturally, I said in your sleep." 
 
 "Well, I'll try not to."
 
 307 
 
 "You object to my sleeping in the spare room, 
 then?" 
 
 " Of course I do. You're my wife." 
 
 " Would that make me anything else ? " 
 
 " A wife's proper place is by her husband." 
 
 She rose from the breakfast-table where they were 
 sitting and left the room. The next three nights 
 passed slowly like phantoms, and lying awake Roona 
 counted all the hours as they crept slowly into day- 
 light. 
 
 When Sunday came round again she found herself 
 going to St. Peter and Paul's. It had been inevita- 
 ble. Two days before, she had given way in her mind 
 to her inclinations, deciding that probably this would 
 be the last time she would see him. 
 
 It was not entirely her fault that she had grown to 
 love him she tried to tell herself. He had sown the 
 seed with his kisses, and could she really be blamed 
 that now it was yielding its fruit? But there was 
 little comfort to be gained from the thought, and 
 it did not stay long with her to ease her mind. 
 
 Her hands were covering her face when he came 
 into the pulpit, but between her fingers she saw that 
 he sought and singled her out from all the congre- 
 gation. It had not been difficult, because she was 
 sitting in exactly the same place. 
 
 And then followed his sermon; preached to her, 
 at her, into her very heart with all the strength of 
 eloquence that he possessed. In every word of it 
 she could trace his feelings, in every sentence see the 
 framing of his thoughts, and for her alone out of all 
 that multitude of people were those vital words de-
 
 308 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 livered. She knew it, felt it, and in her heart built 
 up the rest of her life upon the foundation of all 
 that he said; for then, shielded by the pulpit rails, 
 fortified by the vestments that he wore, and inspired 
 by the solemnity of his surroundings, he was a priest 
 of God indeed.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 " * BEFORE thou makest a vow, prepare thyself ; and 
 be not as a man that tempteth the Lord.' The 
 eighteenth chapter of Ecclesiasticus and the twenty- 
 third verse." 
 
 He paused and his eyes challenged Roona's. Then 
 he began. 
 
 "Dearly Beloved Brethren what is a vow?" 
 
 He waited, as though in expectation of an answer. 
 
 " What is a vow ? " he repeated quietly as he con- 
 tinued. "It is a holy and personal sacrament of a 
 man's life, by which he binds himself to the fulfilment 
 of a certain promise. But it is no social bond. In 
 the truest meaning of the word he brings God to 
 witness the promise who makes or takes a vow, and 
 the presence of the Almighty is such that it cannot 
 be lightly called upon. A vow must be voluntarily 
 made, must be openly made, must be consciously made, 
 or it loses its distinction and becomes a boast. A 
 vow must be voluntarily kept, must be openly kept, 
 must be consciously kept, or it loses its sacredness 
 and becomes a sin. 
 
 " ' Before thou makest a vow, prepare thyself ; and 
 be not as a man that tempteth the Lord.' 
 
 "I do not profess to see with any great degree of 
 clearness, but perhaps there is more in that one simple 
 sentence than you are really aware of. A deeper and 
 more vital warning than you are really conscious of. 
 
 309
 
 310 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "It is a well-known and well-worn expression that 
 phrase, * to be tempted into sin,' and I wonder if any 
 of you have ever considered that it has a parallel. 
 
 "Yet there is a phrase, a sentence which is never 
 used, which never even finds a place in our thoughts. 
 It is not a paradox, though it may appear to be so. 
 It is not said, as I shall say it now, to catch by its 
 seeming boldness the attention of your minds. It is 
 said in all the truest motive of belief that it is one 
 which should have a closer and more intimate con- 
 sideration. 
 
 "To be tempted into virtue." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "In Lent a man makes a vow that he will give up 
 drinking. In Lent a woman makes a vow that she 
 will give up reading novels. These are but common- 
 place and occur over and over again, year after year, 
 but each one in itself is a temptation a temptation 
 into virtue. 
 
 " Not if it is kept ; not if it is obeyed. But out of 
 the thousands who make those vows in Lent how 
 many are there who keep them? How many are 
 there who find it too tedious, too irksome, and, in 
 a moment of weakness, thinking that no ceremony 
 attended the making of their promise, that the vow 
 is not according to the laws of the Church obligatory, 
 have they not broken that which they professed they 
 would keep? 
 
 " ' Before thou makest a vow, prepare thyself.' 
 
 "These vows that I have mentioned are but the 
 slightest examples that I could think of; vows that 
 are broken with a thought and whose breaking
 
 THE SACRAMENT 311 
 
 only calls forth a smile and a jesting remark from the 
 friends of those who make them. 
 
 " But there are others, deeper, more serious, more 
 intensely vital; the breaking of which can only spell 
 destruction. 
 
 " It seems a great, a noble thing to make a vow. 
 We like the whole world to know that we have done 
 it; that we are subjects of a voluntary deprivation. 
 Such an admission as that we have taken a vow calls 
 forth a cry of admiration from those around us. In 
 our own minds, we are little martyrs upon little 
 pedestals of virtue, little saints in little shrines. We 
 expect a chorus of approbation and we get it. 
 Invariably we get it. The world is always being 
 taken in with its own kind. That fact stares at us 
 every day from our business and our profession, from 
 every walk of life into which we are called. And it 
 is our knowledge of this credulous public, our cer- 
 tainty of this invigorating praise, that urges us to 
 make our vows without preparation or forethought ; 
 without the consideration of what the deprivation will 
 really mean, and that leads us into the awful tempta- 
 tion of tempting the Lord. 
 
 " Is it quite a human possibility to know, to realize 
 the meaning of this tempting the Lord? Can the 
 human mind open itself to the great width neces- 
 sary to grasp all the vital consequences attending 
 such a deed? I almost think not. I almost think 
 not. 
 
 "We know that such and such a man has taken 
 a vow. Such a vow, for example, as I instanced in 
 the beginning of my sermon. A vow in Lent. The
 
 312 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 nature of that vow happens to interfere with some- 
 thing that we wish to accomplish in his company 
 during those forty days. Do we stop to think what 
 we are doing when we persuade him into the breaking 
 of that vow? Does it matter to us if he breaks it? 
 We fancy that it does not. We imagine that all the 
 weakness, all the blame, lies on his side in the break- 
 ing. Truly it does not lessen the blame to him, but 
 is it nothing in this great scheme of things to 
 tempt a man to tempt the Lord ? " 
 
 Did he think that she had willingly and wittingly 
 tempted him? Roona wondered. As though he had 
 heard her thought his next words answered her 
 question. 
 
 " There are temptations as subtle as the night, 
 there are temptations as open as the day. In the 
 glance of an eye, in the sound of a voice, in things 
 done and things left undone can, lurking, lie the core 
 of temptation. So let the man about to make a vow 
 prepare himself lest he should break it; for it is a 
 better thing in the sight of the Lord to live in sin yet 
 do virtue than, in the eyes of all, to live in virtue and 
 do sin. 
 
 ' "And let those who can help a man to make or 
 break his vow, let them not forget where they may 
 remember. There is no human strength that cometh 
 to a man who makes a vow. In his humanity he is 
 just as frail in the flesh as those who stand by and 
 praise him. Therefore let those who can, remember, 
 lest they should cast before him those temptations of 
 the voice and of the eye ; of the things that may be 
 done and that may be left undone, for they are the
 
 THE SACRAMENT 313 
 
 pitfalls that are covered over with the twigs of per- 
 suasion and the green grass of simplicity. 
 
 "It is one of the easiest, the most simple and the 
 most applauded things in this world to make a 
 promise and it is often the hardest thing in life to 
 keep. 
 
 " Therefore * Before thou takest a vow, prepare 
 thyself ; and be not as one who tempteth the Lord.' 
 
 " In the name of the Father and of the Son and of 
 the Holy Ghost. Amen."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 IN Roona, as it applied to her, this sermon awoke 
 all the dormant sentiments of her religious inclina- 
 tions. To a greater depth even than her love it 
 seemed to stir her mind into an almost fanatical 
 spirit of renunciation. From that day forward she 
 tried to concentrate the wearied energies which 
 remained to her upon the barren interests of her 
 home. 
 
 That her husband had married her from youthful, 
 inconsidered motives of sensual desire had long since 
 drawn itself into proof. He had needed her for her 
 body and called it love, but of her mind he absolutely 
 knew nothing. And as the one interest was worn 
 threadbare, he made no endeavour to cultivate the 
 other, so that in time and these things do not take 
 long they arrived at that state of wedded life when 
 every little action of familiarity is filled with the 
 sensation of nauseating details ; details that should 
 fit themselves in naturally with the coming and going 
 of the days and pass unnoticed, but which when once 
 observed become the most painful torture to the mind 
 from which there is no release. 
 
 Yet against all difficulties and she had no child 
 to make the way easier with interest Roona en- 
 deavoured by the strength which Father Michael's 
 words had given to her to throw a brighter light of 
 domestic enthusiasm onto her household duties and 
 her attendance to the wants of her husband. In doing 
 
 314
 
 THE SACRAMENT 315 
 
 so she felt that she was following Father Michael's 
 advice, saving him from the greater agony of his 
 temptation, doing something some very little thing 
 she felt it to be for his sake. 
 
 For some weeks after his sermon she strove to do 
 her utmost, but it was a thankless task. 
 
 It is a thankless task to work for no apparent or 
 possible reward, and with a rush of circumstances her 
 good intentions gave way. All the thoughts that she 
 had been holding back in her mind, like water freed 
 from a sluice gate, rushed once more into the whirl- 
 pool of all-absorbing existence and she was over- 
 whelmed. 
 
 A letter waited for her on the breakfast table one 
 morning. It was from some friends of hers who had 
 taken a house in Anesk by the sea. Anesk, the 
 favourite resort of those inhabitants of Lee who 
 wished to be in the fashion and could not afford to 
 pay a large price for its reputation. 
 
 She read it, then laid it beside her plate and poured 
 out the tea passing a cup to her husband. 
 
 " The Northcotes have asked me to go down to 
 Anesk for a few days," she said as he lowered his 
 newspaper. 
 
 He took his cup silently and looked across the 
 table at her. 
 
 "Would you mind if I went some day this week?" 
 she added. 
 
 He stirred his tea methodically and raised his news- 
 paper again. 
 
 "There's nothing to prevent you," he said inertly 
 from behind the sheet of print.
 
 316 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 She looked in his direction as though she expected 
 to see in the printed characters that faced her what 
 he implied. 
 
 "Why nothing to prevent me? How do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Well, Mary can easily look after my meals." 
 Mary was the servant. " That's about all there is to 
 do in this house." 
 
 " What else would you expect there to be done that I 
 don't do?" 
 
 His paper rustled and he coughed. 
 
 "You might have to look after a child, if we had 
 one." 
 
 Her cheeks burnt red, and for a moment the tears 
 filled her eyes with the pain of wounded suscepti- 
 bilities. Mechanically she put a piece of bread into 
 her mouth. It seemed like leather, rough and taste- 
 less. But she said nothing, and at last he felt im- 
 pelled to defend his statement against the accusation 
 of her silence. 
 
 " That is the case, isn't it ? " he said coldly. 
 
 It is characteristic of some men that they will throw 
 the blame of all Nature's failings on to individuals. 
 
 Still she maintained her silence. 
 
 "Why don't you speak? " he asked. He raised his 
 head over the top of his paper. 
 
 She looked for one second into his eyes. 
 
 " I have no answer to make," she replied. She said 
 it quite quietly. 
 
 "I suppose not. Of course I'm not blaming you. 
 You can't help it." 
 
 Had he been content with her reply ; had he satisfied
 
 THE SACRAMENT 317 
 
 himself with his implications of blame, for so she 
 had accepted them and such in reality they were, 
 then it might all have passed into the weariness of her 
 days. Blame certainly would have been easier to 
 bear, because in her heart she would have known that 
 it was unjust. It is not really so hard to be a martyr 
 with enthusiasm as it is to be a culprit with imagina- 
 tion. But when he taunted her with the inability of 
 her nature, then the lash fell too strongly, cut too 
 deeply. In all the texture of her mind Roona was a 
 woman, and the curse of Eve had not been omitted in 
 her human fabric. There were many days since its 
 realization had come that she had deplored this state 
 of things. But to be told pityingly, to be reminded 
 with callous commiseration that she could not help it 
 that it was a lacking, a blemish in her nature that 
 was beyond her endurance. 
 
 She rose quickly from the table. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he asked at once. 
 
 He was so constituted that he could never let a 
 fight of words be ended in its beginning by discreet 
 silence. 
 
 " Up-stairs to my room," she replied. 
 
 " Don't be ridiculous. I told you I wasn't blaming 
 you. Finish your breakfast." 
 
 He firmly believed he took this disappointment of 
 his home life unselfishly and well. There were not 
 many men, he told himself, who woulcl accept the 
 conditions without a murmur, as he was doing. 
 
 It seemed as though she had not heard him, for she 
 crossed the room, laying her hand upon the handle of 
 the door.
 
 318 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 "For the Lord's sake don't be so abjectly foolish, 
 Roona," he said irritably. " It's not my short- 
 coming it's yours. If any one's going to make a 
 fuss, surely it ought to be me ? " 
 
 She opened the door and then turned round. 
 
 " I don't wish to make a fuss," she said simply, " I 
 don't think the subject you've chosen calls for one. 
 I'd rather not discuss it." She closed the door after 
 her. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he called out. A closed 
 door in the middle of such a conversation annoyed 
 him intensely. 
 
 She opened it again, just a little way. 
 
 " I'm going up-stairs to put on my things." 
 
 " Where are you going, then ? " 
 
 "To Anesk."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 ANESK was merely an hour's journey away, so that 
 Roona's decision was not one of very vital import. 
 She packed up the few things that she would require 
 for a short visit, and avoiding any further conversa- 
 tion with her husband she left by an early train, 
 arriving at her destination in time for lunch. It was 
 the first time they had been away from each other 
 since their marriage, and as she lay down alone that 
 night to sleep, freed from the mockery of his presence, 
 she sighed with a deeper spirit of relief than she had 
 known for a long time. 
 
 The past year or so had not failed to bring a great 
 change in her nature as it had also done in her life. 
 Her brighter outlook on things had become over- 
 shadowed with the gloominess of her surroundings. 
 Existence seemed almost sordid to her, and that 
 optimistic laugh with which she had won Father 
 Michael's interest had lost its cheerful note, in fact 
 was seldom if ever heard. 
 
 Once, some time after her marriage, her mother had 
 asked her whether she was happy. 
 
 Roona looked at her almost in surprise. She could 
 not believe that her mother of all people, the one 
 person who had seen most of her life, should be so 
 blind to a fact that she thought must be most obvious. 
 
 "You married me, mother," she said quietly, with 
 no conscious effort of irony, " you ought to know as 
 well as I do." 
 
 319
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 " Do you mean that you're not ? " 
 
 "Well," Roona raised her eyebrows. "Did you 
 marry me for my happiness or your convenience? " 
 
 Mrs. Lawless professed that she never had under- 
 stood Roona, and did not refer to the subject again. 
 
 It could not be expected that a change of her sur- 
 roundings which lasted for only a few days would 
 make any material alteration in the unhappy state of 
 her mind, and seeing that the Northcote family was 
 mainly composed of girls varying from the age of 
 fifteen to twenty, who found no other pleasure in life 
 than bathing upon an overcrowded strand in the full 
 view of an overcrowded promenade, Roona found that 
 she was left not a little to herself. 
 
 Mrs. Northcote was all day concerned with the 
 duties of her abundant household. She was a woman 
 who really seemed to take a pleasure in the endless 
 nature of her maternal affairs, and only when Mr. 
 Northcote returned from Lee did she make an ap- 
 pearance in the dining-room to play nap for half- 
 penny points. 
 
 It was really only to escape the attentions of her 
 husband that Roona had visited these acquaintances 
 at all, and accordingly when one of the girls offered 
 her the use of her bicycle, she was only too glad to ac- 
 cept the opportunity of escaping from them as well. 
 
 With the last year had come to Roona a serious 
 outlook upon life. She felt sure that her existence 
 was very similar to many another woman's experi- 
 ences, but yet it was hers, and in that respect nothing 
 in life could be quite like it. She was disappointed, 
 she knew and realized that, yet it never seemed to her
 
 THE SACRAMENT 321 
 
 that that disappointment could continue until the end 
 of time. 
 
 The opportunity of riding away out into the 
 country, utterly alone, held out an interest the extent 
 of which she was even surprised at herself. One day 
 she rode to Fallow, a little country town some miles 
 away from Anesk, returning in the evening with a 
 keener inclination to join in the amusements of the 
 younger girls. 
 
 The following day they advised her to ride out to 
 see the ruins in Rathmore, directing her as well as 
 they could, though the way was practically unmis- 
 takable. 
 
 The journey took her about an hour, for although 
 it was only about nine miles distant, her skill as a 
 bicyclist was not anything worth speaking about. 
 She had no machine of her own. 
 
 It was the last day of the week, and many a country 
 cart with its two long handles behind, utilized by the 
 driver to lift the vehicle out of impassable places, 
 passed her by with its household purchases on the 
 way to Anesk. 
 
 The further she got out into the country the more 
 rutted became the roads, and the more the children 
 stared whenever she passed a lonely cottage. But the 
 day was bright, the sky nearly cloudless, and the 
 loneliness of the way had no power to depress her. 
 She felt indeed happier when by herself. 
 
 At last the old round tower of Rathmore came in 
 sight, towards which, as soon as she had seen it, she 
 was told to steer her course. Though she had lived 
 in Ireland all her life this was the first of those
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 archaeological remains that she had seen, and the 
 prospect of inspecting it added speed to her wheels. 
 
 Following the wires by which Rathmore is connected 
 with Anesk for purposes of occasional telegraphy, she 
 soon passed under the thick growth of trees that arch 
 the first entrance into the village. It would have 
 seemed strange indeed to her had she been told that 
 one so near to her thoughts, as Father Michael was 
 even at that moment, had passed under there straight 
 from the incident that still created the harassment of 
 her mind. 
 
 When she had had lunch at a little cafe which from 
 the cliff overlooked the broad stretch of the bay, she 
 left her bicycle in charge of the caretaker, and taking 
 her advice prepared to inspect the ruins of the holy 
 chapel and well, which hang on the very brow of the 
 cliff some quarter of a mile away. Just as she 
 mounted the hill that led up from the little eating- 
 house a priest came out of a cottage further down 
 towards the village. His eyes happened to catch 
 sight of her receding figure in the distance. For 
 a moment he stopped as though something seemed to 
 strike his memory, then turning round on a sudden 
 decision he went on again to another cottage a few 
 doors away. 
 
 Before the old stone well, with its three figures 
 Christ crucified and the two thieves at either side 
 eaten by the salt wind and the relentless rain of 
 many hundreds of years until it looked like a rotten 
 bone, a little child was kneeling, saying her prayers, 
 
 Roona stopped for a moment unnoticed and watched 
 her.
 
 323 
 
 In the great stillness of the place that brought 
 up to mind dim and misty visions of the age when 
 strange-clothed priests held their services there the 
 little girl in her rough, serge skirt and bare legs was 
 perfectly in keeping. Roona noticed that like her 
 own the child's hair was red. But it was raw and 
 unkempt, falling in stray locks on to her shoulders. 
 
 It is quite a common sight to see the poor in 
 Ireland kneeling at their prayers outside the doors 
 of some crowded chapel, yet here in the wild lone- 
 liness of the place Roona thought it strange 
 almost inspiring. She watched with an increasing 
 interest the deep red lips as they moved in the silent 
 framing of their words. Very simple words she 
 imagined they must be, expressing very simple 
 thoughts. 
 
 At last, just as Roona came nearer, she crossed 
 herself, having concluded her devotions, and rose 
 to her feet. Roona was standing in her way as 
 she turned with the intention of going back to the 
 village. The little girl looked up wistfully into her 
 face and would have passed on, but Roona's interest 
 had been too deeply roused to let her go without 
 speaking to her. 
 
 "Is this the holy well here?" she asked. It was 
 the first question that rose to her mind as one possible 
 to open conversation. 
 
 The child nodded her head automatically. 
 
 "Is this a feast day here?" 
 
 She shook her head in the same mechanical way. 
 
 "Why were you saying your prayers then?" 
 
 Again she nodded her head.
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 " But why were you saying them ? " She was almost 
 beginning to despair of drawing anything from her. 
 
 "I'm going to confession." 
 
 Roona looked down into the wistful little face and 
 smiled, wondering what weight of misdoing could find 
 a resting-place in so small a mind. 
 
 "How old are you?" she asked. 
 
 "Ten." 
 
 "What's your name?" 
 
 "Annie Foley." 
 
 " Why do you come up here and pray before going 
 to confession?" 
 
 " The prayst told me to." 
 
 "Have you been very naughty then?" 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Have you?" 
 
 "I was afther taking fairther's cows grazing* on 
 Mr. Power's field." 
 
 "Was that very wrong?" 
 
 " 'Twas like I'd done it before." 
 
 Roona tried to look down into her eyes, but they 
 were lowered and she could not see them. 
 
 It seemed such a small insignificant sin compared 
 with that which was always present in her own mind, 
 but, though hers was the greater, she would not will- 
 ingly have parted with it in exchange. Yet she had 
 never confessed it. In a way she fancied that it 
 would appear too trivial, too paltry; almost impos- 
 sible of being understood when put into words this 
 abstract love of a priest and scarcely concrete loath- 
 ing of her own husband. It was because she could 
 not tell or express all the thoughts that passed
 
 THE SACRAMENT 825 
 
 through her mind that she knew it would appear 
 insignificant to her confessor. Yet in her own heart, 
 knowing only too well all the thoughts that harassed 
 her mind every day of her life, she realized how 
 infinitely greater her sin must seem in the eyes of God 
 than the ill-doing of this little child. But she was 
 not going to confession. She felt it quite probable, 
 damning though it would have been to her own soul, 
 that the knowledge of it would cling to her uncon- 
 fessed for the remainder of her life. She shuddered 
 mentally at the thought of that. To one of her 
 religion it was an awful and a hopeless prospect. 
 And then the thought of going to confession after all 
 suddenly made itself appealing to her. She would 
 tell it any way, as best she could, and leave the 
 motive of her going to be judged by God. 
 
 " The priest is hearing confession to-day, of 
 course ? " she asked. 
 
 Annie Foley nodded an affirmative. 
 
 "At what time?" 
 
 "From five till eight." 
 
 "Thank you," said Roona, and turning away the 
 little girl wandered slowly back through a stile and 
 along a path that led to the village.
 
 BOOK VI 
 THE INEVITABLE
 
 " and does not life go down with a better grace, 
 foaming in full body over a precipice, than miserably 
 straggling to an end in sandy deltas?" "Acs 
 Triplex," R. L. STEVENSON. 
 
 "A man protesting against error is on the way 
 towards uniting himself with all men that believe 
 in truth." " The Hero as a Priest," THOMAS CABLYIJG.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 IT was an evening in the midst of September ap- 
 proaching the hour of eight. The last rays of the 
 sun, as in one vast hoard of gold, had cast their 
 last shades of colour into the bay and Rathmore lay 
 in a dust of cumbrous twilight. 
 
 Within the chapel the few lighted candles that 
 burnt before the altar of the Virgin seemed wavering 
 in the assertion of their superior light. The red 
 sanctuary lamp burnt warningly before the High 
 Altar, and one by one the shadows deepened in 
 tone and became more and more intangible in their 
 uncertain texture with the departing light. 
 
 Down the narrow side aisles the dim half lights 
 found scarcely any strength at all, and Father 
 Michael's confessional close up to the wall stood in 
 a deep and heavy shadow of its own. 
 
 Except for one figure, a woman, who knelt near 
 the confessional, head bowed in her hands and body 
 motionless, the church might have seemed to be 
 empty. She was anticipating the conclusion of a 
 confession which by right of waiting had taken 
 precedence of hers. 
 
 At last the sibilant whisperings ceased, and after a 
 moment's pause a man emerged from the little house 
 of absolution. She lost no time in taking his place, 
 knowing that the priest within must by that time 
 be wearied with his duty. 
 
 was by no means wide of the mark in her
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 surmise. Father Michael indeed was almost tired 
 out with the monotony of his position. The physi- 
 cal uneasiness of the body is not bound to depart 
 from a man in the spiritual atmosphere of the con- 
 fessional. Hearing another penitent enter by his 
 side he looked out between the curtains. He or she, 
 whichever it was, was the last. He leant back in his 
 seat, not with a sigh of relief, but with that sensation 
 of human satisfaction which a man must feel when 
 his work is almost done. 
 
 Drawing his stole more securely round his shoulders 
 he looked patiently up to the roof waiting for the 
 suppliant to begin. 
 
 " Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." 
 
 The voice was low, indistinct, but to a man who has 
 once loved one woman it matters not how low or in- 
 distinct the voice may be, he knows it as the wild bird 
 knows the note of its mate, as the mother knows the 
 indistinguishable cry of her child. 
 
 Uncontrollably his body leant forward and the 
 lines about his mouth hardened with the contraction 
 of his muscles. 
 
 It was Roona's voice. 
 
 Had he not been certain, the thought that he had 
 seen her that afternoon as he came out of a cottage 
 on the cliff would have convinced him. He was 
 beginning to have faith in coincidence. Though it 
 was against the strictest tenets of his Church the 
 dogged persistence of fate had almost fascinated him 
 into belief. 
 
 It was Roona's voice ! She had found him out ! 
 Intentionally, he could not believe it to be. But still
 
 THE INEVITABLE 331 
 
 she was beside him, alone in the deepening shadows 
 of the chapel. Alone alone he said the word over 
 and again to himself in the silent tumult of his 
 mind. What should he do ? The furious beating of 
 his heart was a goad pressing him forward ; the cold 
 fear of consequences was a cord that drew him back- 
 wards. As yet his mind was incapable of both sensa- 
 tions, and when a man is in that condition he does 
 nothing. It is only when fear or passion predom- 
 inates that he acts. 
 
 And so, convinced of her identity, his hands clenched 
 tight, and with the light of a conscious fear in his 
 eyes he listened to her " Confiteor." 
 
 " I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary, ever 
 Virgin, to Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed 
 John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, 
 to all the saints and to you, Father, that I have 
 sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, 
 through my fault through my fault through my 
 most grievous fault." 
 
 He did not try to hear the words he knew so well, 
 but from the dizzy whirlpool of his thoughts he 
 found himself wondering what her confession would 
 be. The spirit of self -protection urged him to think 
 that he could sufficiently conceal his voice so that she 
 would not realize his identity. That at least was his 
 first instinct. Ever since he had seen her in St. 
 Peter and Paul's Church a dread that she would 
 break her way again into his life had dogged all his 
 thoughts. In the year that had passed he had not 
 in the least forgotten her. Only the chain of routine 
 had found the old groove in his existence and fitted
 
 332 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 itself in ; not with its usual ease but with a sufficient 
 absence of friction to make it seem still possible for 
 life to run on smoothly. And now, was the whole 
 fight to begin over again? If it were to be so he 
 did not dare to contemplate the result. In the 
 knowledge of his love for her truly he felt a greater 
 and a deeper strength than when first his whole 
 desire had been for himself, and in the abstract that 
 strength would have remained, but it needed their 
 actual contact to put it really to the test. Yet, dis- 
 trustful of his strength when once he had fallen, that 
 actual contact was what he most wished to avoid. 
 But it was a wish that was forced, that was strained. 
 Ever since those days in Duresne when the senses of 
 his manhood had been awakened they had not re- 
 turned again to sleep. Always ready, always watch- 
 ful for the susceptibility of his mind, they had only 
 been waiting for such a moment as this to spring 
 upon him from the ambush of his uneventful exist- 
 ence. But this time in their attack they found they 
 had a stronger man to deal with a man who knew 
 the way of sin because he had himself sinned a man 
 aware of the wiles of temptation because he had 
 fallen a man capable of choosing between right and 
 wrong because he knew them both. 
 
 He knew that if he could conceal his voice her con- 
 fession would pass by in the ordinary course of 
 events. She would go away in ignorance of the man 
 to whom her confession had been made, and, having 
 conquered himself, the Almighty God would give him 
 the reward for the agony and the determination of 
 his mind.
 
 THE INEVITABLE 333 
 
 It was all a one-sided affair. All the love and all 
 the craving belonged to him. She? Probably she 
 had forgotten. Though in that moment he remem- 
 bered how she had come back to the very same seat 
 to hear him preach in Lee. That perhaps was curi- 
 osity or a passing interest. Beyond that, he knew 
 that he was throwing away the whole desires of his 
 mind and body into an unresponsive nature. It was 
 a wasted passion, from which he would gain nothing 
 but misery in this world and damnation in the next; 
 and, clinging to this last thought to give him 
 strength, he leant back again in his seat, lowering 
 the tone of his voice as he spoke. 
 
 " When did you make your last confession ? " 
 
 "A month ago, Father." 
 
 By the ready answer of her voice he knew that as 
 yet he was undiscovered. 
 
 " Have you made your penance ? " 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " Then tell me your sins, child. I am waiting." 
 
 The short silence that followed filled itself with 
 questions for him. Could she have fallen again with 
 that young man? God forbid, he prayed. The 
 prayer was quite human, in that he said it for him- 
 self. Yet a suspicion that it might be so set the fire 
 of jealousy alight in him. Why was the whole world 
 given to some to take casually, he wondered, when 
 others would sell their souls for its possession. Could 
 he bear the temptation to make her his in spite of all, 
 if that should prove the case? One sin more in 
 this seeming network of vice, what difference could 
 it make? He clenched his teeth. In another mo-
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 ment he saw that his thoughts would become brutal 
 as they had been before and that all power of resist- 
 ance would be taken from him. He altered his posi- 
 tion nervously. 
 
 "I am waiting," he repeated with forced quietness. 
 
 And then she began. 
 
 " I am married, Father." 
 
 He sat upright. 
 
 He was not a priest ! He knew that he was not a 
 priest; only a man with the thoughts of a man, the 
 desires of a man, the cruel human disappointments 
 of a man. 
 
 She was married! God! How much irony there 
 was in the world! Yet perhaps it was for the best. 
 That put her beyond his reach. He supposed it was 
 the best that could happen to him. But she was 
 married. Some other man had her caresses. Some 
 other man had claimed her, body and soul ; whilst he 
 that was the way some things in life were bound 
 to end. He tried to tell himself that he ought to be 
 glad, but he knew that he was only befooling him- 
 self. 
 
 "I'm married," she said again to help her on with 
 her confession, " and I do not love my husband." 
 
 He drew in a quick breath. 
 
 " Do not love him ? " he repeated. 
 
 "It is not all of my sin that I loathe him," she 
 added passionately. " Before we were married I 
 told him that I could not care for him ; but my mother 
 was on his side, and then " 
 
 "Yes and then?" He marvelled at the quietness 
 of his voice.
 
 THE INEVITABLE 335 
 
 " I I had given him every right to marry me 
 before, some months before, when we were engaged. 
 He reminded me of that. Oh, I suppose he was 
 quite right. He told me it would be a greater sin if 
 I did not marry him. I went to confession about it, 
 and that was what the priest told me too. It's so 
 hard to know. I suppose it must have been right; 
 but I did not love him, and now it's worse than not 
 loving. I have no child, and the other day he 
 taunted me with it. I hate him now how can I 
 help it? I am sorry, but could I love him after 
 this could I, Father?" 
 
 He bent his fingers together in a nervous grip and 
 tried to steady himself. How could he ask questions 
 concerning herself when their answers would so 
 vitally concern him as well? In the sacredness of 
 the place he knew that he dared not, and so he kept 
 silence. 
 
 " One can't make love to the order of right or 
 wrong," she remarked parenthetically, and he shud- 
 dered at the truth of what she said. " But that is 
 not all, Father," she continued, " that seems to be no 
 sin at all compared with what I have to tell." 
 
 He listened eagerly, trembling for her next words, 
 fearful lest she should have given herself to another 
 man yet fascinated with the confiding simplicity of 
 her story. 
 
 "I love some one else," she said at last after the 
 pause in which she had sought for courage to make 
 her statement. " There is another man whom I do 
 love with all my heart." 
 
 He groaned. How well, how accurately he had
 
 336 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 guessed it. She was further from him than ever. 
 It was no good telling himself that it was for the 
 best. He would not listen to it. She was further 
 from him than ever. She had married one man and 
 loved another. He he was utterly forgotten. 
 
 "I can hear you sigh, Father," she said remorse- 
 fully ; " but even that is not all. The man I love is 
 a priest." 
 
 It seemed as though life with him in that moment 
 had ceased. He could not feel the beating of his 
 heart, he could not hear the sound of his own quick 
 breathing. Everything seemed still terribly, 
 awfully still. He passed his hand across and around 
 his face, and even his sense of touch was numbed. 
 It was as though some great force was collecting 
 itself in the centre of his mind, which in one moment 
 would burst out into terrific action that then his 
 heart would beat, only faster than it had ever beaten 
 before that then sounds would come to his ears, 
 but with a deafening rush of noise which he would 
 be unable to bear. For a moment he seemed to be 
 waiting for it all, and in that moment of waiting he 
 spoke. His voice was thick and almost unrecog- 
 nizable, but she heard him. 
 
 "A priest?" he echoed. "How did you come to 
 love a priest ? " 
 
 "It was away, Father, in France. Oh, it was not 
 his fault it was not his fault. He went away as 
 soon as he knew." 
 
 "But what did he do to make you love him? He 
 must have done something?" His words came 
 quickly, impetuously with the joy of knowing that
 
 THE INEVITABLE 337 
 
 she cared for him. He wanted to know why, why he 
 had won her. He longed to know; would give his 
 whole soul to know. 
 
 "Did did you fall with him?" he added. 
 
 " No," she said quickly in Father Michael's defence. 
 She felt that she would not have been ashamed to 
 admit it of herself. 
 
 " Then what did he do ? What did he do ? " 
 
 " He kissed me." 
 
 "That was all?" 
 
 "All. Yes." 
 
 " And you learnt to love him from that ? " 
 
 " Oh, Father, I shall always love him." 
 
 Father Michael pulled the curtains and looked into 
 the church. All his actions were perfect in their 
 execution, but he could not reasonably have said 
 what he was doing. An impulse of passion was the 
 master of him. 
 
 The church was empty. Not a soul was likely to 
 be there. They were alone. He stepped out into 
 the aisle. 
 
 " Roona," he whispered in the darkness. " Roona ! 
 it's I!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 HE heard the little gasp of her breath in the deep 
 silence of the church. There was a pause. Then he 
 heard her rising to her feet, the curtain was drawn, 
 and her pale face, grey in the intensity of the gloom, 
 stood out against the black background. For a 
 moment both of them were silent. 
 
 "Roona," he said at last, without moving, "I 
 wouldn't have waited if I'd known it was going to be 
 that. I'd hoped you'd have gone away without know- 
 ing, and then it would have been all over. I tried 
 for it to be like that." He spoke like a child, simply 
 and straight-forwardly. There seemed no fighting 
 left to be done. Everything was in the light. Con- 
 cealment could no longer avail anything. 
 
 " You would have let me go ? " she whispered. 
 
 "Oh, I'd have tried," he moaned. 
 
 "Then I must go now." She said it meekly, but 
 she meant it well. 
 
 "Presently," he said, "presently. There's some- 
 thing to be said first. Come into the sacristy. There 
 will be no one there. We shall be quite alone. Come 
 into the sacristy." 
 
 She tried to hesitate, but his decision seemed firm, 
 too firm for her to disobey, and she followed him. 
 
 When she had passed by him into the little, bare 
 room, with its cheap, deal cupboards which contained 
 the vestments, he closed the door that led into the 
 
 338
 
 THE INEVITABLE 339 
 
 chapel. That which led from the sacristy into the 
 street had already been locked by the chapel-woman 
 when she went to her tea. 
 
 Almost indifferently Roona wondered what he was 
 going to do. She was his, she felt that she was his, 
 and he might do what he willed with her. She knew 
 she could deny him nothing. Standing still in the 
 middle of the room, she waited while he closed the 
 door, making no offer to move or speak when he 
 came back to her side. 
 
 For a few moments he stood before her, looking 
 down into her face. In that space of time during 
 which they had walked silently up the chapel to the 
 sacristy, his thoughts had all collected themselves 
 into one concrete realization. 
 
 She loved him, and in the gift of that knowledge 
 he knew that he loved her also. Not as he had 
 loved; desiring, craving, coveting, but with that 
 great and absorbing sentiment which is the only 
 binding sacrament of matrimony ; that love which in 
 some Utopian scheme of things is the perfect affec- 
 tion of wife for husband and husband for wife. 
 Instead of exciting the passion of his senses, it 
 calmed them; instead of urging him to the brutality 
 of his nature it held him back. He knew that she was 
 passive in his hands, but the light of a far greater 
 desire than sensual satisfaction had fallen upon him. 
 In that moment he honoured and respected her. In 
 that moment he could not have found it in his nature 
 to kill her finer feelings with shame, though in her 
 very attitude of submission as she stood there before 
 him he knew that she was his. But such action as
 
 340 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 this, though it was conscious to his mind, did not 
 enter into the region of his thoughts, or the possibil- 
 ity of his consideration. 
 
 Love is a very strange and a very wonderful thing. 
 It has been ridiculed by theorists, analyzed by sci- 
 entists into its component parts. Pathologists have 
 called it a disease, neurologists have called it hyste- 
 ria, yet for all its irrationalism it has been the 
 foundation of the most inspired deeds and the great- 
 est virtues that the world has ever known. 
 
 There is no written or unwritten law, no social 
 custom on earth, and no force of conscience in the 
 human mind that can honestly allay the carnal de- 
 sires of a man for a woman who stands before him 
 a willing slave to the knowledge of his strength. 
 When all a man's blood is burning with the passion- 
 ate demands of his nature there is no vow that wiU 
 hold him back from the grasping of his release; for 
 that which has been made to be, must be, and the 
 Creator of all things will not stay the traffic of His 
 own laws to let one man pass by. 
 
 And yet this hysterical disease of the mind, this 
 disordered condition of the internal arrangements of 
 the body, this love which is the song of the poets and 
 the ridicule of men, this can do, in generous, altru- 
 istic renunciation, what the most solemn vow at the 
 High Altar of God Himself will fail and has failed 
 to bring to pass. 
 
 It is the only loophole, the only escape. The love 
 of one woman makes a man, but the love of none a 
 sensualist. 
 
 And it was this love, purer than all his desires and
 
 THE INEVITABLE 341 
 
 stronger than all his desires, that had suddenly found 
 its way into the heart and reason of Father Michael. 
 
 As he looked down into her face, he took her 
 hand, leading her to the wooden form on which 
 Father Connelly was wont to sit when he was waiting 
 to go into the chapel. 
 
 " There isn't much to be said, Roona," he began, 
 when she was seated. 
 
 "What are we to do? What are you going to 
 do ? " she asked pitifully. 
 
 " We're going on with life," he said quietly, " where 
 we left off, before you told me." 
 
 " You don't love me really, then ? " she asked, 
 catching her breath. 
 
 He sat down on the form by her side. 
 
 " Love you ? " he repeated quietly ; " I don't think 
 you could be loved so well. I love you so much, so 
 much as it is right that I should love, that I could 
 not bring you into a life where there could be nothing 
 but shame. Roona, I don't count myself since I have 
 learnt all this, and you must believe me when I say 
 that were you not bound, I should have broken all 
 ties willingly if it had been your wish. I would have 
 done all that you could have asked me. But you 
 aren't in a position to ask. You are bound by a tie 
 that has been ordained by God " 
 
 "And you?" she asked, interrupting him. "You 
 said that you would break all ties for my sake. Can't 
 I break them for yours ? " 
 
 He covered his face with his hands. 
 
 "Don't you see the difference?" he asked. "The 
 sacrament of matrimony was ordained by God; the
 
 342 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 vow of celibacy was ordained by man. I fear God 
 nothing could ever change that in me but I am not 
 afraid of man. I fear God for your sake as well as 
 my own. We are not going to be sinners for the 
 sake of our love. Oh, can't you see the difference? 
 I'm not preaching under set rules, I am only trying 
 to be the best of what God made me, and, not 
 because I love myself, but because I love you. It's 
 not a case of honour, it's not a case of selfishness. I 
 know, I believe I know, that you would be happy 
 with me, notwithstanding any shame or any poverty. 
 But, ever since I was fifteen, I've been looking into 
 the after-life, and I know there is an after-life to 
 come. I could not see you miserable in that, because 
 it is a tangible possibility to me, just as your happi- 
 ness may seem to you in this world. But when I 
 come to weigh the two, as weigh them I must, there 
 is no doubt in my mind which weighs the heavier. 
 I may not be a celibate, but, before God! I am a 
 priest!" 
 
 She rose slowly from the form by his side, standing 
 there silent and indeterminate as though she were 
 asleep. He looked up into her face, amazed to see 
 the drawn, hard lines about her mouth. 
 
 " Do you think me a hypocrite, Roona ? " he asked 
 quietly. "Do you think my love is not all so true 
 and sincere as I say it is ? Why, I tell you there is a 
 moment in the life of nearly every priest when he must 
 decide between being a hypocrite to himself and true 
 to the Church, or a hypocrite for the Church's sake 
 and true to himself." 
 
 With a muffled cry she turned and threw herself
 
 THE INEVITABLE 343 
 
 against him so that he was forced to catch her in his 
 arms. 
 
 "Oh, I believe you," she sobbed; "I should believe 
 you whatever you said. You're a man. You're 
 stronger, better, nobler than I am. You seem like 
 God to me." 
 
 "Ssh!" he said softly. 
 
 "It's true," she went on, "you do. You do! I 
 don't know how I can part with you. I don't, really 
 I don't. All that you said about my being married, 
 it's right, quite right. But I want you. I want to 
 feel you kissing me as you did that day in the train 
 as strong and as wild as that. Oh, I want it, just 
 because you're everything to me and I shall never 
 know it again as long as I live." 
 
 " Ah, don't, don't ! " he pleaded. 
 
 " But I must ! " she said fiercely " I've been fight- 
 ing against it all this year, ever since Duresne." 
 
 He looked above her head, and there was agony in 
 his eyes because he knew that the fault had all been 
 his. 
 
 "Ever since you kissed me," she repeated. "Oh, 
 how I loved you when you did." 
 
 With a swift and sudden action she wound her 
 fingers convulsively round his neck, dragging his 
 head with passionate force close to hers. He tried as 
 well as he could in that moment to resist, but the 
 effort was weak, and then, as once he had kissed her, 
 she covered his face with kisses. Kisses that left the 
 sting upon his lips for all his life. 
 
 In a moment of breathlessness she released him and 
 then he stood away.
 
 344 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 " Roona," he said with a strained voice. " Go now 
 go now." 
 
 She came up to his side and looked into his face. 
 Her own was calm now. Like a caged animal, whose 
 prison only revolves the faster to its useless rage, her 
 passion had been spent and she was quiet. 
 
 " I'm going," she said softly. " I'm going now. I 
 think I understand it all, and I know what is best for 
 me, I think I know. I shall always love you, honour 
 you, and think of you as long as I live." Her sen- 
 tences were strange and disjointed. "As long as I 
 live," she repeated, and then she moved to the door. 
 
 Mechanically he opened it for her, and mechanically, 
 as though all her movements were forced and unnat- 
 ural, she passed through into the chapel. 
 
 He did not look after her, but stood there with his 
 hand upon the handle of the door, listening listen- 
 ing listening to all the little sounds of her 
 departure. 
 
 Every footstep grew fainter and, fainter as she 
 passed down the aisle. Not once did she falter, not 
 once did she hesitate. He heard her stop as she 
 reached the end of the chapel ; he heard the clanking 
 sound of the lifted latch. 
 
 His head craned a little more on one side, and then 
 the big door slammed. 
 
 Everything was silent. 
 
 THE END
 
 
 
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