HYACINTH

By George A. Birmingham

1906

CHAPTER I

In the year 1850 or thereabouts religious and charitable society inEngland was seized with a desire to convert Irish Roman Catholics tothe Protestant faith. It is clear to everyone with any experience ofmissionary societies that, the more remote the field of actual work, theeasier it is to keep alive the interest of subscribers. The mission toRoman Catholics, therefore, commenced in that western portion of Galwaywhich the modern tourist knows as Connemara, and the enthusiasm wasimmense. Elderly ladies, often with titles, were energetic in the causeof the new reformation. Young ladies, some of them very attractive, collected money from their brothers and admirers. States-men and Bishopsheaded the subscription-lists, and influential committees earnestlydebated plans for spending the money which poured in. Faith in theefficacy of money handled by influential committees is one of thecharacteristics of the English people, and in this particular caseit seemed as if their faith were to be justified by results. Mostencouraging reports were sent to headquarters from Gonnemara. Itappeared that converts were flocking in, and that the schools of themissionaries were filled to overflowing. In the matter of educationcircumstances favoured the new reformation. The leonine John McHale, thePapal Archbishop of Tuam, pursued a policy which drove the children ofhis flock into the mission schools. The only other kind of educationavailable was that which some humorous English statesman had called'national, ' and it did not seem to the Archbishop desirable that anIrish boy should be beaten for speaking his own language, or rewardedfor calling himself 'a happy English child. ' He refused to allow thebuilding of national schools in his diocese, and thus left the clevererboys to drift into the mission schools, where they learnt carefullyselected texts of Scripture along with the multiplication-table. Thebest of them were pushed on through Dublin University, and crowned thehopes of their teachers by taking Holy Orders in the Church of England. There are still to be met with in Galway and Mayo ancient peasants andbroken-down inhabitants of workhouses who speak with a certain prideof 'my brother the minister. ' There are also here and there in Englishrectories elderly gentlemen who have almost forgotten the thatchedcottages where they ate their earliest potatoes. 

Among these cleverer boys was one Æneas Conneally, who was somethingmore than clever. He was also religious in an intense and enthusiasticmanner, which puzzled his teachers while it pleased them. His ancestorshad lived for generations on a seaboard farm, watered by salt rain, swept by misty storms. The famine and the fever that followed it lefthim fatherless and brotherless. The emigration schemes robbed him andhis mother of their surviving relations. The mission school and themissionary's charity effected the half conversion of the mother and awhole-hearted acceptance of the new faith on the part of Æneas. Unlikemost of his fellows in the college classrooms, he refused to regard anEnglish curacy as the goal of his ambition. It seemed to him that hisconversion ought not to end in his parading the streets of Liverpool ina black coat and a white tie. He wanted to return to his people and tellthem in their own tongue the Gospel which he had found so beautiful. 

The London committee meditated on his request, and before they arrivedat a conclusion his mother died, having at the last moment made atardy submission to the Church she had denied. Her apostasy--so themissionaries called it--confirmed the resolution of her son, and thecommittee at length agreed to allow him to return to his native villageas the first Rector of the newly-created parish of Carrowkeel. He wasprovided with all that seemed necessary to insure the success ofhis work. They built him a gray house, low and strong, for it had towithstand the gales which swept in from the Atlantic. They bought hima field where a cow could graze, and an acre of bog to cut turf from. Achurch was built for him, gray and strong, like his house. It was fittedwith comfortable pews, a pulpit, a reading-desk, and a movable table ofwood decently covered with a crimson cloth. Beyond the church stood theschool he had attended as a boy, whitewashed without and draped insidewith maps and illuminated texts. A salary, not princely but sufficient, was voted to Mr. Conneally, and he was given authority over aScripture-reader and a schoolmaster. The whole group of missionbuildings--the rectory, the church, and the school--stood, like typesof the uncompromising spirit of Protestantism, upon the bare hillside, swept by every storm, battered by the Atlantic spray. Below themCarrowkeel, the village, cowered in such shelter as the sandhillsafforded. Eastward lonely cottages, faintly smoking dots in thelandscape, straggled away to the rugged bases of the mountains. TheRev. Æneas Conneally entered upon his mission enthusiastically, andthe London committee awaited results. There were scarcely any results, certainly none that could be considered satisfactory. The day for makingconversions was past, and the tide had set decisively against the newreformation. A national school, started by a clearsighted priest, inspite of his Archbishop, left the mission school almost without pupils. The Scripture-reader lost heart, and took to seeking encouragementin the public-house. He found it, and once when exalted--he said, spiritually--paraded the streets cursing the Virgin Mary. Worsefollowed, and the committee in London dismissed the man. A diminishingincome forced on them the necessity of economy, and no successor wasappointed. For a few years Mr. Conneally laboured on. Then a sharp-eyedinspector from London discovered that the schoolmaster took very littletrouble about teaching, but displayed great talent in prompting hischildren at examinations. He, too, was dismissed, and the committee, still bent on economy, appointed a mistress in his place. She was apretty girl, and after she had shivered through the stormy nights oftwo winters in the lonely school-house, Mr. Conneally married her. Afterwards the office of school-teacher was also left vacant. Thewhitewashed school fell gradually into decay, and the committee effecteda further saving. 

After his marriage Mr. Conneally's missionary enthusiasm began to flag. His contact with womanhood humanized him. The sternness of the reformerdied in him, and his neighbours, who never could comprehend hisreligion, came to understand the man. They learned to look upon him as afriend, to seek his sympathy and help. In time they learnt to love him. 

Two years passed, and a son was born. The village people crowded uponhim with congratulations, and mothers of wide experience praised the boytill Mrs. Conneally's heart swelled in her with pride. He was christenedHyacinth, after a great pioneer and leader of the mission work. Thenaming was Mr. Conneally's act of contrition for the forsaking ofhis enthusiasm, his recognition of the value of a zeal which had notflagged. Failing the attainment of greatness, the next best thing is todedicate a new life to a patron saint who has won the reward of thosewho endure to the end. For two years more life in the glebe house wasrapturously happy. Such bliss has in it, no doubt, an element of sin, and it is not good that it should endure. This was to be seen afterwardsin calmer times, though hardly at the moment when the break came. Therewas a hope of a second child, a delightful time of expectation; then anaccident, the blighting of the hope, and in a few days the death of Mrs. Conneally. Her husband buried her, digging the first grave in the rockyground that lay around the little church. 

For a time Mr. Conneally was stunned by his sorrow. He stopped workingaltogether, ceased to think, even to feel. Men avoided him withinstinctive reverence at first, and afterwards with fear, as hewandered, muttering to himself, among the sandhills and along the beach. After a while the power of thought and a sense of the outward things oflife returned to him. He found that an aged crone from the village hadestablished herself in his house, and was caring for Hyacinth. He lether stay, and according to her abilities she cooked and washed for himand the boy, neither asking wages nor taking orders from him, until shedied. 

Hyacinth grew and throve amazingly. From morning till evening he was inthe village, among the boats beside the little pier, or in the fields, when the men worked there. Everyone petted and loved him, from FatherMoran, the priest who had started the national school, down to oldShamus, the crippled singer of interminable Irish songs and teller ofheroic legends of the past. It was when he heard the boy repeat a storyof Finn MacCool to the old crone in the kitchen that Mr. Conneally awoketo the idea that he must educate his son. He began, naturally enough, with Irish, for it was Irish, and not English, that Hyacinth spokefluently. 

Afterwards the English alphabet followed, though not for the sake ofreading books, for except the Bible and the Prayer-Book Hyacinth wastaught to read no English books. He learned Latin after a fashion, notwith nice attention to complexities of syntax, but as a language meantto be used, read, and even spoken now and then to Father Moran. 

Meanwhile the passage of the years brought changes to Carrowkeel. The Admiralty established a coastguard station near the village, andarranged, for the greater security of the Empire, that men in blue-sergeclothes should take it in turns to look at the Atlantic through atelescope. Then the unquiet spirit of the Congested Districts Boardpossessed the place for a while. A young engineer designed a new pier toshelter fishing-boats. He galvanized the people into unwonted activity, and, though sceptical of good results, they earned a weekly wage bybuilding it. Boats came, great able boats, which fought the Atlantic, and the old curraghs were left to blister in the sun far up on thebeach. Instructors from the Isle of Man taught new ways of catchingmackerel. Green patches between the cottages and the sea, once theplayground of pigs and children, or the marine parade of solemn linesof geese, were spread with brown nets. On May mornings, if the take wasgood, long lines of carts rattled down the road carrying the fish tothe railway at Clifden, and the place bore for a while the appearanceof vitality. A vagrant Englishman discovered that lobsters could be hadalmost for the asking in Carrowkeel. The commercial instincts of hisrace were aroused in him. 

He established a trade between the villagers and the fishmongers ofManchester. The price of lobsters rose to the unprecedented figure offour shillings a dozen, and it was supposed that even so the promoter ofthe scheme secured a profit. 

To Æneas Conneally, growing quietly old, the changes meant very little. The coastguards, being bound by one of the articles of the BritishConstitution, came to church on Sunday mornings with exemplaryregularity, and each man at fixed intervals brought a baby to bechristened and a woman to be churched. Otherwise they hardly affectedMr. Conneally's life. The great officials who visited Carrowkeel tosurvey the benignant activities of the Congested Districts Boardwere men whose magnificent intellectual powers raised them above anyrecognised form of Christianity. Neither Father Moran's ministrationsnor Mr. Conneally's appealed to them. 

The London committee of the mission to Roman Catholics made no inquiryabout what was going on at Carrowkeel. They asked for no statistics, expected no results, but signed quarterly cheques for Mr. Conneally, presuming, one may suppose, that if he had ceased to exist they wouldsomehow have heard of it. 

By far the most important event for Hyacinth and his father was thedeath of their old housekeeper. In the changed state of society inCarrowkeel it was found impossible to secure the services of another. Hyacinth, at this time about fifteen years old, took to the houseworkwithout feeling that he was doing anything strange or unmanly. He wasfamiliar with the position of 'bachelor boys' who, having grown elderlyunder the care of a mother, preferred afterwards the toil of their ownkitchens to the uncertain issue of marrying a girl to 'do for them. 'Life under their altered circumstances was simplified. It seemedunnecessary to carry a meal from the room it was cooked in to anotherfor the purpose of eating it, so the front rooms of the house, withtheir tattered furniture, were left to moulder quietly in the persistentdamp. One door was felt to be sufficient for the ingress and egressof two people from a house. The kitchen door, being at the back of thehouse, was oftenest the sheltered one, so the front door was bolted, andthe grass grew up to it. One by one, as Hyacinth's education required, the Latin and Greek books were removed from the forsaken study, andtook their places among the diminishing array of plates and cups on thekitchen dresser. The spreading and removal of a tablecloth for everymeal came to be regarded as foolish toil. When room was required on thetable for plates, the books and papers were swept on one side. A pile ofpotatoes, and the pan, with bacon or a fish perhaps still frizzling init, was set in the place left vacant. 

Morning and evening Æneas Conneally expected his son to join with him inprayer. The two knelt together on the earthen floor facing the window, while the old man meditated aloud on Divine things. There were breaks inhis speech and long silences, so that sometimes it was hard to tellwhen his prayer had really ended. These devotions formed a part ofhis father's life into which Hyacinth never really entered at all. Heneither rebelled nor mocked. He simply remained outside. So when hisfather wandered off to solitary places on the seashore, and sat gazinginto the sunset or a gathering storm, Hyacinth neither followed norquestioned him. Sometimes on winter nights when the wind howled morefiercely than usual round the house, the old man would close the bookthey read together, and repeat aloud long passages from the Apocalypse. His voice, weak and wavering at first, would gather strength as heproceeded, and the young man listened, stirred to vague emotion over thefall of Babylon the Great. 

For the most part Hyacinth's time was his own. Even the hours of studywere uncertain. He read when he liked, and his father seemed contentwith long days of idleness followed by others of application. It was, indeed, only owing to his love of what he read that the boy learned atall. Often while he tramped from his home to the village at midday hisheart was hot within him with some great thought which had sprung to himfrom a hastily construed chorus of Euripides. Sometimes he startled thefishermen when he went with them at night by chanting Homer's rollinghexameters through the darkness while the boat lay waiting, bornegunwale down to the black water with the drag of the net that had beenshot. 

There was a tacit understanding that Hyacinth, like his father, wasto take Holy Orders. He matriculated in Trinity College when he waseighteen, and, as is often done by poorer students, remained at home, merely passing the required examinations, until he took his degree, and the time came for his entering the divinity school. Then it becamenecessary for him to reside in Dublin, and the first great change in hislife took place. 

The night before he left home he and his father sat together in thekitchen after they had finished their evening meal. For a long timeneither of them spoke. Hyacinth held a book in his hand, but scarcelyattempted to read it. His thoughts wandered from hopeful expectation ofwhat the future was to bring him and the new life was to mean, to vagueregrets, weighted with misgivings, which would take no certain shape. There crowded upon him recollections of busy autumn days when the grainharvest overtook the belated hay-making, and men toiled till late inthe fields; of long nights in the springtime when he tugged at thefishing-nets, and felt the mackerel slipping and flapping past hisfeet in the darkness; of the longer winter nights when he joined thegatherings of the boys and girls to dance jigs and reels on the earthenfloor of some kitchen. It seemed now that all this was past and over forhim. Holiday time would bring him back to Carrowkeel, but would it bethe same? Would he be the same?

He looked at his father, half hoping for sympathy; but the old man satgazing--it seemed to Hyacinth stupidly--into the fire. He wondered ifhis father had forgotten that this was their last evening together. Thensuddenly, without raising his eyes, the old man began to speak, and itappeared that he, too, was thinking of the change. 

'I do not know, my son, what they will teach you in their school ofdivinity. I have long ago forgotten all I learned there, and I have notmissed the knowledge. It does not seem to me now that what they taughtme has been of any help in getting to know Him. '

He paused for a long time. Hyacinth was familiar enough with hisfather's ways of speech to know that the emphatic 'Him' meant the Godwhom he worshipped. 

'There is, I am sure, only one way in which we can become His friends. _These are they which have come out of great tribulation!_ You rememberthat, Hyacinth? That is the only way. You may be taught truths aboutHim, but they matter very little. You have already great thoughts, burning thoughts, but they will not of themselves bring you to Him. Theother way is the only way. Shall I wish it for you, my son? Shall I giveit to you for my blessing? May great tribulation come upon you in yourlife! _Great tribulation!_ See how weak my faith is even now at the veryend. I cannot give you this blessing, although I know very well that itis the only way. I know this, because I have been along this way myself, and it has led me to Him. '

Again he paused. It did not seem to Hyacinth to be possible to sayanything. He was not sure in his heart that the friendship of the Man ofSorrows was so well worth having that he would be content to pay for itby accepting such a benediction from his father. 

'I shall do this for you, Hyacinth: I shall pray that when the choice isgiven you, the great choice between what is easy and what is hard, theright decision may be made for you. I do not know in what form it willcome. Perhaps it will be as it was with me. He made the choice for me, for indeed I could not have chosen for myself. He set my feet upon thenarrow way, forced me along it for a while, and now at the end I see Hisface. '

Hyacinth had heard enough of the brief bliss of his father's marriedlife to understand. He caught for the first time a glimpse of themeaning of the solitary life, the long prayers, and the meditations. Hewas profoundly moved, but it did not even then seem to him desirable tochoose such a way, or to have such attainment thrust on him. 

Next morning the autumn sunlight chased the recollection of his emotionfrom his mind. The fishermen stopped his car as he drove through thestreet to shake hands with him. Their wives shouted familiar blessingsfrom the cabin doors. Father Moran came bare-headed to the gate of hispresbytery garden and waved a farewell. 

CHAPTER II

There is that about the material fabric, the actual stone and mortar, ofTrinity College, Dublin, which makes a vivid appeal to the imaginationof the common man. The cultured sentimentalist will not indeed beable to lave his soul in tepid emotion while he walks through thesequadrangles, as he may among the cloisters and chapels of the Oxfordcolleges. The amateur of the past cannot here stand at gaze before anysingle building as he does before the weather-beaten front of Oriel, tracing in imagination the footsteps of Newman or Arnold. Yet to theaverage man, and far more to the newly emancipated schoolboy, TrinityCollege, Dublin, makes an appeal which can hardly be ignored. In Oxfordand Cambridge town and University are mixed together; shops jostle andelbow colleges in the streets. In Dublin a man leaves the city behindhim when he enters the college, passes completely out of the atmosphereof the University when he steps on to the pavement. The physicalcontrast is striking enough, appealing to the ear and the eye. Therattle of the traffic, the jangling of cart bells, the inarticulatebabel of voices, suddenly cease when the archway of the greatentrance-gate is passed. 

An immense silence takes their place. There is no longer any need forwatchfulness, nor risk of being hustled by the hurrying crowds. Instead of footway and street crossing there are broad walks, untroddenstretches of smooth grass. The heavy campanile is in front, and heightsof gray building frown down on each side. It needs no education, noteven any imagination, to appreciate the change. It is not necessary toknow that great scholars inhabited the place, to recall any name orany man's career. The appeal is not to a recollected impression of theMiddle Ages, or indeed of any past, remote or near. It is the spirit ofscholarship itself, abstract, intangible, which creates this atmosphere. Knowledge, a severe goddess, awes while she beckons. 

Hyacinth Conneally had submitted himself to such emotions time aftertime when, fresh from the wilds of Connemara, he made his way to theexamination-hall, an outside student in a borrowed cap and gown. Now, when for the first time he entered into the actual life of the college, could look up at windows of rooms that were his own, and reckon on hisprivilege of fingering tomes from the shelves of the huge library, thespirit of the place awed him anew. He neither analyzed nor attemptedan expression of what he felt, but his first night within the walls wasrestless because of the inspiration which filled him. 

Yet this college does not fail to make an appeal also to the thinkingmind, only it is a strange appeal, tending to sadness. The suddensilence after the tumult of the streets has come for some minds tobe the symbol of a divorce between the knowledge within and the lifewithout. And this is not the separation which must always exist betweenthought and action, the gulf fixed between the student and the merchant. It is a real divorce between the nation and the University, betweenthe two kinds of life which ought, like man and woman, to complete eachother through their very diversity, but here have gone hopelessly apart. Never once through all the centuries of Ireland's struggle to expressherself has the University felt the throb of her life. It is truethat Ireland's greatest patriots, from Swift to Davis, have been herchildren; but she has never understood their spirit, never looked onthem as anything but strangers to her family. They have been to herstray robber wasps, to be driven from the hive; while to the others theyhave seemed cygnets among her duckling brood. It is very wonderful thatthe University alone has been able to resist the glamour of Ireland'spast, and has failed to admire the persistency of her nationality. There has surely been enough in every century that has passed since thecollege was founded to win it over from alien thought and the ideals ofthe foreigner. 

All this Hyacinth came to feel afterwards, and learnt in bitterness ofspirit to be angry at the University's isolation from Irish life. Atfirst quite other thoughts crowded upon his mind. He felt a rebellionagainst his father's estimate of what he was to learn. It seemed to himthat he had come into vital touch with the greatest life of all. He wasto join the ranks of those who besieged the ears of God for knowledge, and left behind them to successors yet unborn great traditions of theenigmas they had guessed. In entering upon the study of theology heseemed to become a soldier in the sacred band, the élite of the armywhich won and guarded truth. Already he was convinced that there couldbe no greater science than the Divine one, no more inspiring moment inlife than this one when he took his first step towards the knowledge ofGod. 

He crossed the quadrangle with his mind full of such thoughts, and joined a group of students round the door of one of theexamination-halls. It did not shock his sense of fitness that some ofhis fellow-students in the great science wore shabby clothes, or thatothers scorned the use of a razor. Bred as he had been at home, he feltno incongruity between dirty collars and the study of divinity. Itwas not until he caught scraps of conversation that he experienced anawakening from his dream. One eager group surrounded a foreseeing youthwho had written the dates of the first four General Councils of theChurch upon his shirt-cuff. 

'Read them out, like a good man, ' said one. 

'Hold on a minute, ' said another, 'till I see if I have got them right. I ground them up specially this morning. Nicæa, 318--no, hang it! that'sthe number of Bishops who were present; 325 was the date, wasn't it?'

'What was the row about at Chalcedon?' asked a tall, pale youth. 'Didn'tsome monk or other go for Cyril of Alexandria?'

'You'll be stuck anyhow, Tommy, ' said a neat, dapper little man with avery ragged gown. 

Hyacinth slipped past the group, and approached two better dressedstudents who stood apart from the others. 

'Is this, ' he asked, 'where the entrance examination to the divinityschool is to be held?'

For answer he received a curt 'Yes' and a stare. Apparently his suit ofbrown Connemara homespun did not commend him to these aristocrats. Theyturned their backs on him, and resumed their conversation. 

'She was walking up and down the pier listening to the band with twoof the rankest outsiders you ever set eyes on--medicals out of PaddyDunn's. Of course I could do nothing else but break it off. '

'Oh, you were engaged to her, then? I didn't know. '

'Well, I was and I wasn't. Anyhow, I thought it better to have a clearunderstanding. She came up to me outside the door of Patrick's on Sundayafternoon just as if nothing had happened. "Hullo, Bob, " says she;"I haven't seen you for ages. " "My name, " said I, "is Mr. Banks"--justlike that, as cool as you please. I could see she felt it. "I've calledyou Bob, " says she, very red in the face, "and you've called me Maimieever since we went to Sunday-school together, and I'm not going to begincalling you Mr. Banks now, my boy-o! so don't you think it!"'

It was a relief to Hyacinth when he was tapped on the arm by a boy witha very pimply face, who thrust a paper into his hand, and distractedhis attention from the final discomfiture of Maimie, which Mr. Banks wasrecounting in a clear, high-pitched voice, as if he wished everyone inthe neighbourhood to hear it. 

'I hope you'll come, ' said the boy. 

'Where?'

'It's all in the paper. The students' prayer-meeting, held everyWednesday morning at nine o'clock sharp. Special meeting to-morrow. '

Hyacinth was bewildered. There was something quite unfamiliar in thisprompt and business-like advertisement of prayer. The student with thepapers began to be doubtful of him. 

'You're not High Church, are you?' he asked. 'We're not. We don't haveprinted offices, with verses and responds, and that sort of thing. Wehave extempore prayer by members of the union. '

'No; I'm not High Church, ' said Hyacinth--'at least, I think not. Idon't really know much about these things. I'll be very glad to go toyour meeting. '

'That's right, ' said the other. 'All are welcome. There will be specialprayer to-morrow for the success of the British arms. I suppose youheard that old Kruger has sent an ultimatum. There will be war at once. '

There was a sudden movement among the students; gowns were pulledstraight and caps adjusted. 

'Here he comes, ' said someone. 

Dr. Henry, the divinity professor, crossed the square rapidly. He was amiddle-aged man, stout, almost ponderous, in figure; but he held himselfrigidly upright, and walked fast across the square. The extreme neatnessof his clothes contrasted with the prevailing shabbiness of the studentsand the assistant lecturers who followed him. Yet he did not seem to bea man who gave to externals more than their due share of consideration. His broad forehead gave promise of great intellectual power, a promisehalf belied by the narrow gray eyes beneath it. These were eyes whichmight see keenly, and would certainly see things just as they are, though they were not likely to catch any glimpse of that greaterworld where objects cannot be focussed sharply. Yet in them, an oddcontradiction, there lurked a possibility of humorous twinkling. Theman was capable perhaps of the broad tolerance of the great humorist, certainly of very acute perception of life's minor incongruities. Histhin lips were habitually pressed together, giving a suggestion ofstrength to the set of his mouth. A man with such a mouth can think andact, but not feel either passionately or enduringly. He will direct menbecause he knows his own mind, but is not likely to sway them becausehe will always be master of himself, and will not become enslaved toany great enthusiasm. The students trooped into the hall, and theexamination began. The assistant lecturers helped in the work. Eachstudent was called up in turn, asked a few questions, and given aportion of the Greek Testament to translate. For the most part theircapacities were known beforehand. There were some who had won honoursin their University course before entering the divinity school. Forthem the examiners were all smiles, and the business of the day wasunderstood to be perfunctory. Others were recognised as mere pass men, whom it was necessary to spur to some exertion. A few, like Hyacinth, were unknown. These were the poorer students who had not been able toafford to reside at the University sooner than was absolutely necessary. Their knowledge, generally scanty, was received by the examiners withundisguised contempt. It fell to Hyacinth's lot to present himself toDr. Henry. He did so tremulously. 

The professor inquired his name, and looked him over coldly. 

'Read for me, ' he said, handing him a Greek Testament. The passagemarked was St. Paul's great description of charity. It was very familiarto Hyacinth, and he read it with a serious feeling for the words. Dr. Henry, who at first had occupied himself with some figures on a sheet ofpaper, looked up and listened attentively. 

'Where were you at school, ' he asked. 'Who taught you Greek?'

'My father taught me, sir. '

'Ah! You have got a very peculiar pronunciation, and you've made anextraordinary number of mistakes in accentuation and quantity, butyou've read as if St. Paul meant something. Now translate. '

'You have given me, ' he said, when Hyacinth had finished, 'theAuthorized Version word for word. Can you do no better than that?'

'I can do it differently, ' said Hyacinth, 'not better. '

'Do you know any Greek outside of the New Testament?'

Hyacinth repeated a few lines from Homer. 

'That book of the "Odyssey" is not in the college course, ' said Dr. Henry. 'How did you come to read it?'

Hyacinth had no explanation to give. He had read the book, it seemed, without being forced, and without hope of getting a prize. He recited itas if he liked it. The remainder of the examination disclosed the factthat he was lamentably deficient in the rudiments of Greek grammar, andhad the very vaguest ideas of the history of the Church. 

Afterwards Professor Henry discussed the new class with his assistantsas they crossed the square together. 

'The usual lot, ' said Dr. Spenser--'half a dozen scholars, perhaps oneman among them with real brains. The rest are either idlers or, what isworse, duffers. '

'I hit on one man with brains, ' said Dr. Henry. 

'Oh! Thompson, I suppose. I saw that you took him. He did well in hisdegree exam. '

'No, ' said Dr. Henry; 'the man I mean has more brains than Thompson. He's a man I never heard of before. His name is Conneally. He looksas if he came up from the wilds somewhere. He has hands like anagricultural labourer, and a brogue that I fancy comes from Galway. But he's a man to keep an eye on. He may do something by-and-by if hedoesn't go off the lines. We must try and lick him into shape a bit. '

Hyacinth Conneally knew extremely little about the politics, foreign ordomestic, of the English nation. His father neither read newspapers norcared to discuss such rumours of the doings of Governments as happenedto reach Carrowkeel. On the other hand, he knew a good deal aboutthe history of Ireland, and the English were still for him the 'newforeigners' whom Keating describes. His intercourse with the fishermenand peasants of the Galway seaboard had intensified his vague dislikeof the series of oscillations between bullying and bribery which make upthe story of England's latest attempts to govern Ireland. Without in theleast understanding the reasons for the war in South Africa, he felta strong sympathy with the Boers. To him they seemed a small peopledoomed, if they failed to defend themselves, to something like thetreatment which Ireland had received. 

It was therefore with surprise, almost with horror, that he listened forthe first time to the superlative Imperialism of the Protestant Unionistparty when he attended the prayer-meeting to which he had been invited. The room was well filled with students, who joined heartily in thesinging of 'Onward, Christian soldiers, ' a hymn selected as appropriatefor the occasion. An address by the chairman, a Dublin clergyman, followed. According to this gentleman the Boers were a psalm-singingbut hypocritical nation addicted to slave-driving. England, on theother hand, was the pioneer of civilization, and the nursing-mother ofmissionary enterprise. It was therefore clear that all good Christiansought to pray for the success of the British arms. The speech bewilderedrather than irritated Hyacinth. The mind gasps for a time when immersedsuddenly in an entirely new view of things, and requires time to adjustitself for pleasure or revolt, just as the body does when plunged intocold water. It had never previously occurred to him that an Irishmancould regard England as anything but a pirate. Anger rapidly succeededhis surprise while he listened to the prayers which followed. It wasapparently open to any student present to give utterance, as occasionoffered, to his desires, and a large number of young men availedthemselves of the opportunity. Some spoke briefly and haltingly, somelaboriously attempted to adapt the phraseology of the Prayer-Book to thesentiment of the moment, a few had the gift of rapid and even eloquentsupplication. These last were the hardest to endure. They prefaced theirrequests with fantastic eulogies of England's righteousness, designedapparently for the edification of the audience present in the flesh, forthey invariably began by assuring the Almighty that He was well awareof the facts, and generally apologized to Him for recapitulatingthem. Hyacinth's anger increased as he heard the fervent groans whichexpressed the unanimous conviction of the justice of the petitions. Noone seemed to think it possible that the right could be on the otherside. 

When the meeting was over, the secretary, whose name, it appeared, wasMackenzie, greeted Hyacinth warmly. 

'Glad to have you with us, ' he said. 'I hope you'll always come. I shallbe delighted to propose you as a member of the union. Subscriptionone shilling, to defray necessary expenses. In any case, whether yousubscribe or not, we shall be glad to have you with us. '

'I shall never come again, ' said Hyacinth. 

Mackenzie drew back, astonished. 

'Why not? Didn't you like the meeting? I thought it was capital--soinformal and hearty. Didn't you think it was hearty? But perhaps you areHigh Church. Are you?'

Hyacinth remembered that this identical question had been put to him theday before by the pimply-faced boy who distributed leaflets. He wonderedvaguely at the importance which attached to the nickname. 

'I am not sure, ' he said, 'that I quite know what you mean. You see, Ihave only just entered the divinity school, and I hardly know anythingabout theology. What is a High Churchman?'

'Oh, it doesn't require any theology to know that. It's the simplestthing in the world. A High Churchman is--well, of course, a HighChurchman sings Gregorian chants, you know, and puts flowers onthe altar. There's more than that, of course. In fact, a HighChurchman------' He paused and then added with an air of victoriousconviction: 'But anyhow if you were High Church you would be sure toknow it. '

'Ah, well, ' said Hyacinth, turning to leave the room, 'I don't knowanything about it, so I suppose I'm not High Church. '

Mackenzie, however, was not going to allow him to escape so easily. 

'Hold on a minute. If you're not High Church why won't you come to ourmeetings?'

'Because I can't join in your prayers when I am not at all sure thatEngland ought to win. '

'Good Lord!' said Mackenzie. It is possible to startle even thesecretary of a prayer union into mild profanity. 'You don't mean to tellme you are a Pro-Boer, and you a divinity student?'

It had not hitherto struck Hyacinth that it was impossible to combine asufficient orthodoxy with a doubt about the invariable righteousness ofEngland's quarrels. Afterwards he came to understand the matter better. 

CHAPTER III

Mackenzie was not at heart an ill-natured man, and he would haverepudiated with indignation the charge of being a mischief-maker. Hefelt after his conversation with Hyacinth much as most men would if theydiscovered an unsuspected case of small-pox among their acquaintances. His first duty was to warn the society in which he moved of theexistence of a dangerous man, a violent and wicked rebel. He repeateda slightly exaggerated version of what Hyacinth had said to everyonehe met. The pleasurable sense of personal importance which comes withhaving a story to tell grew upon him, and he spent the greater partof the day in seeking out fresh confidants to swell the chorus of hiscommination. 

In England at the time public opinion was roused to a fever heat ofpatriotic enthusiasm, and the Irish Protestant Unionists were eager tooutdo even the music-halls in Imperialist sentiment, the students ofTrinity College being then, as ever, the 'death or glory' boys ofIrish loyalty. It is easy to imagine how Hyacinth's name was whisperedshudderingly in the reading-room of the library, how his sentiments wereanathematized in the dining-hall at commons, how plots were hatched forthe chastisement of his iniquity over the fire in the evenings, whenpipes were lit and tea was brewed. 

At the end of the week Hyacinth was in an exceedingly uncomfortableposition. Outside the lecture-rooms nobody would speak to him. Inside hefound himself the solitary occupant of the bench he sat on--a positionof comparative physical comfort, for the other seats were crowded, butnot otherwise desirable. A great English poet had just composed a poem, which a musician, no doubt equally eminent, had set to a noble tune. It embodied an appeal for funds for purposes not clearly specified, andhazarded the experiment of rhyming 'cook's son' with 'Duke's son, ' whichin less fervent times might have provoked the criticism of the captious. It became the fashion in college to chant this martial ode wheneverHyacinth was seen approaching. It was thundered out by a choir whomarched in step up and down his staircase. Bars of it were softlyhummed in his ear while he tried to note the important truths whichthe lecturers impressed upon their classes. One night five musiciansrelieved each other at the task of playing the tune on a concertinaoutside his door. They commenced briskly at eight o'clock in theevening, and the final sleepy version only died away at six the nextmorning. 

Dr. Henry, who either did not know or chose to ignore the state ofthe students' feelings, advised Hyacinth to become a member of theTheological Debating Society. The election to membership, he said, wasa mere form, and nobody was ever excluded. Hyacinth sent his name tothe secretary, and was blackbeaned by an overwhelming majority of themembers. Shortly afterwards the Lord-lieutenant paid a visit to thecollege, and the students seized the chance of displaying their loyaltyto the Throne and Constitution. They assembled outside the library, which the representative of Queen Victoria was inspecting under theguidance of the Provost and two of the senior Fellows. It is the natureof the students of Trinity College to shout while they wait for thedevelopment of interesting events, and on this occasion even the librarywalls were insufficient to exclude the noise. The excellent noblemaninside found himself obliged to cast round for original remarks aboutthe manuscript of the 'Book of Kells, ' while the air was heavy with theverses which commemorate the departure of 'fifty thousand fighting men'to Table Bay. When at length he emerged on the library steps the tunechanged, as was right and proper, to 'God save the Queen. ' Strangelyenough, Hyacinth had never before heard the national anthem. It is notplayed or sung often by the natives of Connemara, and although the oceancertainly forms part of the British Empire, the Atlantic waves havenot yet learned to beat out this particular melody. So it happenedthat Hyacinth, without meaning to be offensive, omitted the ceremony ofremoving his hat. A neighbour, joyful at the opportunity, snatched theoffending garment, and skimmed it far over the heads of the crowd. A fewhard kicks awakened Hyacinth more effectually to a sense of his crime, and it was with a torn coat and many bruises that he escaped in the endto the shelter of his rooms, less inclined to be loyal than when he leftthem. 

After a few weeks it became clear that the British armies in SouthAfrica were not going to reap that rich and unvarying crop of victorieswhich the valour of the soldiers and the ability of the generalsdeserved. The indomitable spirit of the great nation rose to theoccasion, and the position of those who entertained doubts about thejustice of the original quarrel became more than ever unbearable. Hyacinth took to wandering by himself through parts of the city in whichhe was unlikely to meet any of his fellow-students. His soul grew bitterwithin him. The course of petty persecution to which he was subjectedhardened his original sentimental sympathy with the Boer cause into aclearly defined hatred of everything English. When he got clear of thecollege and the hateful sound of the 'cook's son, Duke's son' tune, hetramped along, gloating quietly over the news of the latest 'regrettableincident. '

He was very lonely and friendless, for not even the discomfiture of hisenemies can make up to a young man for the want of a friend to speak to. An inexpressible longing for home came over him. There was a shop in aby-street which exposed photographs of Galway scenery in its windows fora time. Hyacinth used to go day by day to gaze at them. The modest frontof the Gaelic League Hyce was another haunt of his. He used to standDebating his eyes on the Irish titles of the books in the window, andrepeating the words he read aloud to himself until the passers-by turnedto look at him. Once he entered a low-browed, dingy shop merely becausethe owner's name was posted over the door in Gaelic characters. It wasone of those shops to be found in the back streets of most large townswhich devote themselves to a composite business, displaying newspapers, apples, tobacco, and sweets for sale. The afternoon light, alreadygrowing feeble in the open air, had almost deserted the interior ofthe shop. At first Hyacinth saw nothing but an untidy red-hairedgirl reading in a corner by the Ught of a candle. Ho asked her forcigarettes. She rose, and laid her book and the candle on the counter. It was one of O'Growney's Irish primers, dirty and pencilled. Hyacinth'sheart warmed to her at once. Was she not trying to learn the dear Irishwhich the barefooted girls far away at home shouted to each other asthey dragged the seaweed up from the shore? Then from the far end of theshop he heard a man's voice speaking Irish. It was not the soft liquidtongue of the Connaught peasants, but a language more regular andformal. The man spoke it as if it were a language he had learned, comparatively slowly and with effort. Yet the sound of it seemed toHyacinth one of the sweetest things he had ever heard. Not even theshrinking self-distrust which he had been taught by repeated snubbingsand protracted ostracism could prevent him from making himself known tothis stranger. 

'The blessing of God upon Ireland!' he said. 

There was not a moment's hesitation on the part of the stranger. Thesound of the Gaelic was enough for him. He stretched out both hands toHyacinth. 

'Is it that you also are one of us--one of the Gaels?' he asked. Hyacinth seized the outstretched hands and held them tight. The feelingof offered friendship and companionship warmed him with a sudden glow. He felt that his eyes were filling with tears, and that his voice wouldbreak if he tried to speak, but he did not care at all. He poured out along Gaelic greeting, scarcely knowing what he said. Perhaps neitherthe man whose hands he held nor the owner of the shop behind the counterfully understood him, but they guessed at his feelings. 

'Is it that you are a stranger here and lonely? Where is your home? Whatname is there on you?'

'Maiseadh, I am a stranger indeed and lonely too, ' said Hyacinth. 

'You are a stranger no longer, then. We are all of us friends with eachother. You speak our own dear tongue, and that is enough to make usfriends. '

The tobacconist, it appeared, also spoke Irish of a kind. He castoccasional remarks into the conversation which followed, less, it seemedto Hyacinth, with a view of giving expression to any thought than forthe sake of airing some phrases which he had somewhat inadequatelylearned. Indeed, it struck Hyacinth very soon that his new friend wasgetting rather out of his depth in his 'own dear tongue. ' At last thetobacconist said with a smile:

'I'm afraid we must ask Mr. Conneally--didn't you say that Conneally wasyour name?--to speak the Beurla. I'm clean beaten with the Gaelic, andyou can't go much further yourself, Cahal. Isn't that the truth, now. '

'And small blame to me, ' said Cahal--in English, Charles--Maguire. 'After all, what am I but a learner? And it's clear that Mr. Conneallyhas spoken it since ever he spoke at all. '

Hyacinth smiled and nodded. Maguire went on:

'What are you doing this afternoon? What do you say to coming round withme to see Mary O'Dwyer? It's her "at home" day, and I'm just on my waythere. '

'But, ' said Hyacinth, 'I don't know her. I can hardly go to her house, can I?'

'Oh, I'll introduce you, ' said Maguire cheerfully. 'She allows me tobring anyone I like to see her. She likes to know anyone who lovesIreland and speaks Gaelic. Perhaps we'll meet Finola too; she's oftenthere. '

'Meet who?'

'Finola. That's what we call Miss Goold--Augusta Goold, you know. Wecall her Finola because she shelters the rest of us under her wings whenthe Moyle gets tempestuous. You remember the story?'

'Of course I do, ' said Hyacinth, who had learnt the tale of Lir'sdaughter as other children do Jack the Giant-Killer. 'And who is MissO'Dwyer?'

'Oh, she writes verses. Surely you know them?'

Hyacinth shook his head. 

'What a pity! We all admire them immensely. She has something nearlyevery week in the _Croppy_. She has just brought out a volume of lyrics. Her brother worked the publishing of it in New York. He is mixed up withliterary people there. You must have heard of him at all events. He'sPatrick O'Dwyer, one of the few who stood by O'Neill when he fought thepriests. He gave up the Parliamentary people after that. No honest mancould do anything else. '

He conducted Hyacinth to one of the old squares on the north side of thecity. When the tide of fashion set southwards, spreading terraces andvillas from Leeson Street to Killiney, it left behind some of the finesthouses in Dublin. Nowadays for a comparatively low rent it is possibleto live in a splendid house if you do not aspire to the glory of a smartaddress. Miss O'Dwyer's house, for instance, boasted a spacious hall andlofty sitting-rooms, with impressive ceilings and handsome fireplaces;yet she paid for it little more than half the rent which a cramped villain Clyde Road would have cost her. Even so, it was somewhat of a mysteryto her friends how Miss O'Dwyer managed to live there. A solicitor whohad his offices on the ground-floor probably paid the rent of the wholehouse; but the profits of verse-making are small, and a poetess, likemeaner women, requires food, clothes, and fire. Indeed, Miss O'Dwyer, no longer 'M. O'D. , ' whose verses adorned the _Croppy_, but 'Miranda, 'served an English paper as Irish correspondent. It was a pity that apen certainly capable of better things should have been employedin describing the newest costume of the Lord Lieutenant's wife atPunchestown, or the confection of pale-blue tulle which, draped roundMrs. Chesney, adorned a Castle ball. Miss O'Dwyer herself was heartilyashamed of the work, but it was, or appeared to her to be, necessary tolive, and even with the aid of occasional remittances from Patrick inNew York, she could scarcely have afforded her friends a cup of teawithout the guineas earned by torturing the English language in aweekly chronicle of Irish society's clothes. Even with the help of suchearnings, poverty was for ever tapping her on the shoulder, and no oneexcept Mary herself and her one maid-servant knew how carefully fireand light had to be economized in the splendid rooms where an extinctaristocracy had held revels a century before. 

Hyacinth and his friend advanced past the solicitor's doors, and upthe broad staircase as far as the drawing-room. For a time they got nofurther than the threshold. The opening of the door was greeted with along-drawn and emphatic 'Hush!' from the company within. Maguire laidhis hand on Hyacinth's arm, and the two stood still looking into theroom. What was left of the feeble autumn twilight was almost excluded byhalf-drawn curtains. No lamp was lit, and the fire cast only fitful rayshere and there through the room. It was with difficulty that Hyacinthdiscerned figures in a semicircle, and a slim woman in a white dressstanding apart from the others near the fire. Then he heard a voice, a singularly sweet voice, as it seemed to him, reciting with steadyemphasis on the syllables which marked the rhythm of the poem:

 'Out there in the West, where the heavy gray clouds are insistent, Where the sky stoops to gather the earth into mournful embraces, Where the country lies saturate, sodden, round saturate hamlets--

 'Out there in the sunset where rages and surges Atlantic, And the salt is commingled with rain over desolate beaches, Thy heart, O beloved, is still beating--fitfully, feebly. 

 'Is beating--ah! not as it beat in the squadrons of Sarafield, Exultantly, joyously, gladly, expectant of battle, With throbs like the notes of the drums when men gather for fighting. 

 'Beats still; but, ah! not as it beat in the latest Fitzgerald, Nobly devote to his race's most noble tradition; Or in Emmet or Davis, or, last on their list, in O'Brien. 

 'Beats fitfully, feebly. O desolate mother! O Erin! When shall the pulse of thy life, which but flutters in Connaucht, Throb through thy meadows and boglands, and mountains and cities?'

A subdued murmur of applause greeted the close of the recitation, andpraise more sincere than that with which politeness generally greets thedrawing-room performances of minor poets. Hyacinth joined in neither. It seemed to him that the verses were too beautiful to speak about, sosacred that praise was a kind of sacrilege. Perhaps some excuse may befound for his emotion in the fact that for weeks he had heard no poetryexcept the ode about 'wiping something off a slate. ' The violence of thecontrast benumbed his critical faculty. So a man who was obliged to gazefor a long time at the new churches erected in Belfast might afterwardscatch himself in the act of admiring the houses which the CongestedDistricts Board builds in Connaught. 

'I am afraid I must have bored you. ' It was Miss O'Dwyer who greetedhim. 'I didn't see you and Mr. Maguire come in until I had commenced mypoor little poem. I ought to have given you some tea before I inflictedit on you. '

'Oh, ' said Hyacinth, 'it was beautiful. Is it really your own? Did youwrite it?'

Miss O'Dwyer flushed. The vehement sincerity of his tone embarrassedher, though she was accustomed to praise. 

'You are very kind, ' she said. 'All my friends here are far too kind tome. But come now, I must give you some tea. '

The tea was nearly stone cold and weak with frequent waterings. Thesaucer and spoon, possibly even the cup, had been used by someone elsebefore. Mr. Maguire secured for himself the last remaining morsel ofcake, leaving Hyacinth the choice between a gingerbread biscuit anda torn slice of bread and butter. None of these things appeared toembarrass Miss O'Dwyer. They did not matter in the least to Hyacinth. 

'Do you know the West well?' he asked. 

'Indeed, I do not. I've always longed to go and spend a whole longsummer there, but I've never had the chance. '

'Then how did you know it was like that? I mean, how did you catch thespirit of it in your poem?'

'Did I?' she said. 'I am so glad. But I don't deserve any credit forit. I wrote those verses after I had been looking at one of Jim Tynan'spictures. You know them, of course? No? Oh, but you must go and see themat once if you love the West. And you do, don't you?'

'It is my home, ' said Hyacinth. 

When he had finished his tea she introduced him to some of the peoplewho were in the room. Afterwards he came to know them, but the memorieswhich Miss O'Dwyer's verses called up in him made him absent andpreoccupied. He scarcely heard the names she spoke. Soon the party brokeup, and Hyacinth turned to look for Maguire. 

'I'm afraid Mr. Maguire has gone, ' said Miss O'Dwyer. 'He has a lectureto attend this afternoon. You must come here again, Mr. Conneally. Comenext Wednesday--every Wednesday, if you like. We can have a talk aboutthe West. I shall want you to tell me all sorts of things. PerhapsFinola will be here next week. She very often comes. I shall lookforward to introducing you to her. You are sure to admire her immensely. We all do. '

'Yes, I've heard of her, ' said Hyacinth. 'Mr. Maguire told me who shewas. '

'Oh, but he couldn't have told you half. She is magnificent. All therest of us are only little children compared to her. Now be sure youcome and meet her. '

CHAPTER IV

Ever since Pitt and Castlerea perpetrated their Act of Union twopolitical parties have struggled together in Ireland. Both of them havebeen steadily prominent, so prominent that they have sometimes attractedthe attention of the English public, and drawn to their contest a littlequite unintelligent interest. The simplest and most discernible lineof division between them is a religious one. The Protestant party hashitherto been guided and led by the gentry. It has been steadily loyalto England and to the English Government. It has not been greatlyconcerned about Ireland or Ireland's welfare, but has been consistentlyanxious to preserve its own privileges, powers, and property. It has notcome well out of the struggle of the nineteenth century. Its Church hasbeen disestablished, its privileges and powers abolished, and the lastremnants of its property are being filched from it. It is a curiouspiece of irony that this party should have hastened its own defeatby the very policy adopted to secure victory. No doubt the Irisharistocracy would have suffered less if they had been seditious insteadof loyal. The Roman Catholic party has been led by ecclesiastics, andhas always included the bulk of the people. Its leaders have not caredfor the welfare of Ireland any more than the Protestant party, but theyhave always pretended that they did, being in this respect much wiserthan their opponents. They have pulled the strings of a whole series ofpolitical movements, and made puppets dance on and off the stage as theychose. Also they have understood how to deal with England. Unlike theProtestant party, they have never been loyal, because they knew from thefirst that England gives most to those who bully or worry her. They havekept one object steadily in view, an object quite as selfish in realityas that of the aristocracy--the aggrandisement of their Church. Forthis they have been prepared at any time to sacrifice the interestsof Ireland, and are content at the present moment to watch the countrybleeding to death with entire complacency. The leaders of this partyenter upon the twentieth century in sight of their promised land. Theypossess all the power and nearly all the wealth of Ireland. If theBishops can secure the continuance of English government for the nexthalf-century Ireland will have become the Church's property. Hermoney will go to propagating the faith. Her children will supply theEnglish-speaking world with a superfluity of priests and nuns. 

Outside both parties there have always been a few men united by no tiesof policy or religion, unless, as perhaps we may, we call patriotisma kind of religion. Other lands have been loved sincerely, devotedly, passionately, as mothers, wives, and mistresses are loved. Ireland alonehas been loved religiously, as men are taught to love God or thesaints. Her lovers have called themselves Catholic or Protestant: suchdistinctions have not mattered to these men. They have scarcely everbeen able to form themselves into a party, never into a strong or a wiseparty. They have been violent, desperate, frequently ridiculous, butalways sincere and unselfish. Their great weakness has lain in the factthat they have had no consistent aim. Some of their leaders have lookedfor a return to Ireland's Constitution, and built upon the watchword ofthe volunteers, 'The King, the Lords, and the Commons of Ireland. ' Somehave dreamed of a complete independence, of an Irish republic shapingits own world policy. Some have wholly distrusted politics, and giventheir strength to the intellectual, spiritual, or material regenerationof the people. Among these men have been found the sanest practicalreformers and the wildest revolutionary dreamers. On the outskirts oftheir company have hung all sorts of people. Parliamentary politicianshave leaned towards them, and been driven straightway out of publiclife. Criminals have claimed fellowship with them, and broughtdiscredit upon honourable men. Poets and men of letters have drawntheir inspiration from their strivings, and in return have decked theirpatriotism with imperishable splendour. In the future, no doubt, the struggle will lie between this party and the hitherto victorioushierarchy, with England for ally, and the fight seems a wholly unequalone. It was into an advanced and vehement group of patriots that MaryO'Dwyer introduced Hyacinth. He became a regular reader of the _Croppy_, and made the acquaintance of most of the contributors to its pages. Hefound them clever, enthusiastic, and agreeable men and women, but, ashe was forced to admit to himself, occasionally reckless. One evening adiscussion took place in Mary O'Dwyer's room which startled and shockedhim. Excitement ran high over the events of the war. The sympathiesof the 'Independent Irelanders, ' as they called themselves, fiercelyassertive even in their name, were of course entirely with the Boers, and they received every report of an English reverse with unmixedsatisfaction. 

When Hyacinth entered the room he found four people there. MaryO'Dwyer herself was making tea at a little table near the fire. AugustaGoold--the famous Finola--was stretched in a deep chair smokinga cigarette. She was a remarkable woman both physically andintellectually. It was her delight to emphasize her splendid figureby draping it in brilliant reds and yellows. To anyone who cared tospeculate on such a subject it seemed a mystery why her clothes remainedon her when she walked. The laws of gravity seemed to demand that theyshould loosen with her movements, become detached, and finally dropdown. Nothing of the sort had ever happened, so it must be presumed thatshe had secret and unconventional ways of fastening them. Similarly itwas not easy to see why her hair stayed upon her head. It was arrangedupon no recognised system, and suggested that she had perfected the art, known generally only to heroines of romances, of twisting her tresseswith a single movement into a loose knot. That she affected white frillsof immense complexity was frequently evident, owing to the difficultyshe experienced in confining her long legs to feminine attitudes. Her complexion put it in the power of her enemies to accuse her offamiliarity with cosmetics--a slander, for she had been observed to turngreen during an attack of sea-sickness. She had great brilliant eyes, which were capable of expressing intensity of enthusiasm or hatred, but no one had ever seen them soften with any emotion like love. Herattitude towards social conventions was symbolized by her clothes. Inthe old days, when the houses of 'society' had still been open to her, she was accustomed to challenge criticism by fondling a pet monkeyat tea-parties. Since she had lost caste by taking up the cause of'Independent Ireland' the ape had been discarded, and the same resultachieved by occasional bickerings with the police. She was an ablepublic speaker, and could convince her audiences for a time of thereasonableness of opinions which next morning appeared to be the outcomeof delirium. She wrote, not, like Mary O'Dwyer, verse in which anysentiment may be excused, but incisive and vigorous prose. Occasionallyeven the Castle officials got glimmerings of the meaning of one of herarticles, and suppressed the whole issue of the _Croppy_ in which itappeared. 

Near her sat a much less remarkable person--Thomas Grealy, historianand archaeologist. He had been engaged for many years on a history ofIreland, but no volume of it had as yet appeared. His friends suspectedthat he had got permanently stuck somewhere about the period of theintroduction of Christianity into the island. His essays, published inthe _Croppy_, dwelt with passionate regret on the departed gloriesof Tara. He held strong views about the historical reality of theTuath-de-Danaan, and got irritated at the most casual mention of Dr. Petrie's theory of the round towers. He had proved that King Arthurwas an Irishman, with whose reputation Malory and Tennyson had takenunwarrantable liberties. The name of Dante brought a smile of contemptto his lips, for he knew that the 'Purgatorio' was stolen shamelesslyfrom the works of a monk of Cong. He nourished a secret passion forFinola. He never ventured to declare it, but his imagination endowedevery heroine, from Queen Maev down to the foster daughter of theLeinster farmer who married King Cormac, with Miss Goold's figure, eyesand hair. It was perhaps the burning of this passion which rendered himso cadaverous that his clothes--in other respects also they looked asif they had been bought in far-off happier days--hung round him like thecovering of a broken-ribbed umbrella. 

The fourth person present was Timothy Halloran, who hovered about MaryO'Dwyer's tea-table. He was what the country people call a 'spoiltpriest. ' Destined by simple and pious parents to take Holy Orders, hegot as far as the inside of Maynooth College. While there he had kickeda fellow-student down the whole length of a long corridor for tellingtales to the authorities. A committee of ecclesiastics considered thecase, and having come to the conclusion that he lacked vocation forthe priesthood, sent him home. Timothy was accustomed to say that hisviolence might have been passed over, but that his failure to appreciatethe devotion to duty which inspired the tale-bearer marked himdecisively as unfit for ordination. He never regretted his expulsion, although he complained bitterly that he had been nearly choked beforethey cast him out. He meant, it is to be supposed, that the effort toinstil a proper reverence for dogma had almost destroyed his capacityfor thought, not that the fingers of the reverend professors hadactually closed around his windpipe. His subsequent experiences hadincluded a period of teaching in an English Board School, a brief, butnot wholly unsatisfactory, career as a political organizer in NewYork, and a return to Ireland, where he earned a precarious living as ajournalist. 

All four greeted Hyacinth warmly as he entered the room. 

'We were just discussing, ' said Mary O'Dwyer, 'the failure of ourattempt to organize a field hospital and a staff of nurses for theBoers. It is a shame to have to admit that the English garrison inIreland can raise thousands of pounds for their war funds, and the Irishcan't be got to subscribe a few hundreds. '

'The wealth of the country, ' said Grealy, 'is in the hands of aminority--the so-called Loyalists. '

'Nonsense, ' said Finola sharply. 'If you ever gave a thought to anythingmore recent than the High-King's Court at Tara you would know that thelandlords are not the wealthy part of the community any longer. There'smany a provincial publican calling himself a Nationalist who could buyup the nearest landlord and every Protestant in the parish along withhim. I'm a Protestant myself, born and bred among the class you speakof, and I know. '

'You're quite right, Miss Goold, ' said Tim. 'The people could have giventhe money if they liked. I attribute the failure of the fund to theapathy or treachery of the priests, call it which you like. There isn'ta Protestant church in the country where the parsons don't preach "Givegive, give" to their people Sunday after Sunday. And what's the result?Why, they have raised thousands of pounds. '

'After the poem you published in last week's _Croppy_, ' said Hyacinthto Mary O'Dwyer, 'I made sure the subscriptions would have come in. Yourappeal was one of the most beautiful things I ever read. It would havetouched the heart of a stone. '

'Poetry is all well enough, ' said Tim. 'I admire your verses, Mary, as much as anyone, but we want a collection at every church door afterMass. That's what we ought to have, but it's exactly what we won't get, because the priests are West Britons at heart. They would pray for theQueen and the army to-morrow, like Cardinal Vaughan, if they weren'tafraid. '

'I believe, ' said Finola, 'that we went the wrong way about the thingaltogether. We asked for a hospital, and we appealed to the people'spity for the wounded Boers. Nobody in Ireland cares a pin aboutthe Boers. Why on earth should we? From all I can hear they are anarrow-minded, intolerant set of hypocrites. I'd just as soon read thestuff some fool of an English newspaper man wrote about "our brother theBoer" as listen to the maudlin sentiment our people talk. We don't wantto help the Boers. We want to hurt the English. '

'And you think----' said Grealy. 

'I think, ' went on Finola, 'that we ought to have asked for volunteersto go out and fight, instead of nurses to cocker up the men who arefools enough to get themselves shot. We'd have got them. '

'You would not, ' said Tim. 'The clergy would have been dead against you. They would have nipped the whole project in the bud without so much asmaking a noise in doing it. '

'That's true, ' said Grealy. 'Remember, Miss Goold, it was the priestswho cursed Tara, and the monks who broke the power of the Irish Kings. Ihaven't worked the thing out yet, but I mean to show----'

Finola interrupted the poor man ruthlessly:

'Let's try it, anyway. Let's preach a crusade. '

'Not the least bit of good, ' said Tim. 'Every blackguard in the countryis enlisted already in the Connaught Bangers or the Dublin Fusiliers, or some confounded Militia regiment. There's nobody left but the nice, respectable, goody-goody boys who wouldn't leave their mothers or missgoing to confession if you went down on your knees to them. '

'Well, then, the Irish troops ought to shoot their officers, and walkover to the Boer camp, ' said Finola savagely. 

Hyacinth half smiled at what seemed to him a monstrous jest. Then, whenhe perceived that she was actually in earnest, the smile froze into akind of grin. His hands trembled with the violence of his indignation. 

'It would be devilish treachery, ' he blurted out. 'The name of Irishmanwill never be disgraced by such an act. '

Augusta Goold flung her cigarette into the grate, and rose from herchair. She stood over Hyacinth, her hands clenched and her bosom heavingrapidly. Her eyes blazed down into his until their scorn cowed him. 

'There is no treachery possible for an Irishman, ' she said, 'exceptthe one of fighting for England. Any deed against England--yes, _any_deed--is glorious, and not shameful. '

Hyacinth was utterly quelled. He ventured upon no reply. Indeed, notonly did her violence render argument undesirable--and it seemed forthe moment that he would find himself in actual grips with a furiousAmazon--but her words carried with them a certain conviction. Itactually seemed to him while she spoke as if a good defence might bemade for Irish soldiers who murdered their officers and deserted to anenemy in the field. It was not until hours afterwards, when the vividimpression of Finola's face had faded from his recollection, when he hadbegun to forget the flash of her eyes, the poise of her figure, and theglow of her draperies, that his moral sense was able to reassert itself. Then he knew that she had spoken wickedly. It might be right for anIrishman to fight against England when he could. It might be justifiableto seize the opportunity of England's embarrassment to make a bid forfreedom by striking a blow at the Empire. So far his conscience wentwillingly, but that treachery and murder could ever be anything buthorrible he refused altogether to believe. 

Another conversation in which he took part about this time helpedHyacinth still further to understand the position of his new friends. Tim Halloran and he were smoking and chatting together over the firewhen Maguire joined them. 

'What's the matter with you?' asked Halloran. 'You look as if you'd beenat your mother's funeral. '

'You're not so far out in your guess, ' said Maguire grimly. 'I spent themorning at my sister's wedding. Would you like a bit of the cake?' Heproduced from his pocket a paper containing crushed fragments of whitesugar and a shapeless mass of citron and currants. 'With the complimentsof the Reverend Mother, ' he said. 'Try a bit. '

'What on earth do you mean?' said Hyacinth. 

'Oh, I assure you the Sisters of Pity do these things in style, ' saidMaguire. 'It's a pretty fancy, that of the wedding-cake, isn't it?But you're a Protestant, Conneally; you don't understand this delicateplayfulness. I was present to-day at the reception of my only sisterinto the Institute of the Catholic Sisters of Pity, founded by HonoriaKavanagh. I've lost Birdie Maguire, that's all, the little girl thatused to climb on to my knee and kiss me, and instead of her there's aSister Monica Mary, who will no doubt pray for my soul when she's let. '

'What was the figure in her case?' asked Tim in a perfectlymatter-of-fact tone. 

'Six hundred pounds, ' said Maguire. 'It must have put the old man to thepin of his collar to pay it. The only time he ever talked to me abouthis affairs he told me he had got four hundred pounds put by forBirdie's fortune, and that I was to have my medical course and whateverthe old shop would fetch when he was gone. They must have put the screwon pretty tight to make him spring the extra two hundred. I dare say Ishall suffer for it in the end. He must have borrowed the money. '

Hyacinth felt intensely curious about this young nun. Like mostProtestants he had grown up to regard monasticism in all its forms assomething remote, partly horrible, wholly unintelligible. 

'Why did she do it?' he asked. 'What sort of a girl was she? Do you mindtelling me?'

'Not in the least, ' said Maguire. 'Only I'm not sure that I know. Threeyears ago--that is, when I left home--she was the last sort of girl youcould imagine going into a convent. She was pretty, fond of nice clothesand admiration, as keen as every girl ought to be on a dance. I neversupposed she had a thought of religion in her head--I mean, beyond theusual confessions and attendances at Mass. '

'I suppose, ' said Hyacinth, 'your people wanted it. '

'I don't think so, ' said Maguire. 'Perhaps my mother did. I don't know. '

'You see, Conneally, ' said Tim Halloran, 'it is a sort of hall-markof respectability among people like Maguire's to have a girl in a goodconvent. A little lower down in the social scale, in the class I comefrom, the boys are made priests. A doctor is a more expensive article tomanufacture, so Maguire's father selected that line of life for him. Notthat they could have made a priest of you, Maguire, in any case. You'dhave disgraced Maynooth, as I did. '

'I don't understand, ' said Hyacinth. 'I thought a vocation for the lifewas necessary. '

'Oh, so it is, ' said Tim Halloran, 'but, you see, there's the period ofthe novitiate. Given a girl at an impressionable age, the proper conventatmosphere, and a prize of six hundred pounds for the Order, and itwill go hard with the Reverend Mother if she can't work the girl up toa vocation. It takes a man a lifetime to make six hundred pounds ina country shop, but there's many a one who does it by hard work andself-denial; then down come the nuns and sweep it away, and it'swasted. It ought to be invested in a local factory or in waterworks, orgas-works, or fifty other things that would benefit the town it's madein. It ought to be fructifying and bearing interest; instead of whichoff it goes to Munich for stained glass, or to Italy for a marble altar. Is it any wonder Ireland is crying out with poverty?'

'Yes, ' said Maguire, 'and that's not the worst of it. I'd be content tolet them take the damned money and deck their churches with it, but thegirls--there are hundreds of them caught every year for nuns, and sweptout of life. It isn't the Irish convents alone that get them. Americannuns come over and Australian nuns, and they go round and round thecountry picking up girls here and there, and carry them off. There, I don't want to talk too much about it. The money is nothing, but thegirls and boys----'

'It seems strange to me, ' said Hyacinth, 'that when you think that wayyou should go on belonging to your Church. '

'Desert the Church!' said Maguire. 'We'll never do that. How could welive without religion? And what other religion is there? I grant youthat your priests wouldn't rob us, but--but think of the cold of it. You can't realize it, Conneally, but think what it would mean toa Catholic--a religion without saints, without absolution, withoutsacrifice. Besides, what we complain of is not Catholicism. It's aparasitic growth destroying the true faith, defiling the Church. '

'Yes, ' said Tim Halloran, 'and even from my point of view how should webe the better of a change? Your Church is ruled by old women who thinkthe name of Englishman the most glorious in the world. You preachloyalty, and I believe you pray for the Queen in your services. A nicefool I would feel praying that the Queen should have victory over herenemies. '

For a long time afterwards this conversation dwelt in Hyacinth's mind. Tim Halloran he knew to be practically a freethinker, but Maguireregularly heard Mass on Sundays, and often went to confession. It was apuzzle how he could do so, feeling as he did about the religious Orders. So insistent did the problem become to his mind that he found himselfcontinually leading the conversation round to it from one side oranother. Mary O'Dwyer told him that she also had a sister in a nunnery. 

'She teaches girls to make lace, and wonderful work they do. She isperfectly happy. I think her face is the sweetest and most beautifulthing I have ever seen. There is not a line on it of care or offretfulness. It seems to me as if her whole life might be described asa quiet smile. I always feel better by the mere recollection of her facefor a long time after I have visited her. Oh, I know it wouldn't dofor me. I couldn't stand it for a week. I should go mad with the quietrestraint of it all. But my sister is happy. I can't forget that. Isuppose she has a vocation. '

'Vocation, ' said Hyacinth thoughtfully. 'Yes, I can understand how thatwould make all the difference. But how many of them have the vocation?'

'Don't you think vocation might be learnt? I mean mightn't one grow intoit, if one wished to very much, and if the life was constantly beforeone's eyes, beautiful and calm?'

It was almost the same thought which Timothy Halloran had suggested. Mary O'Dwyer spoke of growing into vocation, Tim of the working of itup. Was there any difference except a verbal one?

On another occasion he spoke to Dr. Henry about the position of theChurch of Ireland in the country. 

'We have proved, ' said the professor, 'that the Roman claims have nosupport in Scripture, history, or reason. Our books remain unanswered, because they are unanswerable. We can do no more. '

'We might offer the Irish people a Church which they could join, ' saidHyacinth. 

'We do. We offer them the Church of St. Patrick, the ancient, historicChurch of Ireland. We offer them the two Sacraments of the Gospel, administered by priests duly ordained at the hands of an Episcopatewhich goes back in an unbroken line to the Apostles. We present them thethree great creeds for their assent. We use a liturgy that is at onceancient and pure. The Church of Ireland has all this, is beyond disputea branch of the great Catholic Church of Christ. '

'It may be all you say, ' said Hyacinth, 'but it is not national. Insentiment and sympathy it is English and not Irish. '

'I know what you mean, ' said Dr. Henry. 'I think I understand how youfeel, but I cannot consent to the conclusion you want to draw. Thereis no real meaning in the cry for nationality. It is a sentiment, afashion, and will pass. Even if it were genuine and enduring, I hold itto be better for Ireland to be an integral part of a great Empire than acontemptible and helpless item among the nations of the world, a prey tothe intrigues of ambitious foreign statesmen. '

Hyacinth sighed and turned to go, but Dr. Henry laid a hand upon hisshoulder and detained him. 

'Conneally, ' he said kindly, 'let me give you a word of advice. Don'tmix yourself up with your new friends too much. You will ruin your ownprospects in life if you do. There is nothing more fatal to a man amongthe people with whom you and I are to live and work than the suspicionof being tainted with Nationalist ideas. You can't be both a rebel anda clergyman. You see, ' he added with a smile, 'I take enough interest inyou to know who your friends are, and what you are thinking about. '

CHAPTER V

Augusta Goold's scheme for enrolling Irish volunteers to help the Boerswas duly set forth in the next issue of the _Croppy_. It included twoappeals--one for money and one for men. The details were worked outwith the frank contempt for possibility which characterizes some of thefamous suggestions of Dean Swift. She had the same faculty that he hadfor bringing absurdities within the range of the commonplace; but therewas this difference between them--Miss Goold quite believed in her ownplans, while the great Dean no doubt grinned over the proof-sheets ofhis 'Modest Proposal. '

It happened, most unfortunately, that the appeal synchronized withanother, also for funds, which was issued by Mr. O'Rourke, the leaderof the Parliamentary party. Since the death of John O'Neill the purseof the party had been getting lean. The old tactics which used to drawplaudits and dollars from the United States, as well as a tribute fromevery parish in Ireland, had lately been unsuccessful. There were stillviolent scenes in the House of Commons, but they no longer producedanything except contemptuous smiles. Members of Parliament stillsucceeded occasionally in getting the Chief Secretary to imprison them, but the glory of martyrdom was harder to win than in the old days. Latterly things had come to such a pass that even the reduced stipendsoffered to the members fell into arrear. The attendance at Westminsterdropped away. The Government could afford to smile at Mr. O'Rourke'sefforts to make himself disagreeable, and the Opposition were franklycontemptuous of a people who could not profit them by more than a dozenvotes in a critical division. It became impossible to wring even amodest Land Bill from the Prime Minister, and Mr. Chesney, now much atease in the Secretary's office in the Castle, scarcely felt it necessaryto be civil to deputations which wanted railways. It was clear thatsomething must be done, or Mr. O'Rourke's business would disappear. He decided to appeal for funds _orbi et urbi_. The world--in this caseNorth America--was to be visited, exhorted, and, it was hoped, taxed bysome of his most eloquent lieutenants. Even Canada, with its leavenof Orangemen, was to be honoured with the speeches of an orator ofsecond-rate powers. The city--Dublin, of course--was the chosen scene ofthe leader's personal exertions. Since his revolt against John O'Neill, O'Rourke had been a little shy of Dublin audiences, but the pressingnature of the present crisis almost forced him to pay his court to thecapital. He found some comfort in the recollection that during the fiveyears that had elapsed since O'Neill's death he had missed no publicopportunity of shedding tears beside his tomb. He remembered, too, thathe had put his name down for a large subscription towards the erectionof a statue to the dead leader, a work of art which the existinggeneration seemed unlikely to have the pleasure of seeing. 

Thus it happened that on the very day of the publication of Miss Goold'sscheme Mr. O'Rourke announced his intention of addressing an appeal forfunds to a public meeting in the Rotunda. Miss Goold was disconcertedand irritated. She was well aware that Mr. O'Rourke's appeal would givethe respectable Nationalists an excellent excuse for ignoring hers, andunfortunately the respectable people are just the ones who have mostmoney. She was confident that she could rely on the extreme section ofthe Nationalists, and on that element in the city population which lovesand makes a row, but she could not count on the moneyed classes. Theywere, so far as their words went, very enthusiastic for the Boercause; but when it came to writing cheques, it was likely that thecounter-attractions of the Parliamentary fund would prove too strong. 

Since it seemed that Mr. O'Rourke would certainly spoil her collection, the obvious thing to do was to try to spoil his. If he afforded peoplean excuse for not paying the travelling expenses of her volunteers toLorenzo Marques, she would, if possible, suggest a way of escape frompaying for his men's journeys to London. After all, no one really wantedto subscribe to either fund, and it might be supposed that the publicwould very gladly keep their purses shut altogether. 

For an Irishman it is quite possible to be genuinely enthusiastic and atthe same time able to see the humorous side of his own enthusiasm. Thisis a reason why an Irishman is never a bore unless, to gain his privateends, he wants to be. Even an Irish advocate of total abstinence, or anIrish antivaccinationist, if such a thing exists, is not a bore, because he will always trot out his conscientious objections with ahalf-humorous, half-deprecating smile. This same capacity for avoidingthe slavery of serious fanaticism enables an Irishman to cease quitejoyfully from the pursuit of his own particular fad in order to corneran obnoxious opponent. Thus Augusta Goold and her friends were genuinelydesirous of striking a blow at England, and really believed that theirvolunteers might do it; but this did not prevent them from findinginfinite relish in the prospect of watching Mr. O'Rourke squirming onthe horns of a dilemma. They took counsel together, and the result oftheir deliberations was peculiar. They proposed to invite Mr. O'Rourketo join his appeal to theirs, to pool the money which came in, and todivide it evenly between the volunteers and the members of Parliament. It was Tim Halloran who hit upon the brilliant idea. Augusta Gooldchuckled over it as she grasped its consequences. Mr. O'Rourke, Timargued, would be unwilling to accept the proposal because he wanted allthe money he could get, more than was at all likely to be collected. He would be equally unwilling to reject it, because he could then berepresented as indifferent to the heroic struggle of the Boers. Inthe existing state of Irish and American opinion a suspicion of suchindifference would be quite sufficient to wreck his chances of gettingany money at all. 

Of course, the obvious way of making such a proposal would have been byletter to Mr. O'Rourke. Afterwards the correspondence--he must make areply of some sort--could be sent to the press, and sufficient publicitywould be given to the matter. This was what Tim Halloran wanted to do, but such a course did not commend itself to Augusta Goold. It lackeddramatic possibilities, and there was always the chance that the leadingpapers might refuse to take any notice of the matter, or relegatethe letters to a back page and small print. Besides, a mere newspapercontroversy would not make a strong appeal to the section of the Dublinpopulace on whose support she chiefly relied. A much more attractiveplan suggested itself. Augusta Goold, with a few friends to act asaides-de-camp, would present herself to Mr. O'Rourke at his Rotundameeting, and put the proposal to him then and there in the presence ofthe audience. 

In the meantime the few days before the meeting were occupied inscattering suggestive seed over the hoardings and blank walls of thecity. One morning people were startled by the sight of an immenseplacard which asked in violent red letters, 'What is Ireland goingto do?' Public opinion was divided about the ultimate purpose of theposter. The majority expected the announcement of a new play or novel;a few held that a pill or a cocoa would be recommended. Next morning thequestion became more explicit, and the hypothesis of the play and thepill were excluded. 'What, ' the new poster ran, 'is Ireland going to dofor the Boers?' The public were not intensely anxious to find an answerto the conundrum thrust thus forcibly on their attention, but theybecame curious to know who the advertisers were who hungered for theinformation. Men blessed by Providence with sagacious-looking faces madethe most of their opportunity, and informed their friends that the thingwas a new dodge of O'Rourke's to get money. Their reputation sufferedwhen the next placard appeared. The advertisers had apparently changedtheir minds, for what they now wanted to know was, 'What are the IrishM. P. 's going to do for the Boers?' Clearly Mr. O'Rourke could havenothing to gain by insisting on an answer to such a question. The publicwere puzzled but pleased. The bill-stickers of the city foresawthe possibility of realizing a competence, for the next morning thesatisfied inquirers published the result of their investigations. 'TheEm Pees '(it was thus that they now referred to the honourable membersof Parliament) 'are supporting the infamies of England. ' It was atthis point that the eye of a Castle official was caught by one of theplacards as he made his way to the Kildare Street Club for luncheon. He discussed the matter with a colleague, and it occurred to them thatsince they were paid for governing Ireland, they ought to give thepublic some value for their money, and seize the opportunity of doingsomething. They sent a series of telegrams to Mr. Chesney's Londonhouse, which were forwarded by his private secretary to the Riviera. The replies which followed kept the Castle officials in a state ofpleasurable excitement until quite late in the evening. At about eighto'clock large numbers of Metropolitan police sallied out of theirbarracks and tore down the last batch of placards. Next morning freshones were posted up, each of which bore the single word, 'Why?' Thebill-stickers were highly pleased, and many of them were arrested fordrunkenness. Mr. O'Rourke was much less pleased, for he began to guesswhat the answer was likely to be, and how it would affect his chances ofsecuring a satisfactory collection. The officials were perplexed. Theysuspected the 'Why?' of containing within its three letters some hideoussedition, but it was not possible to deal vigorously with what might, after all, be only the cunning novelty of some advertising manufacturer. More telegrams harried Mr. Chesney, but before any definite course ofaction had been decided on the morning of the Rotunda meeting arrived, and with it an answer to the multifarious 'Whys': Because O'Rourke wantsall the money to spend in the London restaurants. ' There was a greatdeal of laughter, and many people, quite uninterested in politics, determined to go to the meeting in hopes of more amusement. 

When Mr. O'Rourke took the chair the hall was crowded to its utmostcapacity. Under ordinary circumstances this would have augured well forthe success of his appeal, for it showed that the public were at allevents not apathetic. On this particular occasion, however, Mr. O'Rourkewould have been better pleased with a smaller audience. The placardshad shown him that something unpleasant was likely to occur, though theyafforded no hint of the form which the unpleasantness would take. Whenhe rose to his feet he was greeted with the usual volley of cheers, andalthough some rude remarks about the Boers were made in the corners ofthe hall, they did not amount to anything like an organized attempt atinterruption. He began his speech cautiously, feeling the pulse ofhis audience, and plying them with the well-worn platitudes of theNationalist platform. When these evoked the usual enthusiasm he waxedbolder, and shot out some almost original epigrams directed against theGovernment, working up to a really new gibe about officials who satlike spiders spinning murderous webs in Dublin Castle. The audiencewere delighted with this, but their joy reached its height when someoneshouted: 'You might speak better of the men who tore down the placardon Wednesday. ' Mr. O'Rourke ignored the suggestion, and passed on tosharpen his wit upon the landlords. He described them as 'ill-omenedtax-gatherers who suck the life-blood of the country, and refuse todisgorge a penny of it for any useful purpose. ' Mr. O'Rourke was not aman who shrank from a mixed metaphor, or paused to consider such triflesas the unpleasantness which would ensue if anyone who had been suckingblood were to repent and disgorge it. 'Where, ' he went on to ask, 'dothey spend their immense revenues? Is it in Ireland?' Here he made oneof those dramatic pauses for which his oratory was famous. The audiencewaited breathlessly for the denunciation which was to follow. They weretreated, unexpectedly, to a well-conceived anticlimax. A voice spokesoftly, but quite clearly, from the back of the hall:

'Bedad, and I shouldn't wonder if it was in the London restaurants. '

A roar of laughter followed. The orator might no doubt have made aneffective reply, but every time he opened his mouth minor wits, rendinglike wolves the carcase of the original joke, yelled 'turtle-soup'at him, or 'champagne and oysters. ' He got angry, and consequentlyflurried. He tried to quell the tumult by thundering out thedenunciation which he had prepared. But the delight which the audiencetook in shrieking the items of their imaginary bill of fare was too muchfor him. He forgot what he had meant to say, floundered, attempted topull himself together, and brought out the stale jest about providingeach landlord with a single ticket to Holyhead. 

'And that same, ' said his original tormentor, 'would be cheaper thangiving you a return ticket to London. '

The audience was immensely tickled. So far the entertainment, if notprecisely novel, was better than anything they had hoped for, andeveryone had an agreeable conviction that there was still somethingin the way of a sensation in store. Perhaps it was eagerness for theexpected climax which induced them to keep tolerably quiet during theremainder of Mr. O'Rourke's speech. He set forth at some length theglorious achievements of his party in the past, and explained theopportunities of future usefulness which lay to be grasped if only thenecessary funds were provided. He sat down to make way, as he assuredthe audience, for certain tried and trusty soldiers of the cause whowere waiting to propose important resolutions. So far as thesewarriors were concerned, he might as well have remained standing. Theirresolutions are to this day unproposed and uncommended--a secret joy, no doubt, to those who framed them, but not endorsed by any popularapproval. 

Hyacinth Conneally was not admitted to the secret councils of AugustaGoold and her friends. He knew no more than the general public what kindof a coup was meditated, but he gathered from Miss O'Dwyer's nervousexcitement and Tim Halloran's air of immense and mysterious importancethat something quite out of the common was likely to occur. By arrivingan hour and a half before the opening of the meeting he secured a seatnear the platform. He enjoyed the discomfiture of O'Rourke, whom he hadlearnt from the pages of the _Croppy_ to despise as a mere windbag, andto hate as the betrayer of O'Neill. A sudden thrill of excitement wentthrough him when O'Rourke sat down. The whole audience turned theirfaces from the platform towards the door at the far end of the hall, andHyacinth, without knowing exactly what he expected, turned too. There was a swaying visible among the crowd near the door, and almostimmediately it became clear that someone was trying to force a waythrough the densely-packed people. Curses were to be heard, and evencries from those who were being trodden on. At last a way was made. Augusta Goold, followed by Grealy, Halloran, and Mary O'Dwyer, cameslowly up the hall towards the platform. Those of the audience whoselimbs had not been crushed or their feet mangled in preparation for herprogress cheered her wildly. Indeed, she made a regal appeal to them. Even amidst a crowd of men her height made her conspicuous, and she hadarrayed herself for the occasion in a magnificent violet robe. It flowedfrom her shoulders in spacious folds, and swept behind her, splendidlycontemptuous of the part it played as scavenger amid the accumulatedfilth of the floor. Her bare arms shone out of the wide sleeves whichhung around them. Her neck rose strong and stately over the silver claspof a cloak which she had thrown back from her shoulders. She wore a hatwhich seemed to hold her hair captive from falling loose around her. Onegreat tress alone escaped from it, and by some cunning manipulation wasmade to stand straight out, as if blown by the wind from its fastenings. In comparison her suite looked commonplace and mean. Poor Miss O'Dwyerwas arrayed--'gowned, ' she would have said herself in reporting thescene--in vesture not wanting in splendour, but which beside MissGoold's could not catch the eye. Thomas Grealy, awkward and stooped, peered through his glasses at the crowd. Tim Halloran walked jauntily, but his eyes glanced nervously from side to side. He was certainly illat ease, possibly frightened, at the position in which he found himself. 

A hurried consultation took place among the gentlemen on the platform, which ended in Mr. O'Rourke stepping forward with a smile and anoutstretched hand to welcome Augusta Goold as she ascended the steps. The expression of his face belied the smile which he had impressed uponhis lips. His eyes had the same look of furtive malice as a dog'swhich wants to bite but fears the stick. Augusta Goold waved aside theproffered hand, and stepped unaided on to the platform. Mr. O'Rourkeplaced a chair for her, but she ignored it and stood, with her followersbehind her, facing the audience. O'Rourke and two of his tried andtrusty members of Parliament approached her. They stood between herand the audience, and talked to her for some time, apparently veryearnestly. Augusta Goold looked past them, over them, sometimes itseemed through them, while they spoke, but made them no answer whatever. At last Mr. O'Rourke shrugged his shoulders, and withdrew to his chairwith a sulky scowl. 

'I wish, ' said Augusta Goold, 'to ask a simple question of yourchairman. '

Mr. O'Rourke rose. 

'This meeting, ' he said, 'is convened for the purpose of raising fundsfor the carrying on of the national business in the House of Commons. IfMiss Goold's question relates to the business in hand, I shall be mosthappy to answer it. If not, I am afraid I cannot allow it to be askedhere. At another time and in another place I shall be prepared to listento what Miss Goold has to say, and in the meantime if she will take herseat on the platform she will be heartily welcome. '

'My question, ' said Augusta Goold, 'is intimately connected with thebusiness of the meeting. It is simply this: Are you, Mr. O'Rourke, prepared to give any portion of the money entrusted to you by the Irishpeople to assist the Boers in their struggle for freedom?'

It was manifestly absurd to ask such a question at all. Mr. O'Rourkehad no intention of collecting money for the Boers, who seemed to haveplenty of their own, and he could not without breach of trust haveapplied funds subscribed to feed and clothe members of Parliament toarming volunteers. Nevertheless, it was an awkward question to answerin the presence of an audience excited by Augusta Goold's beauty andsplendid audacity. A really strong man, like, for instance, O'Rourke'spredecessor, John O'Neill, might have faced the situation, and won, ifnot the immediate cheers, at least the respect of the Irish people. ButMr. O'Rourke was not a strong man, and besides he was out of temper andhad lost his nerve. He took perhaps the worst course open to him: hemade a speech. He appealed to his past record as a Nationalist, and tohis publicly reiterated expressions of sympathy with the Boer cause. He asked the audience to trust him to do what was right, but he neithersaid Yes nor No to the question he was asked. 

Augusta Goold stood calm and impassive while he spoke. A sneer gatheredon her lips and indrawn nostrils as he made his appeal for the people'sconfidence. When he had finished she said, very slowly, and with thatextreme distinctness of articulation which women speakers seem to learnso much more easily than men:

'Are you prepared to give any portion of the money entrusted to you bythe Irish people to assist the Boers in their struggle for freedom?'

Mr. O'Rourke was goaded into attempting another speech, but the audiencewas in no mood to listen to him. He was interrupted again and again withshouts of 'Yes or no!' 'Answer the question!' The bantering tone withwhich they had plied him earlier in the evening with suggestions for amenu had changed now into angry insistence. He passed his hand over hisforehead with a gesture of despair, and sat down. At once the tumultceased, and the people waited breathless for Augusta Goold to speakagain. 

'Are you prepared'--she seemed to have learnt her question off byheart--'to give any portion of the money entrusted to you by the Irishpeople to assist the Boers in their struggle for freedom?'

Mr. Shea, a red-headed member of Parliament from Co. Limerick, beinghimself one of those most deeply interested in the contents of theparty's purse, sprang to his feet. It was clear that he was in acondition of almost dangerous excitement, for he stammered, as heshouted to the chairman:

'Sir, is this--this--this woman to be allowed to interrupt the meeting?I demand her immediate removal. '

Augusta Goold smiled at him. It was really a very gracious, almost atender, smile. One might imagine the divine Theodora in her earlier dayssmiling with just such an expression on a plebeian lover whose passionshe regarded as creditable to him but hopeless. 

'I assure you, Mr. Shea, that I shall not interrupt the business formore than a minute. Mr. O'Rourke has only got to say one word--eitherYes or No. Are you prepared to give any portion of the funds entrustedto you by the Irish people to assist the Boers in their struggle forfreedom?'

Mr. Shea was not at all mollified either by the smile or the politenessof her tone. 

'We shall not permit the meeting to be interrupted any more, ' heshouted. 'Either you will withdraw at once, or we shall have you removedby force. '

She smiled at him again--a pitying smile, as if she regretted thepetulance of his manner, and turned to the chairman. 

'Are you prepared to give----'

Then Mr. Shea's feelings became too strong for his self-control. Hesprang forward, apparently with the intention of laying violent handsupon Augusta Groold. Hyacinth Conneally started up to protect her, andthe same impulse moved a large part of the audience. There was a rushfor the platform, and a fierce, threatening yell. Mr. Shea hung back, frightened. Augusta Goold held up her hand, and immediately the rushstopped and the people were silent. She went on with her question, taking it up at the exact word which Mr. Shea had interrupted, in thesame level and exquisitely irritating tone. 

'--Any of the money entrusted to you by the Irish people to assist theBoers in their struggle for freedom?'

Mr. O'Rourke had sat scowling silently since the failure of his lastattempt to explain himself. This final disjointed repetition of thegalling question roused him to the necessity of doing something. Hewas a pitiful sight as he rose and confronted Augusta Goold. Therewere blotches of purple red and spaces of pallor on his face; his handstwisted together; a sweat had broken out from his neck, and made hiscollar limp. His words were a stammering mixture of bluster and appeal. 

'You mustn't--mustn't--mustn't interrupt the meeting, ' So far he triedto assert himself, then, with a glance at the contemptuous face of thewoman before him, he relapsed into the tone of a schoolboy who begs offthe last strokes of a caning. 'Is this nice conduct? Is it ladylike tocome here and attack us like this? Miss Goold, I'm ashamed of you. '

'I am glad to hear, ' said Augusta Goold, departing for the first timefrom her question, 'that there is anything left in the world that Mr. O'Rourke is ashamed of. I didn't think there was. '

It was Mr. Shea and not his leader who resented this last insult. Hislips drew apart, leaving his teeth bare in a ghastly grin. He clenchedhis fists, and stood for a moment trembling from head to foot. Then heleaped forward towards Augusta Goold. The man who stood next Hyacinthlurched suddenly forward, wrenched his right hand free of the crowdround him, and flung it back behind his head. Hyacinth saw that he helda large stone in it. 

'You are a cowardly blackguard, Shea, ' he yelled--'a damned, cowardlyblackguard! Would you strike a woman?'

Shea turned on the instant, saw the hand stretched back to fling thestone. He seized the chair behind him--the very chair which, while anappearance of politeness was still possible, Mr. O'Rourke had offeredto Augusta Goold--and flung it with all his force at the man with thestone. One of the legs grazed Hyacinth's cheek, scraping the skinoff. The corner of the seat struck the man beside him full across theforehead just above his eyes. The blood poured out, blinding, and then, as he gasped, choking him. He reeled and huddled together helplessly. He could not fall, for the pressure of the crowd round him held him up. Hyacinth felt his hands groping wildly as if for support, and reachedout his own to grasp him. But the man wanted no help for himself. Assoon as he felt another hand touch his he pressed the stone into it. 

'I can't see, ' he whispered hoarsely. 'Take it, you, and kill him, killhim, kill him! smash his skull!'

Hyacinth took the stone. The feel of the man's blood warm on it and thefierce yelling and stamping of the crowd filled him with a mad lust ofhate against Shea, who stood as if suddenly paralyzed within a few feetof him. He wrenched his hand free, and with a mighty effort flung thestone. He saw it strike Shea fair on the forehead. In spite of thetumult around him, he fancied he heard the dull thud of its impact. He saw Shea fling up his hands and pitch forward. He saw Augusta Gooldgather her skirts in her hand, and sweep them swiftly aside lest the manshould fall on them. Then the crowd pressing towards the platform swepthim off his feet, and he was tossed helplessly forward. A giddysickness seized him. The pressure slackened for an instant, and he fell. Someone's boot struck him on the head. He felt without any keen regretthat he was likely to be trampled to death. Then he lost consciousness. 

CHAPTER VI

Next morning the Dublin daily papers laid themselves out to make themost of the sensational fight at the Rotunda. Even the habituallycautious _Irish Times_ felt that the occasion justified the expressionof an opinion, and that there would be no serious risk of alienating thesympathies of subscribers and advertisers by condemning the bloodshed. It published an exceedingly dignified and stodgy leading article, drawing the largest and finest words from the dictionary, and weavingthem with extraordinary art into sentences which would have beencreditable to anyone bent upon imitating the style of Dr. SamuelJohnson. The British Empire and the whole of civilized Europe werecalled upon to witness the unspeakably deplorable consequences whichinvariably followed the habitual neglect of the cultivation of theelementary decencies of public life. The paper disclaimed any sympathywith either of the belligerent parties, and pointed out with sorrowfulsolemnity that if the principles sedulously inculcated upon its readersin its own columns were persistently flouted and contemned by those whoclaimed the position of national representatives, little else except arepetition at frequent intervals of the painful and humiliatingscenes of the night before could possibly be anticipated by reasonableobservers of the general trend of democratic institutions. The _DailyExpress_ openly exulted over the rioters. Its leading article--thestaff may have danced in a ring round the office table while composingit--declared that now at length the Irish had proved to the worldthat they were all, without a solitary exception, irredeemablyvicious corner-boys. Miss Augusta Goold was warmly praised for havingdemonstrated once for all that 'patriotism' ought to be written 'Patriotism. ' Deep regret was expressed that those who attended the meetinghad not been armed with revolvers instead of stones, and that theplatform had not been defended with Maxim guns instead of comparativelyinnocuous wooden chairs. Had modern weapons of precision been used the_Daily Express_ would have been able to congratulate mankind on gettingrid of quite a considerable number of Irishmen. 

The _Freeman's Journal_ and the _Daily Independent_ were awkwardlysituated. Their sympathies were entirely with Mr. O'Rourke, andthey were exceedingly angry with Miss Goold for interfering with thecollection of funds for the Parliamentary party. At the same time, they felt a difficulty in denouncing her, not for want of suitablelanguage--the Irish Nationalist press has a superb command of wordswhich a self-respecting dictionary would hesitate to recognise--butbecause they felt that push of the horns of the dilemma on whichO'Roun'y-had been impaled, and they were obliged to sand theirdenunciations between layers of stoutest pro-Boer sentiment. 

All four papers contained reports of the proceedings which werepractically identical up to a certain point. It was about thecommencement of the actual bloodshed that they differed. The _IrishTimes_ reporter believed that Mr. Shea had begun the fray by strikingAugusta Goold behind the ear with his clenched fist. The _Daily Express_man claimed to have overheard Mr. O'Rourke urging his friends to braina member of the audience with a chair. The _Freeman's Journal_ held thatAugusta Goold's supporters had come into the hall supplied with hugestones, which, at a given signal, they had flung at the inoffensivemembers of Parliament who occupied the platform, adding, as acorroborative detail, that the lady who accompanied Augusta Gooldhad twice kicked the prostrate Mr. Shea in the stomach. The _DailyIndependent_ advanced the ingenious theory that the contest had beenprecipitated by a malevolent student of Trinity College, who had flungan apple of discord--on this occasion a jagged paving-stone of unusualsize--into the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen who werepeacefully discussing a slight difference of opinion among themselves. Beyond this point none of the papers gave any account of theproceedings, all four reporters having recognised that, not beingretained as war correspondents, they were not called upon to risk theirlives on the battlefield. The accounts all closed with the informationthat the wounded had been carried to Jervis Street Hospital, and wereunder treatment suitable to their injuries. Hyacinth had suffered aslight concussion of the brain and a flesh wound. Other sufferers werein the same ward, Mr. Shea himself occupying a bed, so that Hyacinth hadthe satisfaction of seeing him stretched out, a melancholy figure, with a bandage concealing most of his red hair. After the surgeonhad finished his rounds for the morning a police official visited thesufferers, and made a careful note of their names and addresses. Heinquired in a perfunctory manner whether any of them wished to swear aninformation. No one, except Mr. Shea, was sufficiently satisfied withhis own share of the meeting to wish for more fame than was unavoidable. As no further use was ever made of Mr. Shea's narrative, it may bepresumed that the authorities regarded it as wanting in accuracy. No blame, however, ought to be attached to the author for any pettydeviation from the truth of which he may have been guilty. No man's mindis perfectly clear on the morning after he has been struck on the headwith a stone, and perhaps afterwards kicked twice in the stomach by alady journalist. Besides, all members of Parliament are, in virtue oftheir office, 'honourable gentlemen. '

An excited and sympathetic nurse provided Hyacinth with copies of thefour morning papers, which he read with interest and a good deal ofamusement. Only the account in the _Daily Independent_ caused him anyuneasiness. No doubt, as he fully recognised, the suggestion aboutthe Trinity student was nothing but a wild guess on the part of thereporter. It was highly unlikely that anyone would seriously consider atheory so intrinsically improbable. Still, if the faintest suspicion ofthe part he had played reached the ears of the college authorities, hefelt that his career as a divinity student was likely to be an extremelybrief one. His chief fear was that a prolonged absence from collegewould give rise to inquiry, and that his bandages would excite suspicionwhen he reappeared. Fortunately, the house surgeon decided that he wassufficiently recovered to be allowed to leave the hospital early in theafternoon. The boot which had put an end to his share in the riot hadraised its bruise under his hair, so he was able to remove the bandagesfrom his head as soon as he got into the street. There still remained along strip of plaster meant to keep a dressing of iodoform in its placeover the cut on his cheek which Mr. Shea's chair-leg had inflicted. This he could not get off, and thinking it wiser to make his entry intocollege after nightfall, he sought a refuge in Mary O'Dwyer's rooms. 

He found the poetess laid on a sofa and clad in a blue dressing-gown. She stretched a hand of welcome to Hyacinth, and then, before he hadtime to take it, began to laugh immoderately. The laughing fit ended insobs, and then tears flowed from her eyes, which she mopped convulsivelywith an already damp pocket-handkerchief. Before she had recoveredsufficient self-possession to speak, she signed to Hyacinth to fetch abottle of smelling-salts from the chimney-piece. He hastened to obey, and found himself kneeling beside the sofa, holding the bottle to hernose. After a while she recovered sufficiently to tell him that she hadnot slept at all during the night, and felt extremely unwell and quiteunstrung in consequence. Another fit of immoderate and tearful laughterfollowed, and Hyacinth, embarrassed and alarmed, fetched a tumbler ofsoda-water from the syphon on the sideboard. The lady refused toswallow any, and, just as he had made up his mind to risk an externalapplication, recovered again. During the lucid interval which followedshe informed him that his own conduct had been superb and heroic. Whatseemed to be an effort to celebrate his achievements in extemporaryverse brought on another fit. Hyacinth determined to risk an appearancein the college square in broad daylight rather than continue hisministrations. While he was searching for his hat Miss O'Dwyer becamesuddenly quite calm, and began to explain to him how immensely the causeof Ireland's independence had benefited by the demonstration in theRotunda. Hyacinth listened anxiously, waiting for the next explosion, and experienced very great relief when the door opened and Augusta Gooldwalked in. 

Unlike Mary O'Dwyer, she was entirely mistress of herself. Her cheekswere not a shade paler than usual, nor her hand at all less cool andfirm. She stretched herself, after her usual fashion, in the largestavailable chair and lit a cigarette. 

'You look excited, my dear Mary, ' she said--'a little overexcited, perhaps. Have you had tea? No? Perhaps you will be so kind as to ringthe bell, Mr. Conneally. '

Mary O'Dwyer repeated the information she had given Hyacinth about hersleepless night, and complimented Augusta Goold on her nerve. 

'As for poor little me, ' she went on, 'I'm like a--like a--you rememberthe kind of thing, don't you?--like a--I'm not sure if I know the nameof the thing myself. '

She relapsed into a weak giggle, and Hyacinth stooped for the bottle ofsmelling-salts, which had rolled under the sofa. Augusta Goold was muchless sympathetic. She fixed her with a strong stare of amazement anddisgust. Apparently this treatment was the right one, for the gigglingstopped almost immediately. 

'I see you have got some sticking-plaster on your face, Mr. Conneally, 'she said, when Mary O'Dwyer had quieted down. 

'Yes, ' said Hyacinth, 'and a good-sized bump behind my ear. '

'I suppose this business will be very awkward for you in college. Willthey turn you out?'

'I'm sure they will if they find out that I threw that stone at Shea. '

'You made a very good shot, ' said Augusta, smiling at the recollection. 'But how on earth did you come to have a stone that size in the hallwith you?'

Hyacinth told the story of the man who had been felled by the chair andhis murderous bequest. 

'That's the proper spirit, ' said Augusta. 'I admire that man, and hecouldn't have passed his stone on to better hands than yours. Shea wentdown as if he had been shot. I was afraid of my life he would clutch atmy skirts as he fell or squirm up against me after he was down. But helay quite still. By the way, Mary, I suppose your dress was ruined?'

Mary O'Dwyer was quite subdued. 

'It was torn, ' she said meekly enough. 

'Have you another one?'

'Of course I have. I've three others, besides some old ones. '

'Well, then, you'd better go and put on one of them. An old one will do. It's disgusting to see a woman slopping about in a dressing-gown at thistime of day. I'll have tea ready when you come back. '

Miss O'Dwyer obeyed sulkily. She wished very much that Augusta Goold hadstopped at home. It would have been a great deal pleasanter to have goneon practising hysterics with Hyacinth as a sympathetic spectator. Whenthe door was shut Augusta Goold turned to Hyacinth again. 

'That's the worst of women'--apparently she did not consider herself asone of the sex--'they are all right at the time (nothing could havebeen better than Mary's behaviour at the meeting), but they collapseafterwards in such idiotic ways. But I want to talk to you aboutyourself. I owe you a good turn for what you did last night. Only foryou, I think Shea would have dared to touch me, and then very likely Ishould have killed him, and there might have been trouble afterwards. 'She spoke quite calmly, but Hyacinth had very little doubt that shemeant exactly what she said. 'Grealy of course, was useless. One mighthave expected him to give utterance to an ancient tribal war-cry, but hedidn't even do that. Tim Halloran got frightened when the row began. Inoticed him dodging about behind Mary and me, and I mean to let him knowwhat I think about him. It's you I have to thank, and I won't forget it. If you get into trouble over this business in college, come to me, andI will see you straight. In fact, if you like to give up the divinitystudent business at once, I dare say I can put you in the way of earningan honester livelihood. '

Hyacinth was gratified at the way Augusta Goold spoke to him. Sincethe evening on which he had given his opinion about the morality ofdesertion and murder he had been conscious of a coolness in her manner. Now he had apparently reinstated himself in her good graces. Praise, even for an act he was secretly ashamed of, and gratitude, though heby no means recognised that he deserved it, were pleasant to him. Hepromised to remember the offer of help, but declined for the present tocommit his future to the keeping of so bloodthirsty a patroness. 

Curiously enough, Hyacinth's reception in college was a great deal morecordial after the Rotunda meeting than it had ever been before. For awhile the battle which had been fought at their doors superseded theremoter South African warfare as a topic of conversation among thestudents. Their sympathies were with Augusta Goold. Even members of thedivinity classes suffered themselves to be lured from their habitualworship of respectability so far as to express admiration for thedramatic picturesqueness of the part she played. It is true that thelady herself was called by names universally resented by women, and thatthe broadest slanders were circulated about her character. Still, a haloof glory hung round her. It was felt that she had done a surprisinglycourageous thing when she faced Mr. O'Rourke on his own platform. Also, she had behaved with a certain dignity, neither throwing chairs norstones at her opponents. Then, she was an undeniably beautiful woman, a fact which made its inevitable appeal to the young men. The mereexpression of sympathy with this flamboyant and scandal-smeared heroinebrought with it a delightful flavour of gay and worldly vice. It waspretty well known that Hyacinth was a friend of Miss Goold's, and itwas rumoured that he had earned his piece of sticking-plaster inher defence. No one knew exactly what he had done or how much he hadsuffered, but a great many men were anxious to know. Very much to hisown surprise, he received a number of visitors in his rooms. Men who hadbeen the foremost of his tormentors came, ostensibly to inquire for hishealth, in reality to glean details of the fight at the Rotunda. Certainmedical students of the kind which glory in any kind of row openlycongratulated him on his luck in being present on such an occasion. Menwho claimed to be fast, and tried to impress their acquaintances withthe belief that they indulged habitually in wild scenes of revelry, courted Hyacinth, and boasted afterwards of their second-handacquaintance with Miss Goold. It became the fashion to be seenarm-in-arm with him in the quadrangle, and to inquire from him in publicfor 'Finola. '

This new popularity by no means pleased Hyacinth. He was not at allproud of his share in the Rotunda meeting, and lived in daily dread ofbeing recognised as the assailant of Mr. Shea. He knew, too, that he wasmaking no way with the better class of students. The men whose faceshe liked were more than ever shy of making his acquaintance. Thesub-lecturers and minor professors in the divinity school were coldlycontemptuous in their manner, and it seemed to him that even Dr. Henry was less friendly. He became desperately anxious to get out of aposition which he found more intolerable than the original isolation. Heapplied himself with extreme diligence to his studies, even affectingan interest, unnatural for the most pious, in the expositions givenby learned doctors of the Thirty-nine Articles. At lectures on Churchhistory he made notes about the vagaries of heretics so assiduously thatthe professor began to hope that there existed one student at leastwho took an interest in the Christological controversies of the sixthcentury. He never ventured back again to the Wednesday prayer-meeting, but he performed many attendances beyond the required minimum at thecollege chapel. Morning after morning he dragged himself from hisbed and hurried across the dusky quadrangle to take his part in themutilated matins with which the college authorities see fit to usherin the day. He even went to hear the sermons delivered on Fridayafternoons, homilies so painful that the preachers themselves recognisean extraordinary merit in enduring them, and allow that submission ofthe ears to one of them is to be reckoned as equal to two ordinary actsof devotion. 

It is to be hoped that Hyacinth derived some remote benefit from thediscipline to which he subjected himself, for the immediate results werenot satisfactory. He seemed no nearer winning the respect of the moreserious students, and Dr. Henry's manner showed no signs of softeninginto friendliness. His surfeit of theology bred in him a dislike of thesubject. The solemn platitudes which were posed as expositions of thecreeds affected his mind much as the expurgated life histories of maidenaunts do the newly-emancipated school-girl. The relentless closing in ofargument upon a single previously settled doctrine woke in him a desireto break through at some point and breathe again in the open. Hebegan to fear that he was becoming hopelessly irreligious. His morningdevotions in the foggy atmosphere of the chapel did not touch thecapacity for enthusiasm within him. The vague splendour of his father'smeditations had left him outside, indeed, but sure that within therelay a great reality. But now religion had come to seem an altogethernarrower thing, a fenced off, well-ordered garden in which usefulvegetables might be cultivated, but very little inspiring to the soul. 

The unwelcome attention of the students whose friendship he did notdesire, and his increasing dislike for the work he was expected to do, led him to spend more and more of his time with Augusta Goold and herfriends. He found in their society that note of enthusiasm which hemissed in the religion of the college. He responded warmly to theirpassionate devotion to the dream of an independent Irish Republic. Hefelt less conscious of his want of religion in their company. With theexception of Augusta Goold herself, the members of the coterie wereprofessedly Roman Catholics; but this made little or no differencein their intercourse with him. What he found in their ideals was asubstitute for religion, a space where his enthusiasm might extenditself. He became, as he realized his own position clearly, verydoubtful whether he ought to continue his college course. It did notseem likely that he would in the end be able to take Holy Orders, andto remain in the divinity school without that intention was clearlyfoolish. On the other hand, he shrank from inflicting what he knew wouldbe a painful disappointment on his father. It happened that before theterm ended his connection with the divinity school was cut in a way thatsaved him from the responsibility of forming a decision. 

He was a regular attendant at the lectures of Dr. Spenser, who had neverfrom the first disguised his dislike and contempt for Hyacinth. Thisgentleman was one day explaining to his class the difference betweenevidence which leads to a high degree of probability and a demonstrationwhich produces absolute certainty. The subject was a dry one, and quiteunsuited to Dr. Spenser, whose heart was set on maintaining a reputationfor caustic wit. He cast about for an illustration which would at oncemake clear the distinction and enliven his lecture. His eye lit uponHyacinth, upon whose cheek there still burned a long red scar. Dr. Spenser's face brightened. 

'For instance, gentlemen, ' he said, 'if I should reason from the factthat our friend Mr. Conneally affects the society of certain charmingladies of doubtful reputation, like Miss Goold, to the conclusion thatMr. Conneally is himself a Nationalist, I should only have arrived ata probable conclusion. The degree of probability might be very high;still, I should have no right to regard my conclusion as absolutelycertain. '

The class tittered delightedly. Dr. Spenser proceeded without heeding adeep flush on Hyacinth's face, which might have warned a wiser man thatan explosion was coming. 

'If I should then proceed to reason thus: All Nationalists are rebelsand potential murderers--Mr. Conneally is a Nationalist; therefore Mr. Conneally is a rebel and potential murderer--I should, assuming thetruth of my minor premise, have arrived at a certainty. '

The syllogism was greeted with loud applause. Hyacinth started to hisfeet. For a time he could only gasp for breath to utter a reply, andDr. Spenser, secure in the conviction of his own intellectual and socialsuperiority to the son of a parson from Connemara, determined to pursuehis prey. 

'Does Mr. Conneally, ' he asked with a simper, 'propose to impugn theaccuracy of my induction or the logic of my deduction?'

The simper and the number of beautiful long words which Dr. Spenser hadsucceeded in collecting together into one sentence provoked a sustainedclapping of hands and stamping of feet from the class. Hyacinth rapidlyregained his self-possession, and was surprised at his own coolness whenhe replied:

'I should say, sir, that a man who makes an induction holding up a ladyto ridicule is probably a cad, and that the cad who makes a deductionconfusing patriotism with murder is certainly a fool. '

A report of Hyacinth's speech was handed to Dr. Henry, with asuggestion that expulsion from the divinity school was the only suitablepunishment. Hyacinth did not look forward with any pleasure to theinterview to which he was summoned. He was agreeably surprised when heentered the professor's room. Dr. Henry offered him a chair. 

'I hear, ' he said--his tone was severe, but a barely perceptible gleamof humorous appreciation flashed across his eyes as he spoke--'that youhave been exceedingly insolent to Dr. Spenser. '

'I don't know, sir, whether you heard the whole story, but if you didyou will surely recognise that Dr. Spenser was gratuitously insulting tome. '

'Quite so, ' said Dr. Henry. 'I recognise that, but the question is, Whatam I to do with you now? What would you do if you were in my place? Ishould like to know your views of the best way out of the situation. '

Hyacinth was silent. 

'You see, ' Dr. Henry went on, 'we can't have our divinity lecturerscalled fools and cads before their classes. I should be afraid myselfto deliver a lecture in your presence if I thought I was liable to thatkind of interruption. '

'I think, sir, ' said Hyacinth, 'that the best thing will be for me toleave the divinity school. '

'I think so, too. But leaving our divinity school need not mean that yougive up the idea of taking Holy Orders. I have a very high opinion ofyour abilities, Conneally--so high that I should not like the Church tolose your services. At the same time, you are not at present the kindof man whom I could possibly recommend to any Irish Bishop. YourNationalist principles are an absolute bar to your working in the Churchof Ireland. '

'I wonder, sir, how you can call our Church the Church of Ireland, andin the same breath say that there is no room for a Nationalist in her. Don't the two things contradict each other. '

Dr. Henry's eyes twinkled again. There spread over his mouth a smile oftolerant amusement. 

'My dear boy, I'm not going to let you trap me into a discussion of thatquestion. Theoretically, I have no doubt you would make out an excellentcase. National Church, National spirit, National politics--Irish Church, Irish nation, Irish ideas. They all go excellently together, don't they?And yet the facts are as I state them. A Nationalist clergyman inthe Church of Ireland would be just as impossible as an EnglishNonconformist in the Court of Louis Quatorze. After all, in this lifeone has got to steer one's course among facts, and they're sharp thingswhich knock holes in the man who disregards them. Now, what I proposeto you is this: Put off your ordination for three years or so. Takeup schoolmastaring. I will undertake to get you a post in an Englishschool. Your politics won't matter over there, because no one will inthe least understand what you mean. Work hard, think hard, read hard. Mix with the bigger world across the Channel. See England and realizewhat England is and what her Empire means. Don't be angry with me forsaying that, long before the three years are over, you'll have come tosee that what you call patriotism is nothing else than parochialism ofa particularly narrow and uninstructed kind. Then come back here to me, and I'll arrange for your ordination. You'll do the best of good workwhen you've grown up a bit, and I'll see you a Bishop before I die. '

'I shall always be grateful to you, ' said Hyacinth. 'I shall neverforget your kindness, and the way you've treated me; but I can't do whatyou ask. '

'Oh, I'm not going to take no for an answer, ' said Dr. Henry. 'Go hometo the West and think it over. Talk to your father about your future. Write to me if you like about your plans, and remember my offer is opensix months or a year hence. You'll be the same man then that you arenow--I mean, in character. I'm not afraid of your turning out badly. Youmay think wrong-headedly, but I'm sure you'll not act disgracefully. '

CHAPTER VII

The December afternoon was growing dark when the weary car-horsesurmounted the last hill on the road from Clifden and broke into ashambling trot down the long straight stretch into Carrowkeel. Soon, asthe distance dwindled, the lights which twinkled here and there in thevillage became distinguishable. This--Hyacinth recognised it--was thegreat hanging lamp in the window of Rafferty's shop. That, a softerglow, came from the forge of Killeen, the smith. That, and that, fainterand more uncertain lights, were from fires seen through the open uppersection of cottage doors. He could almost tell whose the cabins werewhere they shone. The scene inside rose to the imagination. A man withragged clothes and a half-empty pipe is squeezed into the stone nookbeside the blazing turf. The kettle, hanging from its hook, swingssteaming beside him. The woman of the house, barefooted, sluttish, intorn crimson petticoat and gray bodice pinned across her breast, movesthe red cinders from the lid of the pot-oven and peers at the browningcake within. Babies toddle or crawl over the greasy floor. The carrattled into the village street. Men whom he knew stopped it to speak tohim. Children playing the last of their games in the fading light pausedto stare at him. Father Moran, returning to his presbytery, waved hishand and shouted a greeting. He passed the last house of the village, and could see the fishing-boats, dim and naked-looking, riding at theiranchors in the bay. Out beyond them, grim and terrible in the twilight, lay the hulk where the ice for fish-packing was stored. The thick stumpof her one remaining mast made a blacker bar against the black sky. Thepier was deserted, but he could see the bulky stacks of fish-boxes piledon it, and hear the water lapping against it. Along its utmost edge laya belt of gray white, where the waves broke as they surged round it. Hepassed the pier, and there lay before him the long hill that led home. The church and the ruined school stood out clearly on the skyline. Belowthem, less clearly seen, was the rectory, and Hyacinth noted that thelamp in the kitchen was lit. Then the door was opened, and he saw, plainagainst the light, a man's figure, his father's. No doubt the old manwas watching and listening. Perhaps the sound of the wheels reached himthrough the evening air, for in a few minutes he came out and walkeddown the drive. Hyacinth saw him fumble with the fastening of therickety gate, and at last open it slowly and with difficulty. The carreached a gap in the loose stone wall, a familiar gap, for across it laya short cut up a steeper part of the hill, which the road went round. Hyacinth jumped down and ran up the path. In another minute thegreeting of father and son was accomplished, and the two were walkinghand-in-hand towards the house. Hyacinth noticed that his fathertrembled, and that his feet stumbled uncertainly among the loose stonesand stiff weeds. 

When they entered the lighted room he saw that his father seemedolder--many years older--than when he had said good-bye to him twomonths before. His skin was very transparent, his lips were tremulous, his eyes, after the first long look at his son, shifted feebly to thefire, the table, and the floor. 

'My dear son, ' he said, 'I thank God that I have got you safe homeagain. Indeed, it is good to see you again, Hyacinth, for it has beenvery lonely while you were away. I have not been able to do very muchlately or to go out to the seashore, as I used to. Perhaps it is onlythat I have not cared to. But I have tried hard to get everything readyfor your coming. '

He looked round the room with evident pride as he spoke. Hyacinthfollowed his gaze, and it was with a sense of deep shame that he foundhimself noticing the squalor of his home. The table was stained, and thebooks which littered half of it were thick with dust and grease-spotted. The earthen floor was damp and pitted here and there, so that the chairsstood perilously among its inequalities. The fine white powder of turfashes lay thick upon the dresser. The whitewash above the fireplace wasblackened by the track of the smoke that had blown out of the chimneyand climbed up to the still blacker rafters of the roof. Hyacinthremembered how he, and not his father, had been accustomed to clean theroom and wash the cups and plates. He wondered how such matters had beenmanaged in his absence, and a great sense of compassion filled his eyeswith tears as he thought of the painful struggle which the detailsof life must have brought upon his father. He noted the evidentpreparations for his coming. There were two eggs lying in a saucer readyto be boiled, a fresh loaf--and this was not the day they got theirbread--and a small tin of cocoa beside his cup. The hearth was piledwith glowing turf, and the iron tripod with a saucepan on it stoodsurrounded with red coals. Some sense of what Hyacinth was feelingpassed into his father's mind. 

'Isn't it all right, my son? I tried to make it very nice for you. Iwanted to get Maggie Cassidy up from the village for the day, but herbaby had the chin-cough, and she couldn't come. '

He took Hyacinth's hand and held it while he spoke. 

'Perhaps it looks poor to you, ' he went on, 'after your college roomsand the houses your friends live in; but it's your own home, son, isn'tit?'

Hyacinth made a gulp at the emotion which had brought him near to tears. 

'It's splendid, father--simply splendid. And now I'm going to boil thosetwo eggs and make the cocoa, and we'll have a feast. Hallo! you've gotsome jam--jam and butter and eggs, and this is the month of December, when there's hardly a hen laying or a cow milking in the whole parish!'

He held up the jam-pot as he spoke. It was wrapped in dingy red paper, and had a mouldy damp stain on one side. Hyacinth recognised the mark, and remembered that he had seen the identical pot on the upper shelf ofRafferty's shop for years. Its label bore an inscription only vaguelyprophetic of the contents--'Irish Household Jam. '

'That's right, father, you are supporting home manufacture. I declareI wouldn't have tasted it if it had come from England. You see, I'm agreater patriot than ever. '

Old Mr. Gonneally smiled in a feeble, wavering way. He seemed scarcelyto understand what was being said to him, but he found a quiet pleasurein the sound of his son's voice. He settled himself in a chair by thefireside and watched contentedly while Hyacinth put the eggs into thesaucepan, hung the kettle on its hook, and cut slices of bread. Then themeal was eaten, Hyacinth after his long drive finding a relish even inthe household jam. He plied his father with questions, and heard whatthe old man knew of the gossip of the village--how Thady Durkan hadbroken his arm, and talked of giving up the fishing; how the police fromLetter-frack had found, or said they found, a whisky-still behind theold castle; how a Gaelic League organizer had come round persuading thepeople to sing and dance at the Galway Féis. 

After supper Hyacinth nerved himself to tell the story of his term incollege, and his determination to leave the divinity school. More thanonce he made an effort to begin, but the old man, who brightened alittle during their meal, relapsed again into dreaminess, and did notseem to be listening to him. They pulled their chairs near to the fire, and Mr. Conneally sat holding his son's hand fast. Sometimes he strokedor patted it gently, but otherwise he seemed scarcely to recognisethat he was not alone. His eyes were fixed on the fire, but they staredstrangely, as if they saw something afar off, something not in theroom at all. There was no response in them when Hyacinth spoke, and nointelligence. From time to time his lips moved slightly as if they wereforming words, but he said nothing. After awhile Hyacinth gave up theattempt to tell his story, and sat silent for so long that in the end hewas startled when his father spoke. 

'Hyacinth, my son, I have somewhat to say unto you. ' Before Hyacinthcould reply to him he continued: 'And the young man answered and saidunto him, "Say on. " And the old man lifted up his voice and said untohis son, "He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. "'

He spoke as if he were reading out of a book some narrative from theBible. Hyacinth realized suddenly that the communication which was tobe made to him had been rehearsed by his father alone, again and again, that statement, question and reply, would follow each other indue sequence from the same lips. He felt that his father was stillrehearsing, and had forgotten the real presence of his son. He graspedthe hand that held him and shook it, saying sharply:

'Father, father, I am here. Don't you know me?'

'Yes, yes, my son. Surely I know you. There is something I want to tellyou. I have wanted to tell it to you for many days. I am glad that youare here now to listen to it. '

He paused, and Hyacinth feared that he would relapse again into dreamyinsensibility; but he did not. 

'I think, ' he said, 'that I should like to pray before I speak to you. '

He knelt down as Hyacinth had seen him kneel a thousand times before, facing the eastward-looking window, now a black, uncurtained square inthe whitewashed wall. What he said was almost unintelligible. There wasno petition nor even any sequence of ideas which could be traced. He poured forth a series of ejaculations expressive of intense andrapturous delight, very strange to listen to in such a place and froman old man's lips. Then the language he spoke changed from Englishinto Gaelic, and there came a kind of hymn of adoration. His sentencesfollowed each other in metrical balance like the Latin of the oldliturgies, and suited themselves naturally to a subdued melody, halfchant, half cry, like the mourning of the keeners round a grave. Atlast, rising from his knees, he spoke, and his voice became whollyunemotional, devoid of fervour or excitement. He told his story as a manmight relate some quite commonplace incident of daily life. 

'One evening I was sitting here by the fire, just as I always sit. Iremember that the lamp was not lit, and that the fire was low, so thatthere was not much light in the room. It came into my mind that it wasjust out of such gloom that the Lord called "Samuel, Samuel, " and Iwished that I was like Samuel, so innocent that I could hear the voiceof the Lord. I do not remember what I thought of after that. Perhaps fora time I did not think at all. Then I felt that there were arms about myneck; but not like your arms, Hyacinth, when you were a child and clungto me. These were arms which held me lovingly, strongly, protectingly, like--do you remember, Hyacinth?--"His right hand is under my head; Hisleft hand doth embrace me. " I sat quite still, and did not move or speakor even breathe, lest He should go away from me. Then, after a longtime--I knew afterwards that the time was long, though then it seemedonly a minute for the joy that I had in it--He told me--I do not meanthat I heard a voice or any words; I did not hear, I _felt_ Him tellme--the things that are to be. The last great fight, the Armageddon, draweth very near. All that is good is on one side in the fight, and theCaptain over all. What is bad is on the other side--all kinds of tyrannyand greed and lust. I did not hear these words, but I felt the things, only without any fear, for round me were the everlasting arms. Andthe battlefield is Ireland, our dear Ireland which we love. All thesecenturies since the great saints died He has kept Ireland to be Hisbattlefield. I understood then how our people have been saved fromriches and from power and from the opportunities of lust, that our soilout of all the world might be fit for the feet of the great Captain, forthe marching of His horsemen and His chariots. Not even when I knew allthis did I desire to share in the conflict. I am old and feeble, butthat is not the reason why there was no desire on me, for strength is inHis power to give to whom He wills. I did not desire it, because I wasquite happy, being safe with Him. '

For a long time after he ceased speaking there was silence, for Hyacinthhad no comment to offer. At last the old man spoke again. 

'That is all. I have no other word of revelation. But I have wonderedsince how men are to be disentangled from their parties and theirchurches and their nations, and gathered simply into good and bad. Willall men who are good just know the Captain when they see Him and rangethemselves with Him? But why should we think about such things as these?Doubtless He can order them. But you, Hyacinth--will you be sure to knowthe good side from the bad, the Captain from the enemy?'

For a long time after he had gone to bed Hyacinth lay awake haunted byhis father's prophecy of an Armageddon. There was that in his naturewhich responded eagerly to such a call to battle. In the presence ofenthusiasm like his father's or like Augusta Goold's, Hyacinthcaught fire. His mind flamed with the idea of an Independent Irelandresplendent with her ancient glories. He embraced no less eagerly thethought of his father's battle and his own part in it. Groping forpoints of contact between the two enthusiasms, he caught at theconception of the Roman Church as the Antichrist and her power inIreland as the point round which the fight must rage. Then with a suddenflash he saw, not Rome, but the British Empire, as the embodiment ofthe power of darkness. He had learned to think of it as a force, greedy, materialistic, tyrannous, grossly hypocritical. What more was requiredto satisfy the conception of evil that he sought for? He rememberedall that he had ever heard from Augusta Goold and her friends about theshameless trickery of English statesmen, about the insatiable greed ofthe merchants, about the degraded sensuality of the workers. He recalledthe blatant boastfulness with which English demagogues claimed to bethe sole possessors of enlightened consciences, and the tales ofnative races exploited, gin-poisoned, and annihilated by pioneers ofcivilization advancing with Bibles in their hands. 

But with all his capacity for enthusiasm there was a strain of weaknessin Hyacinth. More than once after the glories of an Independent Irelandhad been preached to him he had found himself growing suddenly cold anddejected, smitten by an east wind of common-sense. At the time when hefirst recognised the loftiness of his father's religion he had revoltedagainst being called upon to adopt so fantastic a creed. So now, whenhis mind grew weary with the endeavour to set an Armageddon in array, hebegan to wish for a life of peaceful monotony, a place to be quiet in, where no high calls or imperious demands would come to threaten him. He ceased to toss to and fro, and gradually sank into a half-conscioussleep. It seemed to him at the time that he was still awake, held backfrom slumber by the great stillness of the country, that silence whichdisturbs ears long accustomed to the continuous roar of towns. Suddenlyhe started into perfect wakefulness, and felt that he was in possessionof all his faculties. The room where he lay was quite dark, but hestrained his eyes to see something in it. He listened intently, althoughno sound whatever met his ears. A great overmastering fear laid hold onhim. He tried to reason with himself, insisting that there was nothing, and could be nothing, to be afraid of. Still the fear remained. Hislips grew stiff and painfully hot, and when he tried to moisten them histongue was dry and moved across them raspingly. He struggled with theterror that paralyzed him, and by a great effort raised his hand to hisforehead. It was damp and cold, and the hair above it was damp. He hadno way of knowing how much of the night had passed, or even how long helay rigid, unable to breathe without a kind of pain; but suddenly as ithad come the terror left him, left him without any effort on his part orany reason that he recognised. Then the window of his room shook, and heheard outside the low moan of the rising wind. Some heavy drops of rainstruck audibly on the roof, and the first gust of the storm carried tohis ears the sound of waves beating on the rocks. His senses strained nomore. His eyes closed, and he sank quietly into a long dreamless sleep. 

It was late when he woke, so late that the winter sky was fully lit. Thewind, whose first gusts had lulled him to sleep, had risen to a gale, and the rain, mixed with salt spray, beat fiercely against his windowand on the roof. He listened, expecting to hear his father moving in theroom below, but within the house there was no sound. He rose, vaguelyanxious, and without waiting to dress went into the kitchen. Everythinglay untouched, just as he had left it the night before. The lamp andthe remnants of the meal were on the table. The two chairs stood sideby side before the hearth, where the fire which he had covered upsmouldered feebly. He turned and went to his father's room. He couldnot have explained how it was, but when he opened the door he was notsurprised to see the old man lying quite still, dead, upon the bed. Hisface was turned upwards, and on it was that strange look of emotionlesspeace which rests very often on the faces of the dead. It seemedto Hyacinth quite natural that the soul as it departed into unknownbeatitude should have printed this for the last expression on theearthly habitation which it left behind. He neither wondered nor, atfirst, sorrowed very much to see his father dead. His sight was undimmedand his hands steady when he closed the eyes and composed the limbs ofthe body on the bed. Afterwards it seemed strange to him that he shouldhave dressed quietly, arranged the furniture in the kitchen, and blownthe fire into a blaze before he went down into the village to tell hisnews and seek for help. 

They buried Æneas Conneally beside his wife in the wind-sweptchurchyard. The fishermen carried his coffin into the church and outagain to the grave. Father Moran himself stood by bareheaded while theclergyman from Clifden read the prayers and sprinkled the coffin-lidwith the clay which symbolized the return of earth to earth and dust todust. In the presence of death, and, with the recollection of the simplegoodness of the man who was gone, priest and people alike forgot for anhour the endless strife between his creed and theirs. 

CHAPTER VIII

In Connaught the upper middle classes, clergy, doctors, lawyers, policeofficers, bank officials, and so forth, are all strangers in the land. Each of them looks forward to a promotion which will enable him to moveto some more congenial part of Ireland. A Dublin suburb is the idealresidence; failing that, the next best thing is a country town withineasy reach of the metropolis. Most of them sooner or later achieve apromotion, but some of them are so unfortunate as to die in their exile. In either case their furniture and effects are auctioned. No one everremoves his goods from Con-naught, because the cost of getting thingsto any other part of Ireland is exorbitant, and also because tablesand chairs fetch very high prices at auctions. Thus it happens that acertain historic interest attaches to the furniture of most middle-classhouses west of the Shannon. The dispensary doctor dines off a tablewhich once graced the parlour of a parish priest. The inspectorof police boasts of the price he paid for his easy-chair, recentlyupholstered, at the auction of a departing bank manager, the samemahogany frame having once supported the portly person of an old-timeProtestant Archdeacon. It is to be supposed that the furnitureoriginally imported--no one knows how--into Connaught must have been ofsuperlative quality. Articles whose pedigree, so to speak, can be tracedfor nearly a hundred years are still in daily use, unimpaired by changesof scene and ownership. 

An auction of any importance is a public holiday. Clergy, doctors, lawyers, and police officers gather to the scene, not unlike thosebeasts of prey of whom we read that they readily devour the remains ofa fallen member of their own pack. The natives also collecttogether--publicans and shopkeepers in search of bargains in china, glass, and house-linen; farmers bent on purchasing such outdoor propertyas wheelbarrows, scythes, or harness. 

When Hyacinth, to use the local expression, 'called an auction' shortlyafter his father's death, he was favoured with quite the usual crowd ofwould-be buyers. Almost everyone with either money or credit withina radius of twenty miles came into Carrowkeel for the occasion. Thepresiding auctioneer had done his duty beforehand by advertising old Mr. Conneally's mouldy furniture as 'magnificently upholstered suites, 'and his battered editions of the classics as 'a valuable libraryof handsomely bound books. ' It is not likely that anyone was reallydeceived by these announcements, or expected to find in the littlerectory anything sumptuous or splendid. The people assembled mainlybecause they were exceedingly curious to see the inside of a house whosedoors had never been open to them during the lifetime of the owner. Itwas always possible, besides, that though the 'magnificently upholsteredsuites 'existed only in the auctioneer's imagination, treasures ofsilver spoons or candlesticks plated upon copper might be discoveredamong the effects of a man who lived as queer a life as Mr. Conneally. When men and women put themselves to a great deal of inconvenience toattend an auction, they do not like to return empty-handed. A day ismore obviously wasted if one goes home with nothing to show than if onebrings a table or a bedstead purchased at twice its proper value. Thusthe bidding at Hyacinth's auction was brisk, and the prices such as gavesincere satisfaction to the auctioneer. Everything was sold except 'thevaluable library. ' It was in vain that the auctioneer made personalappeals to Father Moran and the Rector of Clifden, as presumably thetwo most learned gentlemen present. Neither of them wanted the venerableclassics. In fact, neither of them could have read a line of the crookedGreek type or construed a page of the Latin authors. Even the Irishbooks, in spite of the Gaelic revival, found no purchasers. When all wasover, Hyacinth wheeled them away in barrowfuls, wondering greatly whathe was to do with them. 

Indeed, the disposal of his library was not the chief of hisperplexities. He wondered also what he was to do with himself. When theauctioneer sent in his cheque, and the London Committee of the Missionhad paid over certain arrears of salary, Hyacinth found himself thepossessor of nearly two hundred pounds. It seemed to him quite a largefortune, amply sufficient to start life with, if only some suitable wayof employing brains, energy, and money would suggest itself. In order toconsider the important topic at his leisure, he hired the only lodgingin Carrowkeel--the apartment (it was both bed and sitting room) over Mr. Rafferty's public-house. The furniture had suffered during the tenancyof a series of Congested Districts Board officials. An engineer, whowent to sleep in the evenings over the fire, had burnt a round hole inthe hearthrug. An instructor in fish-curing, a hilarious young man, had cracked the mirror over the mantelpiece, and broken many ornaments, including the fellow of the large china dog which now mourned its mateon the sideboard. Other gentlemen had been responsible for dislocatingthe legs of two chairs and a disorganization of the handle, which madeit impossible to shut the door from the inside. The chief glory of theapartment, however, still remained--a handsomely-framed document, signed by Earl Spencer, then Lord Lieutenant, ordering the arrest of thepresent Mr. Rafferty's father as a person dangerous to the Commonwealth. 

The first thing which brought Hyacinth's meditations to a definite pointwas a letter he received from Dr. Henry. 

'I do not know, ' the professor wrote, 'and of course I do not wishto inquire, how you are situated financially; but if, as I suppose islikely, you are obliged in the near future to earn your living, I mayperhaps be of some help to you. . You have taken your B. A. Degree, and areso far qualified either to accept a post as a schoolmaster in an Englishpreparatory school or to seek ordination from some Bishop. As you areprobably aware, none of our Irish Bishops will accept a man who hasnot completed his divinity course. Several English Bishops, however, especially in the northern province, are willing to ordain men who havenothing more than a University degree, always supposing that they passthe required examination. I shall be quite willing to give you a letterof recommendation to one of these Bishops, and I have no doubt thata curacy could be found for you in one of the northern manufacturingtowns, where you would have an ample sphere for useful work. '

The letter went on to urge the advisability of Hyacinth's suppressing, disguising, or modifying his political opinions, which, stated nakedly, were likely to beget a certain prejudice in the well-balanced episcopalmind, and in any case would be quite out of place among the operativesof Yorkshire or Lancashire. 

Hyacinth recognised and appreciated Dr. Henry's kindness. He even triedto bring himself to consider the offer seriously and carefully, but itwas no use. He could not conceive himself as likely to be either usefulor happy amid the hustling commercialism of the Manchester streets orthe staid proprieties of an Anglican vicarage. 

After he had spent about a week in his new lodging, Father Moran calledon him. The priest sat beside the fire for more than an hour chattingin a desultory manner. He drank tea and smoked, and it was not until herose to go that the real object of his visit appeared. 

'I don't know what you're thinking of doing, Mr. Conneally, and maybeI've no right to ask. '

'I wouldn't have the least objection to telling you, ' said Hyacinth, 'ifI knew myself; but I haven't my mind made up. '

The priest put down his hat again, and settled himself with his back tothe fire and his hands in his pockets. Hyacinth sat down, and during thepause which followed contemplated the wonderful number and variety ofthe stains on the black waistcoat in front of him. 

'Then you've given up the idea of finishing your divinity course?' saidthe priest. 'I'm not blaming you in the least. There's men that studyingsuits, and there's men that it doesn't. I never was much of a one forbooks myself. '

He sighed heavily, perhaps at the recollection of his own struggles withthe mysteries of theology in his Maynooth student days. Then he walkedover and closed the door, returned, drew a chair close to Hyacinth, andspoke in the tone of a man who imparts an important secret. 

'Did you hear that Thady Durkan's giving up the fishing? Since he brokehis arm he declares he'll never step aboard the boat again. You know theSt. Bridget. She's not one of the biggest boats, but she's a very luckyone. She made over five hundred pounds last year, besides the share theBoard took. She was built at Baltimore, and the Board spent over twohundred pounds on her, nets and gear and all. There's only one year moreof instalments to pay off the price of her, and Thady has the rest ofthe men bought out. There's nobody owns a stick or a net or a sail ofher except himself, barring, of course, what's due to the Board. '

Hyacinth was sufficiently acquainted with the system on which theCongested Districts Board provides the Connaught fishermen with boatsand nets to understand Father Moran's rather involved statementof Durkan's financial position. He did not yet grasp why all thisinformation should have been conveyed to him in such a solemn andmysterious tone. 

'You might have the _St. Bridget_, ' said the priest, 'for one hundredand fifty pounds down. '

He paused to let the full glory of the situation lay hold upon Hyacinth. Perhaps he expected an outburst of delight and surprise, but none came. 

'Mind you, ' he said, 'there's others looking for her. The men thatworked with Thady are thinking of making him an offer, and I dare saythe Board would be glad enough to have the boat owned among them; but Ican put in a word myself both with Thady and the inspector. Faith, thetimes is changed since I was a young man. I can remember when a priestwas no more thought of than a barefooted gossure out of a bog, and nowthere isn't a spalpeen of a Government inspector but lifts his hat to mein the street. Oh, a note from me will go a good way with the Board, and you'll not miss the chance for want of my good word--I promise youthat. '

'Thank you, ' said Hyacinth. 

'Mind you, there's a good thing to be made out of her. But sure you knowthat as well as I do myself, and maybe better. What do you say now?'

'I'll think it over, ' said Hyacinth, 'and whatever comes of it I'll begreatly obliged to you. '

'Well, don't be delaying too long. And look you here'--his voice sankalmost to a whisper--'don't be talking about what I've said to you. People are queer, and if Father Joyce down in Clifden came to hearthat I was working for a Protestant he'd be sure to go talking to theArchbishop, and I'd never get to the end of the fuss that would bemade. '

'Indeed, it's very good of you, especially considering who I am--I mean, my father being a convert, and----'

'Say no more, ' said the priest--'say no more. Your father was a goodman, Catholic or Protestant. I'm not one of these bitter kind ofpriests, Mr. Con-neally. I can be a good Catholic without hating myneighbours. I don't hold with all this bullyragging in newspapers about"sourfaces" and "saved. " Maybe that's the reason that I'm stuck downhere at the other end of nowhere all my life, and never got promotionor praise. But what do I care as long as they let me alone to do my workfor the people? I'm not afraid to say it to you, Mr. Conneally, for youwon't want to get me into trouble, but it's my belief that there's manyof our priests would rather have grand churches than contented people. They're fonder of Rome than they are of Ireland. '

'Really, Father Moran, ' said Hyacinth, smiling, 'if you go on like this, I shall expect to hear of your turning Protestant. '

'God forbid, Mr. Conneally! I wish you well. I wish you to be here amongus, and to be prosperous; but the dearest wish of my heart for you isthat I might see you back in the Catholic Church, believing the creed ofyour forefathers. '

The priest's suggestion attracted Hyacinth a great deal more than Dr. Henry's. He liked the sea and the fishing, and he loved the simplepeople among whom he had been brought up. His experiences in Dublin hadnot encouraged him to be ambitious. Life in the great world--it was thusthat he thought of the bickerings of the Dublin Nationalists and theschoolboy enthusiasms of college students--was not a very simplething. There was a complexity and a confusion in affairs which madeit difficult to hold to any cause devotedly. It seemed to him, lookingback, that Miss Goold's ideals--and she had ideals, as he knew--weresomehow vulgarized in their contact with the actual. He had seensomething of the joy she found in her conflict with O'Rourke, and it didnot seem to him to be pure or ennobling. At one time he was on the vergeof deciding to do what the priest wished. Walking day by day along theshore or through the fields, he came to think that life might verywell be spent without ambitious or extended hopes in quiet toil andunexciting pleasures. What held him back was the recollection, whichnever ceased to haunt him, of his father's prophecy. The thought ofthe great fight, declared to be imminent, stirred in him an emotion sostrong that the peace and monotony he half desired became impossible. He never made it clear to himself that he either believed or disbelievedthe prediction. He certainly did not expect to see an actual gatheringof armed men, or that Ireland was to be the scene of a battle like thosein South Africa. But there was in him a conviction that Ireland wasawakening out of a long sleep, was stretching her limbs in preparationfor activity. He felt the quiver of a national strenuousness which wasalready shaking loose the knots of the old binding-ropes of prejudiceand cowardice. It seemed to him that bone was coming to dry bone, andthat sooner or later--very soon, it was likely--one would breathe onthese, and they would live. That contest should come out of such arenaissance was inevitable. But what contest? Against whom was the newIreland to fight, and who was truly on her side? Here was the puzzle, insoluble but insistent. It would not let him rest, recurring to hismind with each fresh recollection of his father's prophecy. 

It was while he was wearying himself with this perplexity that he gota letter from Augusta Goold. It was characteristic of her that she hadwritten no word of sympathy when she heard of his father's death, andnow, when a letter did come, it contained no allusion to Hyacinth'saffairs. She told him with evident delight that she had enlisted no lessthan ten recruits for the Boer army. She had collected sufficient moneyto equip them and pay their travelling expenses. It was arranged thatthey were to proceed to Paris, and there join a body of volunteersorganized by a French officer, a certain Pierre de Villeneuve, aboutwhom Miss Goold was enthusiastic. She was in communication with anIrishman who seemed likely to be a suitable captain for her little band, and she wanted Hyacinth back in Dublin to help her. 

'You know, ' she wrote, 'the people I have round me here. Poor old Grealyis quite impracticable, though he means well. He talks about nothingbut the Fianna and Finn McCool, and can't see that my fellows must haveriding lessons, and must be got somehow to understand the mechanism ofa rifle. Tim Halloran has been in a sulk ever since I told him what Ithought of his conduct at the Rotunda. He never comes near me, and MaryO'Dwyer told me the other day that he called my volunteers a "pack ofblackguards. " I dare say it's perfectly true, but they're a finer kindof blackguard than the sodden loafers the English recruit for theirmiserable army. '

She went on to describe the series of Boer victories which had come oneafter another just at Christmas-time. She was confident that the causeof freedom and nationality would ultimately triumph, and she foresaw theintervention of some Continental Power. A great blow would be struck atthe already tottering British Empire, and then--the freedom of Ireland. 

Hyacinth felt strangely excited as he read her news. The letter seemedthe first clear note of the trumpet summoning him to his father'sArmageddon. Politics and squabbling at home might be inglorious anddegrading, but the actual war which was being waged in South Africa, the struggle of a people for existence and liberty, could be nothing butnoble. He saw quite clearly what his own next step was to be, and therewas no temptation to hesitate about it. He would place his money at MissGoold's disposal, and go himself with her ten volunteers to join thebrigade of the heroic de Villeneuve. 

CHAPTER IX

The prospect of joining Augusta Goold's band of volunteers and going toSouth Africa to fight afforded Hyacinth great satisfaction. For two dayshe lived in an atmosphere of day-dreams and delightful anticipations. Hehad no knowledge whatever of the actual conditions of modern warfare. He understood vaguely that he would be called upon to endure greathardships. He liked to think of these, picturing himself bravelycheerful through long periods of hunger, heat, or cold. He had visionsof night watches, of sudden alarms, of heart-stirring skirmishes, ofscouting work, and stealthy approaches to the enemy's lines. He thoughtout the details of critical interviews with commanding officers inwhich he with some chosen comrade volunteered for incredibly dangerousenterprises. He conceived of himself as wounded, though not fatally, andcarried to the rear out of some bullet-swept firing-line. He was justtwenty-three years of age. Adventure had its fascination, and the worldwas still a place full of splendid possibilities. 

At the end of his two days of dreaming he returned, flushed with hisgreat purposes, to the realities of life. He went to Father Moran totell him that he would not buy Durkan's boat. He laughed to himselfat the thought of doing such a thing. Was he to spend his life fishingmackerel round the rocky islands of Connemara, when he might be fightinglike one of the ancient heroes, giving his strength, perhaps his life, for a great cause? The priest met him at the presbytery door. 

'Come in, Mr. Conneally--come in and sit down. I was expecting you thesetwo days. What were you doing at all, walking away there along the rocksby yourself? The people were beginning to say that you were getting tobe like your poor father, and that nobody'd ever get any good out ofyou. But I knew you'd come back to me here. I hope now it's to tell methat you'll buy the boat you've come. '

They entered the house, and the priest opened the door of the littlesitting-room. Hyacinth knew it well. There was the dark mahogany tablewith the marks burnt into it where hot dishes were set down, the shabbyarm-chair, the worn cocoanut-matting on the floor, the dozen or so booksin the hanging shelf, the tawdry sacred pictures round the wall. He hadknown it all, and it all seemed unchanged since he was a child. 

'Sit you down--sit you down, ' said the priest. 'And now about the boat. '

'I'm not going in for her, ' said Hyacinth. 'I'm as thankful to you forsuggesting it as if I did buy her. I hope you'll understand that, butI'm not going to buy her. '

He found it difficult to speak of his new plan to Father Moran. 

'Do you tell me that, now? I'm sorry for it. And why wouldn't you buyher? What's there to hinder you?'

Hyacinth hesitated. 

'Well, now, ' said the priest, 'I can guess. I thought the auction turnedout well for you, but I never heard for certain, and maybe you haven'tgot the money for the boat. Whisht now, my son, and let me speak. I'mthinking the thing might be managed. '

'But, Father Moran------'

'Ah now, will you be quiet when I bid you? I haven't the money myself. Never a penny have I been able to save all my life, with the calls thereare on me in a parish like this. Sure, you know yourself how it is. There's one will have a cow that has died on him, and another will bewanting a lock of potatoes for seed in the springtime; and if it isn'tthat, it'll be something else. And who would the creatures go to intheir trouble but the old priest that christened and married the mostof them? But, indeed, thanks be to God, things is improving. The fishingbrings in a lot of money to the men, and there's a better breed ofcattle in the country now, and the pigs fetch a good price since we hadthe railway to Clifden, and maybe the last few years I might have saveda little, but I didn't. Indeed, I don't know where it is the money goesat all, but someway it's never at rest in my breeches pockets till it'sup and off somewhere. God forgive us! it's more careful we ought to be. '

'But, Father Moran, I don't----'

'Arrah then, will you cease your talking for one minute, and let me geta word in edgeways for your own good? What was I saying? Oh, I was justafter telling you I hadn't got the money to help you. But maybe I mightmanage to get it. The man in the bank in Clifden knows me. I borrowed afew pounds off him two years ago when the Cassidys' house and three morebeside it got blown away in the big wind. Father Joyce put his name onthe back of the bill along with my own, and trouble enough I had to gethim to do it, for he said I ought to put an appeal in the newspapers, and I'd get the money given to me. But I never was one to go begginground the country. I said I'd rather borrow the money and pay it backlike a decent man. And so I did, every penny of it. And I think the bankwill trust me now, with just your name and mine, more especially asit's to buy a boat we want the money. What do you say to that, now?' Helooked at Hyacinth triumphantly. 

'Father Moran, you're too good to me--you're too good altogether. Whatdid ever I do to deserve such kindness from you? But you're all wrong. I've got plenty of money. '

'And why in the name of all that's holy didn't you tell me so at once, and not keep me standing here twisting my brains into hard knots withthinking out ways of getting what you don't want? If you've got themoney you'll buy the boat. What better could you do with it?'

'But I don't want to buy the boat. I don't want to live here always. I'mgoing away out into the world. I want to see things and do things. '

'Out into the world! Will you listen to the boy? Is it America you'rethinking of? Ah, now, there's enough gone out and left us lonely here. Isn't the best of all the boys and girls going to work for the strangersin the strange land? and why would you be going after them?'

'I'm not going to America. I'm going to South Africa. I'm going to joinsome young Irishmen to fight for the Boers and for freedom. '

'You're going out to fight--to fight for the Boers! What is it that's inyour head at all, Hyacinth Con-neally? Tell me now. '

Again Hyacinth hesitated. Was it possible to give utterance to thethoughts and hopes which filled his mind? Could he tell anyone aboutthe furious fancies of the last few days, or of that weird vision ofhis father's which lay at the back of what he felt and dreamed? Couldhe even speak of the enthusiasm which moved him to devote himself to thecause of freedom and a threatened nationality? In the presence of a manof the world the very effort to express himself would have acted as somecorrosive acid, and stained with patches of absurdity the whole fabricof his dreams. He looked at Father Moran, and saw the priest's eyes litwith sympathy. He knew that he had a listener who would not scoff, whomight, perhaps, even understand. He began to speak, slowly and haltinglyat first, then more rapidly. At last he poured out with breathless, incoherent speed the strange story of the Armageddon vision, the hopesthat were in him, the fierce enthusiasm, the passionate love forIreland which burnt in his soul. He was not conscious of the gapinginconsequences of his train of emotion. He did not recognise howridiculous it was to connect the Boer War with the Apocalyptic battleof the saints, or the utter impossibility of getting either one or theother into any sort of relation with the existing condition of Ireland. 

A casual observer might have supposed that Hyacinth had made a mistakein telling his story to Father Moran. A smile, threatening actuallaughter, hovered visibly round the priest's mouth. His eyes had ashrewd, searching expression, difficult to interpret. Still, he listenedto the rhapsody without interrupting it, till Hyacinth stopped abruptly, smitten with sudden self-consciousness, terrified of imminent ridicule. Nor were the priest's first words reassuring. 

'I wouldn't say now, Hyacinth Conneally, but there might be the makingsof a fine man in you yet. '

'I might have known, ' said Hyacinth angrily, 'that you'd laugh at me. Iwas a fool to tell you at all. But I'm in earnest about what I'm goingto do. Whatever you may think about the rest, there's no laughing atthat. '

'Well, you're just wrong then, for I wasn't laughing nor meaning tolaugh at all. God forbid that I should laugh at you, and I meant it whenI said that there was the makings of a fine man in you. Laugh at you!It's little you know me. Listen now, till I tell you something; butdon't you be repeating it. This must be between you and me, and go nofurther. I was very much of your way of thinking myself once. '

Hyacinth gazed at him in astonishment. The thought of Father Moran, elderly, rotund, kindly; of Father Moran with sugar-stick in his pocketfor the school-children and a quaint jest on his lips for their mothers;of Father Moran in his ruffled silk hat and shabby black coat and baggytrousers--of this Father Moran mounted and armed, facing the Britishinfantry in South Africa, was wholly grotesque. He laughed aloud. 

'It's yourself that has the bad manners to be laughing now, ' saidthe priest. 'But small blame to you if it was out to the Boers I wasthinking of going. The gray goose out there on the road might laugh--andshe's the solemnest mortal I know--at the notion of me charging alongwith maybe a pike in my hand, and the few gray hairs that's left on thesides of my head blowing about in the breeze I'd make as I went prancingto and fro. But that's not what I meant when I said that once upon atime I was something of your way of thinking. And sure enough I was, butit's a long time ago now. '

He sighed, and for a minute or two he said no more. Hyacinth beganto wonder what he meant, and whether the promised confidence would beforthcoming at all. Then the priest went on:

'When I was a young man--and it's hard for you to think it, but I was afine young man; never a better lad at the hurling than I was, me that'sa doddering old soggarth now--when I was a boy, as I'm telling you, there was a deal of going to and fro in the country and meetings atnight, and drillings too, and plenty of talk of a rising--no less. Little good came of it that ever I saw, but I'm not blaming the men thatwas in it. They were good men, Hyacinth Conneally--men that would havegiven the souls out of their bodies for the sake of Ireland. They would, sure, for they loved Ireland well. But I had my own share in the doings. Of course, it was before ever there was a word of my being a priest. That came after. Thanks be to God for His mercies'--the old man crossedhimself reverently--'He kept me from harm and the sin that might havebeen laid on me. But in those days there were great thoughts in me, justas there are in you to-day. Faith! I'm of opinion that my thoughts weregreater than yours, for I was all for fighting here in Ireland, for thePoor Old Woman herself, and it's out to some foreign war you'd begoing to fight for people that's not friends of yours by so much as oneheart's drop. Still, the feeling in you is the same as the feeling thatwas in me, not a doubt of it. But, indeed, so far as I'm concerned, it'sover and gone. I haven't spoken to a mortal soul about such things thesethirty years, and I wouldn't be doing it now only just to show you thatI'm the last man in Ireland that would laugh at you for what you've toldme. '

'I'm glad I told you what's in my heart, ' said Hyacinth; 'I'd like tothink I had your blessing with me when I go. '

'Well, you won't get it, ' said Father Moran, 'so I tell you straight. I'll give you no blessing when you're going away out of the country, just when there's need of every man in it. I tell you this--and you'llremember that I know what I'm talking about--it's not men that 'll fightwho will help Ireland to-day, but men that will work. '

'Work!' said Hyacinth--'work! What work is there for a man like me to doin Ireland?'

'Don't I offer you the chance of buying Thady Durkan's boat? Isn't therework enough for any man in her?'

'But that's not the sort of work I ought to be doing. What good wouldit be to anyone but myself? What good would it be to Ireland if I caughtboatloads of mackerel?'

'Don't be making light of the mackerel, now. He's a good fish if you gethim fresh, and split him down and fry him with a lump of butter in thepan. There's worse fish than the mackerel, as you'll discover if you goto South Africa, and find yourself living on a bit of some ancient toughbeast of an ostrich, or whatever it may happen to be that they eat outthere. '

In his exalted mood Hyacinth felt insulted at the praise of the mackereland the laughter in the priest's eyes when he suggested a dinner offostrich. He held out his hand, and said good-bye. 

'Wait, now--wait, ' said the priest; 'don't be in such a tearing hurry. I'll talk as serious as you like, and not hurt your feelings, if you'llstay for a minute or two. Listen, now. Isn't the language dying on thepeople's lips? They're talking the English, more and more of them everyday; and don't you know as well as I do that when they lose their Irishthey'll lose half the good that's in them? What sort will the nextgeneration of our people be, with their own language gone from them, andtheir Irish ways forgotten, and all the old tales and songs and tunesperished away like the froth of the waves that the storm blew up acrossthe fields the night your father died? I'll tell you what they'llbe--just sham Englishmen. And the Lord knows the real thing is not thebest kind of man in the world, but the copy of an Englishman! sure, that's the poorest creature to be found anywhere on the face of God'sgood earth. And that's what we'll be, when the Irish is gone from us. Wouldn't there be work enough for you to do, now, if you were to buyThady Durkan's boat, and stay here and help to keep the people to theold tongue and the old ways?'

Hyacinth shook his head. His mood was altogether too heroic to allowhim to think highly of what the priest said to him. He loved the Irishlanguage as his native speech--loved it, too, as a symbol, and somethingmore, perhaps--as an expression of the nationality of Ireland. But itdid not seem to him to be a very essential thing, and to spend his lifetalking it and persuading other people to talk it was an obscure kind ofpatriotism which made no strong appeal to him--which, indeed, could notstand compared to the glory of drawing the sword. 

'You've listened to what I've told you, Father Moran, and you say thatyou understand what I feel, but I don't think you really do, or else youwouldn't fancy that I could be satisfied to stay here. What is it youask of me? To spend my time fishing and talking Irish and dancing jigs. Ah! it's well enough I'd like to do it. Don't think that such a lifewouldn't be pleasant to me. It would be too pleasant. That's what's thematter with it. It's a temptation, and not a duty, that you're settingbefore me. '

'Maybe it is now--maybe it is. And if it's that way you think of it, you're right enough to say no to me. But for all that I understand youwell enough. Who's this now coming up to the house to see me?' He wentover to the window and looked out. 'Isn't it a queer life a priest livesin a place like this, with never a minute of quiet peace from morning tonight but somebody will be coming interrupting and destroying it? Firstit's you, Hyacinth Conneally--not that I grudge the time to you whenyou're going off so soon--and now it's Michael Kavanagh. Indeed, he'sa decent man too, like yourself. Come in, Michael--come in. Don't bestanding there pulling at the old door-bell. You know as well as myselfit's broken these two years. It's heartbroken the thing is ever sincethat congested engineer put up the electric bell for me, and littleuse that was, seeing that Biddy O'Halloran--that's my housekeeper, Mr. Conneally; you remember her--poured a jug of hot water into its insidethe way it wouldn't annoy her with ringing so loud. And why the noiseof it vexed her I couldn't say, for she's as deaf as a post every timeI speak to her. Ah, you're there, Michael, are you? Now, what do youwant?'

A young farmer, black-haired, tall and straight, stood in the doorwaywith his hat in his hand. He had brought a paper for Father Moran'ssignature. It related to a bull which the Congested Districts Boardproposed to lend to the parish, and of which Kavanagh had been chosento be custodian. A long conversation followed, conducted in Irish. Thenewly-erected habitation for the animal was discussed; then the bestmethod of bringing him home from Clifden Station; then the kind ofbeast he was likely to turn out to be, and the suitability of particularbreeds of cattle to the coarse, brine-soaked land of Carrowkeel. Kavanagh related a fearful tale of a lot of 'foreign 'fowls which hadbeen planted in the neighbourhood by the Board. They were particularlynice to look at, and settings of their eggs were eagerly booked longbeforehand. Then one by one they sickened and died. Some people thoughtthey died out of spite, being angered at the way they had been treatedin the train. Kavanagh himself did not think so badly of them. He was ofopinion that their spirits were desolated in them with the way the raincame through the roof of their house, and that their feet got sore withwalking on the unaccustomed sea-sand. However their death was to beexplained, he hoped that the bull would turn out to be hardier. FatherMoran, on his part, hoped that the roof of the bull's house wouldturn out to be sounder. In the end the paper was signed, and Kavanaghdeparted. 

'Now, there, ' said the priest, 'is a fine young man. Only for him, Idon't know how I'd get on in the parish at all. He's got a head on hisshoulders, and a notion of improving himself and his neighbours, and itwould do you good to see him dance a jig. But why need I tell you thatwhen you've seen him yourself? He is to be the secretary of the GaelicLeague when we get a branch of it started in Carrowkeel. And a goodsecretary he'll make, for his heart will be in the work. I dare say, now, you've heard of the League when you were up in Dublin. Well, you'llhear more of it. By the time you're back here again---- Now, don't besaying that you'll not come back. I'll give you a year to get sick offighting for the Boers, and then there'll be a hunger on you for the oldplace that will bring you back to it in spite of yourself. '

'Good-bye, Father Moran. Whatever happens to me, I'll not forgetCarrowkeel nor you either. You've been good to me, and if I don't takeyour advice and stay where I am, it's not through want of gratitude. '

The priest wrung his hand. 

'You'll come back. It may be after I'm dead and gone, but back you'llcome. Here or somewhere else in the old country you'll spend your daysworking for Ireland, because you'll have learnt that working is betterthan fighting. '

CHAPTER X

When Hyacinth got back to Dublin about the middle of February, thestreets were gay with amateur warriors. The fever for volunteering, which laid hold on the middle classes after the series of regrettableincidents of the winter, raged violently among the Irish Loyalists. Nowhere were the recruiting officers more fervently besieged than inDublin. Youthful squireens who boasted of being admirable snipe shots, and possessed a knowledge of all that pertained to horses, struggledwith prim youths out of banks for the privilege of serving as troopers. The sons of plump graziers in the West made up parties with footmenout of their landlords' mansions, and arrived in Dublin hopeful ofenlistment. Light-hearted undergraduates of Trinity, drapers' assistantsof dubious character, and the crowd of nondescripts whose time is spentin preparing for examinations which they fail to pass, leaped at theopportunity of winning glory and perhaps wealth in South Africa. Thosewho were fortunate enough to be selected were sent to the Curragh tobe broken in to their new profession. They were clothed, to their ownintense delight, in that peculiar shade of yellow which is supposed tobe a help to the soldier in his efforts not to be shot. Their legs werescrewed into putties and breeches incredibly tight round the knees, which expanded rapidly higher up, and hung round their hips involuminous folds. Their jackets were covered with a multiplicity ofquaint little pockets, sewed on in unexpected places, and each providedwith a flap which buttoned over it. The name of the artist who designedthis costume has perished, nor does there remain any written recordof the use which these tightly-secured pocket-covers were supposed toserve. Augusta Goold suggested that perhaps they were meant to preventthe troopers' money from falling out in the event of any commandingofficer ordering his men to receive the enemy standing on their heads. 'In the light of the intelligence displayed by the English Generals upto the present, ' she said, 'the War Office is quite right to be preparedfor such a thing happening. '

It seemed possible to procure almost any amount of leave from theCurragh, and the yeomen delighted to spend it in promenading thefashionable streets of the metropolis. The tea-shops reaped a richharvest from the regal way in which they treated their female relativesand friends. Indeed, their presence must have seriously disorganized theoccupations by which young women earn their living. It was difficult toimagine that the sick in the hospitals could have been properly lookedafter, or the letters of solicitors typewritten, so great was the numberof damsels who attached themselves to these attractive heroes. Thephilosophic observer found another curious subject for speculation inthe fact that this parade of military splendour took place in a citywhose population sympathized intensely with the Boer cause, and wasaccustomed to receive the news of a British defeat with delight. TheDublin artisan viewed the yeomen much as the French in Paris must havelooked upon the allied troops who entered their city after Waterloo. The very name by which they were called had an anti-national sound, andsuggested the performance of other amateur horse-soldiers in Wexford acentury earlier. 

The little band whose writings filled the pages of the _Croppy_ weremore than anyone else enraged at the flaunting of Imperialism in theirstreets. They had rejoiced quite openly after Christmas, and calledattention every week in prose and poetry to the moribund condition ofthe British Empire, even boasting as if they themselves had borne a partin its humiliation. They were still in a position to assert that theBoers were victorious, and that the volunteers were likely to do no morethan exhaust the prison accommodation at Pretoria. They could and didcompose biting jests, but their very bitterness witnessed to a deepdisappointment. It was not possible to deny that the despised Englishgarrison in Ireland was displaying a wholly unlooked-for spirit. No onecould have expected that West Britons and 'Seonini' would have wanted tofight. Very likely, when the time came, they would run away; but inthe meanwhile here they were, swaggering through the streets of Dublin, outward and visible signs of a force in the country hostile to the hopesof the _Croppy_, a force that some day Republican Ireland would have toreckon with. 

Augusta Goold herself was more tolerant and more philosophic than herfriends. She looked at the yeomen with a certain admiration. Theirexuberant youthfulness, their strutting, and their obvious belief inthemselves, made a strong appeal to her imagination. 

'Look at that young man, ' she said to Hyacinth, pointing out a volunteerwho passed them in the street. 'I happen to know who he is. In fact, Iknew his people very well indeed at one time, and spent a fortnight withthem once when that young man was a toddler, and sometimes sat on myknee--at least, he may have sat on my knee. There were a good manychildren, and at this distance of time I can't be certain which of themit was that used to worry me most during the hour before dinner. Thefather is a landlord in the North, and comes of a fine old family. He'sa strong Protestant, and English, of course, in all his sympathies. Well, a hundred years or so ago that boy's great-grandfather wasswaggering about these same streets in a uniform, just as his descendantis doing now. He helped to drag a cannon into the Phoenix Park one daywith a large placard tied over its muzzle--"Our rights or----" Who doyou think he was threatening? Just the same England that this boy is sokeen to fight for to-day!'

'Ah, ' said Hyacinth, 'you are thinking of the volunteer movement of1780. '

'Afterwards, ' she went on, 'he was one of the incorruptibles. You'llsee his name on Jonah Barrington's red list. He stood out to thelast against the Union, wouldn't be bribed, and fought two duels withCastlereagh's bravoes. The curious thing is that the present man isquite proud of that ancestor in a queer, inconsistent sort of way. Saysthe only mark of distinction his family can boast of is that they didn'tget a Union peerage. Strange, isn't it?'

'It is strange, ' said Hyacinth. 'The Irish gentry of 1782 were men to beproud of; yet look at their descendants to-day. '

'It is very sad. Do you know, I sometimes think that Ireland will neverget her freedom till those men take it for her. Almost every strugglethat Ireland ever made was captained by her aristocracy. Think of theGeraldines and the O'Neills. Think of Sarsfield and the Wild Geese. Think of the men who wrenched a measure of independence from England in1782. Think of Lord Edward and Smith O'Brien. No, we may talk and writeand agitate, but we'll _do_ nothing till we get the old families withus. '

Hyacinth laughed. It seemed to him that Miss Goold was deliberatelytalking nonsense, rejoicing in a paradox. 

'We are likely to wait, if we wait for them. Look at those. ' He wavedhis hand towards a group of yeomen who were chatting at the streetcorner. 'They are going to stamp out a nation in South Africa. Is itlikely that they will create one here?'

'It is not likely'--she sighed as she spoke--'yet stranger things thanthat have happened. Have you ever considered what the present Englishpolicy in Ireland really is? Do you understand that they are trying tokeep us quiet by bribing the priests? They think that the Protestantsare powerless, or that they will be loyal no matter what happens. Butthink: These Protestants have been accustomed for generations to regardthemselves as a superior race. They conceive themselves to have anatural right to govern. Now they are being snubbed and insulted. Thereisn't an English official from their Lord Lieutenant down but thinks heis quite safe in ignoring the Protestants, and is only anxious tomake himself agreeable to the priests. That's the beginning. Very soonthey'll be bullied as well as snubbed. They will stand a good deal ofit, because, like most strong people, they are very stupid and slow atunderstanding; but do you suppose they will always stand it?'

'They're English, and not Irish, ' said Hyacinth. 'I suppose they likewhat their own people do. '

'It's a lie. They are not English, though they say it themselves. In theend they will find out that they are Irish. Some day a last insult, aparticularly barefaced robbery, or an intolerable oppression, will awakethem. Then they'll turn on the people that betrayed them. They willdiscover that Ireland--their Ireland--isn't meant to be a cabbage-gardenfor Manchester, nor yet a _crêche_ for sucking priests. Ah! it will begood to be alive when they find themselves. We shall be within reach ofthe freedom of Ireland then. '

Hyacinth was amazed at her vehement admiration for the class she wasaccustomed to anathematize. He turned her words over and over in hismind. They recalled, as so many different things seemed to do, hisfather's vision of an Armageddon. Amid the confusion of Irish politicsthis thought of a Protestant and aristocratic revolt was strangelyattractive; only it seemed to be wholly impossible. He bewilderedhimself in the effort to arrange the pieces of the game into somereasonable order. What was to be thought of a priesthood who, contraryto all the traditions of their Church, had nursed a revolution againstthe rights of property? or of a people, amazingly quick of apprehension, idealistic of temperament, who time after time submitted themselvesblindfold to the tyranny of a single leader, worshipped a man, and askedno questions about his policy? How was he to place an aristocracy whorefused to lead, and persisted in whining about their wrongs to theinattentive shopkeepers of English towns, gentlemen not wanting inhonour and spirit courting a contemptuous bourgeoisie with ridiculousflatteries? In what reasonable scheme of things was it possible toplace Protestants, blatant in their boasts about liberty, who huggedsubjection to a power which deliberately fostered the growth ofan ecclesiastical tyranny? Where amid this crazy dance ofself-contradictory fanatics and fools was a sane man to find a place onwhich to stand? How, above all, was Ireland, a nation, to evolve itself?

He turned with relief from these perplexities to the work that laybefore him. However a man might worry and befog himself over theconfused issues of politics, it was at all events a straightforwardand simple matter to fight, and Hyacinth was going to the front as theeleventh Irish volunteer. 

To do Miss Goold justice, she had been extremely unwilling to enrol him, and had refused to take a penny of his money. Her conscience, such asit was after years of patriotic endeavour, rebelled against committing ayoung man whom she really liked to the companionship of the men she hadenlisted and the care of their commander, Captain Albert Quinn. 

This gentleman, whom she daily expected in Dublin, belonged to CountyMayo. He represented himself as a member of an ancient but impoverishedfamily, boasted of his military experience, and professed to beprofoundly skilled in all matters relating to horses. Miss Goold'sinquiries elicited the fact that he held an undefined position underhis brother, a respectable manufacturer of woollen goods. His militaryexperience had been gathered during the few months he held a commissionin the militia battalion of the Connaught Rangers, an honourableposition which he had resigned because his brother officers persistentlymisunderstood his methods of winning money at cards. No one, however, was found to deny that he really did possess a wonderful knowledge ofhorses. The worst that Miss Goold's correspondents could suggest withregard to this third qualification was that he knew too much. Noneof these drawbacks to the Captain--he had assumed the title when heaccepted the command of the volunteers--weighed with Miss Goold. Indeed, she admitted to Mary O'Dwyer, in a moment of frankness, that if her menweren't more or less blackguards she couldn't expect them to go outto South Africa. She did not speak equally plainly to Hyacinth. Sherecollected that he had displayed a very inconvenient kind of moralitywhen she first knew him, and she believed him quite capable of breakingaway from her influence altogether if he discovered the kind of men shewas willing to work with. 

She did her best to persuade him to give up the idea of joining theforce, by pointing out to him that he was quite unfitted for the workthat would have to be done. 

'You know nothing about horses, ' she said. 'I don't suppose you've everbeen on the back of one. '

Hyacinth admitted that this was true. The inhabitants of Carrowkeelrarely ride their shaggy ponies, and when they do it is sitting sidewaysjust above the creatures' tails, with two creels for turf or seaweed inthe place where the saddle ought to be. 

'And I don't suppose you know much about shooting?'

Hyacinth was depressed, for he had never pulled a trigger in his life. In the West of Ireland a man is not allowed to possess a gun unlessa resident magistrate will certify to his loyalty and harmless-ness. Therefore, the inhabitants of villages like Carrowkeel are debarred fromshooting either snipe or seals, and the British Empire stands secure. 

The difficulty about his horsemanship Hyacinth endeavoured to get over. He arranged with a car-driver of his acquaintance to teach him to groomand harness his horses. The man possessed two quadrupeds, which hedescribed as 'the yellow pony' and 'the little mare. ' Hyacinth beganwith the yellow pony, the oldest and staidest of the two. The littlemare, who had a temper of her own, gave him more trouble. She dislikedhis way of putting the crupper under her tail, and one day, to herowner's great delight, 'rose the divil on them' when her new groom gotthe shaft of the car stuck through her collar. 

The want of experience in shooting was more difficult to get over. Grealy owned an antiquated army rifle, which he lent to Hyacinth. It was, of course, entirely different from the Mauser, and it wasimpossible to get an opportunity for firing it off. However, there wassome comfort to be found in handling the thing, and taking long andcareful aim at a distant church spire through a window. 

In the face of such enthusiasm, Miss Goold could not refuse her recruit. She talked to him freely about her plans, and was eloquent about thespirit and abilities of M. De Villeneuve, who was to take charge of hersoldiers after they joined him in Paris. On the subject of Captain Quinnshe was much more reticent, and she refused altogether to introduceHyacinth to his ten fellow troopers. 

'There's not the least necessity, ' she said, 'for you to meet them untilthe time for starting comes. In fact, I may say it is safer for none ofyou to know each other. '

Hyacinth experienced a thrill of agreeable excitement. He felt that hewas engaged in a real conspiracy. 

'For fear of informers?' he asked. 

'Yes. One never can be quite sure of anyone. Of course, they can everyone of them give information against me. You can yourself, if you like. But no one can betray anyone else, and as long as the men are safe, itdoesn't matter what happens to me. '

It was one of Miss Goold's weaknesses that she imagined herself to be anobject of hatred and dread to the Government, and nothing irritated hermore than a suspicion that she was not being taken seriously. 

The first glimpse that Hyacinth got of the character of the men amongwhom he was to serve came to him through Tim Halloran. Tim was stillsore from the scolding he had been given for his conduct at theRotunda meeting, and missed no opportunity of scoffing--not, of course, publicly, but among his friends--at Miss Goold and her volunteers. Hyacinth avoided him as much as possible, but one evening he walked upagainst him on the narrow footway at the corner of George's Street. Halloran was delighted, and seized him by the arm. 

'You're the very man I wanted to see, ' he said. 'Have you heard aboutDoherty?'

Hyacinth knew no one called Doherty. He said so, and tried to escape, but Halloran held him fast. 

'Not know Doherty! How's that? I thought you were in all dear Finola'ssecrets. Faith! I heard you were going out to fight for the Boersyourself. I didn't believe it, of course. You wouldn't be such afool. But I thought you'd know that Doherty is one of the ten preciousrecruits, or, rather, _was_ one of them. ' He laughed loudly. 'He'llfight on the other side now, if he fights at all. '

'What do you mean>' asked Hyacinth uneasily. 

He was not at all sure what view the authorities in Dublin Castle mighttake of recruiting for the Boer service, and Miss Goold's hints aboutinformers recurred to his mind alarmingly. Perhaps this Doherty was aninformer. 

'Well, ' said Halloran, 'I was in one of the police-courts this morningdoing my work for the _Evening Star_. You know I report the police newsfor that rag, don't you? Well, I do. My column is called "The Doom ofthe Disorderly. " Rather a good title that for a column of the kind!There didn't appear to be anything particular on, just a few ordinarydrunks, until this fellow Doherty was brought in. I thought I recognisedhim, and when I heard his name I was certain of my man. He hadn't doneanything very bad--assaulted a tram-conductor, or some such trifle--andwould have got off with a fine. However, a military man turned up andclaimed him as a deserter. His real name, it appears, is Johnston. Hedeserted six weeks ago from the Dublin Fusiliers. '

'How on earth did he impose on Miss Goold?' asked Hyacinth. 

Halloran looked at him curiously. 

'Oh, I shouldn't say he exactly imposed upon Finola. She's not preciselya fool, you know, and she has pretty accurate information about most ofthe people she deals with. '

'But surely------'

Halloran shrugged his shoulders. 

'My dear fellow, I don't want to shatter your ideal, but the beautifulFinola wants to work a revolution, and you can't do that sort of thingwithout soiling your hands. However, whether he imposed on her or not, there's no doubt about it that he was a deserter. Why, it appeared thatthe fool was tattooed all over the arms and chest, and the militarypeople had a list of the designs. They had a perfectly plain case, and, indeed, Doherty made no defence. '

'What will they do with him?' said Hyacinth, still uneasy about thepossibility of Doherty's volunteering information. 

'I don't know, ' said Halloran. 'I should think the best punishment wouldbe to send him out to Ladysmith. I dare say the Boers would pass himin if the circumstances were explained to them. By the way, it would berather funny if he met the other nine out there on a kopje, wouldn't it?He might take them prisoners, or they might capture him. Either way thesituation would have its comic possibilities. '

CHAPTER XI

Miss Goold lived that part of her life which was not spent at politicalmeetings or in the office of the _Croppy_ in a villa at Killiney. Ahouse agent would have described it as a most desirable residence, standing in its own grounds, overlooking the sea. Its windows openedupon one of the best of the many beautiful views of Dublin Bay. Itshalf-acre of pleasure ground--attended to by a jobbing gardener once aweek--was trim and flowery. Its brown gate shone with frequently renewedpaint, and the drive up to the door was neatly raked. InsideMiss Goold's wants were ministered to by an eminently respectableman-servant, his wife who cooked, and a maid. The married couple werefixtures, and had been with Miss Goold since she started housekeeping. The maids varied. They never quarrelled with their mistress, but theyfound it impossible to live with their fellow-servants. Mr. And Mrs. Ginty were North of Ireland Protestants of the severest type. Gintyhimself was a strong Orangeman, and his wife professed and enforced astrict code of morals. It did not in the least vex Miss Goold toknow that her servants' quarters were decorated with portraits of thereigning family in gilt frames, or that King William III. Pranced on awhite charger above the kitchen range. Nor had she any objection to herbutler invoking a nightly malediction on the Pope over his tumbler ofwhisky-and-water. Unfortunately, her maids--the first three were RomanCatholics--found that their religious convictions were outraged, andleft, after stormy scenes. The red-haired Protestant from the North whofollowed them was indifferent to the eternal destiny of Leo XIII. , butdeclined to be dictated to by Mrs. Ginty about the conduct of her loveaffairs. Miss Goold, to whom the quarrel was referred, pleaded thedamsel's cause, and suggested privately that not even a policeman--shehad a low opinion of the force--could be swept away from the path ofrespectability by a passion for so ugly a girl. Mrs. Ginty pointed outin reply that red hair and freckles were no safeguard when a flirtationis carried on after dark. There seemed no answer to this, and the maidreturned indignantly to Ballymena. She was succeeded by an anaemic andwholly incompetent niece of Mrs. Ginty's, who lived in such terror ofher aunt that peace settled upon the household. Miss Goold suspectedthat this girl did little or no work--was, in fact, wholly unfit for herposition; but so long as she herself was made comfortable, it did notseem to matter who tidied away her clothes or dusted her bedroom. 

Miss Goold, in fact, had so far mastered the philosophy of life as tounderstand that the only real use of money is to purchase comfort andfreedom from minor worries. She had deliberately cut herself adrift fromthe social set to which she belonged by birth and education, and so hadlittle temptation to spend her substance either in giving partiesor enjoying them. The ladies who flutter round the Lord Lieutenant'shospitable court would as soon have thought of calling on a music-halldanseuse as on Miss Goold. Their husbands, brothers, and sons tookliberties with her reputation in the smoking-rooms of the Kildare StreetClub, and professed to be in possession of private information abouther life which placed her outside the charity of even their tolerantmorality. The little circle of revolutionary politicians who gatheredround the _Croppy_ were not the sort of people who gave dinner-parties;and there is, in spite of the Gospel precept, a certain awkwardnessnowadays in continually asking people to dinner who cannot afford aretributive invitation. Occasionally, however, Miss Goold did entertaina few of her friends, and it was generally admitted among them that shenot only provided food and drink of great excellence, but arranged theappointments of her feasts luxuriously. 

On the very day after his interview with Tim Halloran Hyacinth receivedan invitation to dinner at the Killiney villa. Captain Quinn, thenote informed him, had arrived in Dublin, and was anxious to make theacquaintance of his future comrade-in-arms. It seemed to Hyacinth, thinking over the story of Doherty, unlikely that the whole corps wouldbe asked to meet their Captain round a dinner-table, but he hoped thatsome of them would be there. Their presence would reconcile him to theawkwardness of not possessing a dress-suit. Grealy, who had occasionallydined at the villa, warned him that a white shirt-front and blacktrousers would certainly be expected of him, and Hyacinth made anunsuccessful effort to hire garments for the night which would fit him. In the end, since it seemed absurd to purchase even a second-hand suitfor a single evening, he brushed his Sunday clothes and bought a pair ofpatent-leather shoes. 

He arrived at the platform of Westland Row Station in good time forthe train he meant to catch. He was soon joined by Miss O'Dwyer, whoappeared with her head and neck swathed in a fluffy shawl and the trainof a silk skirt gathered in her hand. The view of several flounces ofnebulous white petticoat confirmed Hyacinth in his conjecture that shewas bound for Miss Goold's party. No one who could be supposed to be amember of Captain Quinn's corps appeared on the platform, and Hyacinthbecame painfully conscious of the shortcomings of his costume. Hethought that even Miss O'Dwyer glanced at it with some contempt. Hewished that, failing a dress-suit, he could have imitated the ImperialYeomen who paraded the streets, and donned some kind of uniform. Hisdiscomfort reached a climax when Ginty received them at the door, passedMiss O'Dwyer on to the incompetent niece, and solemnly extracted the newshoes from their brown-paper parcel. 

Miss Goold stood chatting to Captain Quinn when Hyacinth entered thedrawing-room. She moved forward to meet him, radiant and splendid, hethought, beyond imagination. The rustle of her draperies, the faintscent that hung around her, and the glitter of the stones on her throat, bewildered him. 

It was not till after he had been presented to his commander that he wasable to take his eyes off her. Then, in spite of his embarrassment, heexperienced surprise and disappointment. He had formed no clear ideaof what he expected Captain Quinn to be like, but he had a vague mentalpicture of a furiously-moustachioed swashbuckler, a man of immense powerand hirsute hands. Instead, there stood before him a slim, small man, clean shaved, with shiny black hair smoothly brushed. His clothes wereso well cut and his linen so glossy that he seemed fittingly placed evenbeside the magnificent Finola. His hand, when Hyacinth shook it, seemedabsurdly small, and his feet, in their neat pumps, were more like awoman's than a man's. Then, when he turned to resume his conversationwith his hostess, Hyacinth was able to watch his face. He noticedthe man's eyes. They were small and quick, like a bird's, and shiftedrapidly, never resting long on any object. His mouth was seldom closed, and the lips, like the eyes, moved incessantly, though very slightly. There were strange lines about the cheeks and jaws, which somehowsuggested that the man had seen a good deal of the evil of the world, and not altogether unwillingly. His voice was wonderfully soft andclear, and he spoke without a trace of any provincial accent. 

During dinner Captain Quinn took the largest share in the conversation. It appeared that he was a man of considerable knowledge of the world. Hehad been a sailor in his time, and had made two voyages to Melbourneas apprentice in a large sailing-ship. His stories were interesting andhumorously told; though they all dealt with experiences of his own, henever allowed himself to figure as anything of a hero. He recounted, for instance, how one night in Melbourne Docks he had run from ahalf-drunken Swede, armed with a knife, and had spent hours dodginground the deck of a ship and calling for help before he could get hisassailant arrested. His career as an officer in the mercantile navy wascut short by a period of imprisonment in a small town in Madagascar. He did not specify his offence, but gave a vivid account of life in thegaol. 

'There were twenty of us altogether, ' he said--'nineteen niggers andmyself. There was no nonsense about discipline or work. We just satabout all day in an open courtyard, with nothing but a big iron gatebetween us and liberty. All the same, there was very little chanceof escape. There were always four black soldiers on guard, truculentscoundrels with curly swords. A sort of missionary man got wind of mybeing there, and used to come and visit me. One day he gave me a tractcalled "Gideon. " I read the thing because I had absolutely nothing elseto read. In the end it turned out an extremely useful tract, for itoccurred to me that the old plan for defeating the Midianites mightwork with the four black soldiers. I organized the other prisoners, anddivided them into three bands. We raked up a pretty fair substitutefor pitchers and lamps. Then one night we played off the stratagem, andflurried the sentries to such an extent that I got clear away. I ratherfancy one or two others got off, too, but I don't know. I got into arather disagreeable tramp steamer, and volunteered as stoker. It's sodifficult to get stokers in the tropics that the captain took his risksand kept me. I must say I was sorry afterwards that I hadn't stayed inthe gaol. '

The story was properly appreciated by the audience, and Hyacinth beganto feel a liking for the Captain. 

'Do you know, ' said Miss Goold, when their laughter had subsided, 'Ibelieve I know that identical tract. I once had an evangelical aunt, adear old lady who went about her house with a bunch of keys in a smallbasket. She used to give me religious literature. I never was reduced toreading it, but I distinctly remember a picture of Gideon with his mouthopen waving a torch on the front page. Could it have been the same?'

'It must have been, ' said the Captain. 'Mine had that picture, too. Gideon had nothing on but a sort of nightshirt with a belt to it, andonly one sleeve. By the way, if you are up in tracts, perhaps you knowone called "The Rock of Horeb "?'

Miss Goold shook her head. 

'Ah, well, ' said the Captain, after appealing to Mary O'Dwyer andHyacinth, 'it can't be helped, but I must say I should like to meetsomeone who had read "The Rock of Horeb. " I once sailed from Peru inan exceedingly ill-found little barque loaded with guano. We had a verydull time going through the tropics, and absolutely the only thing toread on board was the first half of "The Rook of Horeb. " There were atleast two pages missing. I read it until I nearly knew it off by heart, and ever since I've been trying to get a complete copy to see how itended. '

Some of his stories dealt with more civilized life. He delighted MissGoold with an account, not at all unfriendly, of the humours ofthe third battalion of the Connaught Rangers. He quoted one of MaryO'Dwyer's poems to her, and pleased Hyacinth by his enthusiasticadmiration of the Connemara scenery. Good food, good wine, and acompanion like Captain Quinn, gladden the heart, and the little partywas very merry when Ginty deposited coffee and cigarettes and finallydeparted. 

In Miss Goold's house it was not the custom for the ladies to desertthe dinner-table by themselves. Very often the hostess was the only ladypresent, and she had the greatest dislike to leaving a conversation justwhen it was likely to become really interesting. Moreover, Miss Gooldsmoked, not because it was a smart or emancipated thing to do, butbecause she liked it, and--a curious note of femininity about her--sheobjected to her drawing-room smelling of tobacco. 

When Ginty had disappeared, and the serious business of enjoying thefood was completed, the talk of the party turned on the South Africancampaign and the prospects of the Irish volunteers. Captain Quinndisplayed a considerable knowledge of the operations both of the Boersand the British Generals. For the latter he expressed what appeared toHyacinth to be an exaggerated contempt, but the two ladies listenedto it with evident enjoyment. He delighted Miss Goold by his extremeeagerness to be off. 

'I don't see, ' he said, 'why we shouldn't start to-morrow. '

'I'm afraid that's out of the question, ' said Augusta Goold. 'M. DeVilleneuve arranged to send me a wire when he was ready for our men, andI can't well send them sooner. '

'Ah, ' said the Captain, 'but it seems to me the Frenchman is inclinedto dawdle. Don't you think that if we went over it might hurry him up abit?'

She agreed that this was possible, but represented the difficulty ofkeeping the men suitably employed in Paris for perhaps three weeks or amonth. 

'You see, ' she said, 'they are all right here in Dublin, where I cankeep an eye on them. Besides, they have all got some sort of employmenthere, and I don't have to pay them. I haven't got money enough to keepthem in Paris, and they won't get anything from Dr. Leyds until you havethem on board the steamer. '

Captain Quinn seemed satisfied, but later on in the evening he returnedto the subject. 

'I can't help feeling that it would be better for me, at all events, togo over to Paris at once. I shouldn't ask to draw any pay at present. Ihave enough by me to keep me going for a few weeks. '

'But what about the men? Will you come back for them?'

'No, I think that would be foolish and unnecessary. There is no use inattracting attention to our movements. We can't have a public send-off, with cheers and that sort of thing, in any case, or march through thestreets like those ridiculous yeomen. Our fellows have got to slipaway quietly in twos and threes. We can't tell whether we're not beingwatched this minute. '

There was a note of sincerity in the Captain's voice which convincedHyacinth that he was genuinely frightened at the thought of having apoliceman on his track. Miss Goold, too, looked appropriately solemn atthe suggestion. As a matter of fact, the authorities in Dublin Castledid occasionally send a detective in plain clothes to walk after her. It is not conceivable that they suspected her of wanting to blow upNelson's pillar or assassinate a judge. Probably they merely wished toexercise the members of the force, and, in the absence of any actualcrime in the country, felt that no harm could come to anyone through the'shadowing' of Miss Goold. The plan, though the authorities probably didnot consider this, had the incidental advantage of gratifying the ladyherself. She was perfectly acquainted with most of the officers who wereput on her track, and was always in good spirits when she recognised oneof them waiting for her in Westland Row Station. Captain Quinn kept awatch on her face with his sharp shifting eyes while he spoke, and hewas quick to realize that he had hit on a way of flattering her. 

'You are a person, Miss Goold, of whose actions the Government is boundto take cognisance. I dare say they have their suspicions of me, and ifyou and I are seen together in Dublin during the next week or two therewill certainly be inquiries; whereas, if I go over to Paris at once, there will be no reason to watch you or anybody else. '

Augusta Goold hesitated. 

'What do you say, Mr. Conneally?' she asked. 

Hyacinth was puzzled at this extreme eagerness to be off. A suspicioncrossed his mind that the Captain meditated some kind of treachery. Hemade what appeared to him to be a brilliant suggestion. 

'Let me go with Captain Quinn. I can start to-morrow if necessary. Ishould like to see something of Paris; and you know, Miss Goold, I'veplenty of money. '

He thought it likely that the Captain would object to this plan. Ifhe meditated any kind of crooked dealing when he got to Paris, thoughHyacinth failed to see any motive for treachery, he would not want to besaddled with a companion. The answer he received surprised him. 

'Delightful! I shall be glad to have a friend with me. In the intervalsof military preparation we can have a gay time--not too gay, of course, Miss Goold. I shall keep Mr. Conneally out of serious mischief. When wehave a little spare cash we may as well enjoy ourselves. We shan't wantto carry money about with us in the Transvaal. We mean to live at theexpense of the English out there. '

Augusta Goold smiled almost maternally at Hyacinth. 

'My dear boy, ' she said, 'what seems plenty of money to you won't govery far in Paris. What is it? Let me see, you said two hundred pounds, and you want to buy your outfit out of that. Keep a little by you incase of accident. '

'Well, ' said the Captain, 'that's settled. And if we are really to startto-morrow, we ought to get home to-night. Mr. Conneally may be readyto start at a moment's notice, but he must at least pack up histooth-brush. May we see you safe back to town, Miss O'Dwyer? Remember, we shall expect a valedictory ode in the next number of the _Croppy_. Write us something that will go to a tune, something with a swing in it, and we'll sing it beside the camp fires on the veldt. Miss Goold'--heheld out his hand as he spoke--'I'm a plain fellow'--he did not look inthe least as if he thought so--'I've led too rough a life to be any goodat making pretty speeches, but I'm glad I've seen you and talked to you. If I'm knocked on the head out there I shall go under satisfied, forI've met a woman fit to be a queen--a woman who is a queen, the queen ofthe heart of Ireland. '

It is likely that Augusta Goold, though she was certainly not a fool, was a little excited by the homage, for she refused to say good-bye, declaring that she would see the boat off next morning. It was a promisewhich would cost her something to keep, for the mail steamer leaves at 8a. M. , and Miss Goold was a lady who appreciated the warmth of her bed inthe mornings, especially during the early days of March, when the windis likely to be in the east. 

CHAPTER XII

Captain Quinn made himself very agreeable to Mary O'Dwyer during theshort journey back to Dublin. At Westland Row he saw her into a cab, which he paid for. His last words were a reminder that he would expectto have her war-song, music and all, sent after him to Paris. Then heturned to Hyacinth. 

'That's all right. We've done with her. It was better to pay the cab forher, else she might have scrupled about taking one, and we should havebeen obliged to go home with her in a beastly tram. Come along. I'mstaying at the Gresham. It's always as well to go to a decent placeif you have any money. You come with me, and we'll have a drink and atalk. '

There were two priests and a Bishop in earnest conference round thefire in the hall of the hotel when they entered. When he discovered thattheir talk was of the iniquities of the National Board of Education, andtherefore likely to last beyond midnight, Captain Quinn led the way intothe smoking-room, which was unoccupied. A sufficient supply of whiskyand a syphon of soda-water were set before them. The Captain stretchedhimself in a comfortable chair, and lit his pipe. 

'A fine woman, Miss Goold, ' he said meditatively. Hyacinth murmured anassent. 

'A very fine woman, and apparently pretty comfortably off. I wonder whyon earth she does it. '

He looked at Hyacinth as if he expected some sort of explanation to beforthcoming. 

'Does what?' asked Hyacinth at length. 

'Oh, all this revolutionary business: the _Croppy_, seditious speeches, and now this rot about helping the Boers. What does she stand to gain byit? I don't suppose there's any money in the business, and a womanlike that might get all the notoriety she wants in her own proper set, without stumping the country and talking rot. '

This way of looking at Augusta Goold's patriotism was new to Hyacinth, and he resented it. 

'I suppose she believes in the principles she professes, ' he said. 

The Captain looked at him curiously, and then took a drink of hiswhisky-and-soda. 

'Well, ' he said, 'let's suppose she does. After all, her motives arenothing to us, and she's a damned fine woman, whatever she does it for. '

He drank again. 

'It would have been very pleasant, now, if she would have spent the nextfew weeks with me in Paris. You won't mind my saying that I'd ratherhave had her than you, Conneally, as a companion in a little burst. However, I saw at once that it wouldn't do. Anyone with an eye in hishead could tell at a glance that she wasn't that sort. '

He sighed. Hyacinth was not quite sure that he understood. Thesuggestion was so calmly made and reasoned on that it seemed impossiblethat it could be as iniquitous as it appeared. 

'There's no one such an utter fool about women, ' went on the Captain, 'as your respectable married man, who never does anything wrong himself. I'd heard of Miss Goold, as everybody has, and listened to discussionsabout her character. You know just as well as I do the sort of thingsthey say about her. '

Hyacinth did know very well, and flared up in defence of his patroness. 

'They are vile lies. '

'That's just what I'm saying. Those respectable people who tell the liesare such fools. They think that every woman who doesn't mew aboutat afternoon parties must be a bad one. Now, anyone with a littleexperience would know at once that Miss Goold--what's this the otherone called her? Oh yes, Finola--that Finola may be a fool, but she's not_that_. '

He pulled himself together as he spoke. Evidently he plumed himself, onhis experience and the faculty for judging it had brought him. 

'Now, I'd just as soon have asked my sister-in-law to come to Paris withme for a fortnight as Finola. You don't know Mrs. James Quinn, I think. That's a pity. She's the most domesticated and virtuous _haus-frau_ inthe world. '

He paused, and then asked Hyacinth, 'Why are you doing it?'

Again Hyacinth was reduced by sheer surprise to a futility. 

'Doing what?'

'Oh, going out to fight for the Boers. Now, don't, like a good fellow, say you're acting on principle. It's all well enough to give Finolacredit for that kind of thing. She is, as we agreed, a splendid woman. But you mustn't ask me to believe in the whole corps in the same way. '

Hyacinth meditated a reply. It was clearly impossible to assert thathe wanted to fight for liberty, to give his life to the cause of anoppressed nationality. It would be utterly absurd to tell the story ofhis father's vision, and say that he looked on the South African Waras a skirmish preliminary to the Armageddon. Sitting opposite to thiscynical man of the world and listening to his talk, Hyacinth camehimself to disbelieve in principle. He felt that there must be somebaser motive at the bottom of his desire to fight, only, for the life ofhim, he could not remember what it was. He could not even imagine a goodreason--good in the estimation of his companion--why anyone should do sofoolish a thing as go out to the Transvaal. The Captain was not at allimpatient. He sat smoking quietly, until there seemed no prospect ofHyacinth answering; then he said:

'Well, if you don't want to tell me, I don't mind. Only I think you'refoolish. You see, little accidents happen in these affairs. There aresuch things as bullets, and one of them might hit you somewhere thatwould matter. Then it would be my duty to send home your last words toyour sorrowing relatives, and it would be easier to do that if I knewexactly what you had done. The death-bed repentance of the prodigalis always most consoling to the elder brother--much more consoling, infact, than the prodigal's return. Now, how the deuce am I to make up aplausible repentance for you, if I don't know what you've done?'

'But I've not done anything, ' said Hyacinth ineffectively. 

The Captain ignored him. 

'Come, now, it can't be anything very bad at your age. Have you gotinto a mess with a girl? Or'--he brightened up at the guess--'areyou hopelessly enamoured of the beautiful Finola? That would be mostsuitable. The bold, bad woman sends the minstrel boy to his death, with his wild harp slung behind him. I could draw tears from thestoniest-hearted elder brother over that. '

If he could have thought of a crime at the moment, Hyacinth wouldprobably have confessed it; but he was bewildered, and could hit onnothing better than:

'I have no elder brother--in fact, no relation of any sort. '

'Lucky man! Now, I have a perfect specimen of a brother--James Quinn, Esquire, of Ballymoy. He's a churchwarden. Think of that! If it shouldbe your melancholy duty to send the message home to him--in case thatbullet hits me, I mean--tell him------ Oh, there's no false pride aboutme. Fill your glass again. I don't in the least mind your knowing that Iwouldn't go a step to fight for Boer or Briton either if it wasn't for alittle affair connected with some horses and a cheque. You see, the WarOffice people sent down a perfect idiot to buy remounts for the cavalryin Galway and Mayo. He was the sort of idiot that would tempt anArchbishop to swindle him. I rather overdid it, I'm afraid, and now thematter is likely to come out. '

For all his boasted powers of observation, Captain Quinn failed tonotice the disgust and alarm on Hyacinth's face. 

'I stuck the fool, ' he went on, 'with every old screw in the country. Igot broken-winded mares from the ploughs. I collected a regular hospitalof spavined, knock-kneed beasts, and he took them from me without a wordat thirty pounds apiece. It would have been all right if I had gone nofurther. But, hang it all! I got to the end of my tether. I declare toyou I don't believe there was another screw left in the whole county ofMayo, and unless I took to selling him the asses I couldn't go on. ThenI heard of this plan of your friend Finola's, and I determined to makea little coup and clear. I altered a cheque. The idiot was on his way toan out-of-the-way corner of Connemara looking for mounted infantry cobs. I knew he wouldn't see his bank-book for at least a week, so I chancedit. That's the reason why I am so uncommonly anxious to get clear atonce. If I once get off, it will be next door to impossible to get meback again. General Joubert will hardly give me up. I'm not the leastafraid of those ridiculous policemen who walk about after Finola. ButI am very much afraid of being tapped on the shoulder for reasonsquite non-political. I can tell you I've been on the jump ever sinceyesterday, when I cashed the cheque, and I shan't feel easy till I'veleft France behind me. I fancy I'm safe for the present. The idiot issure to try fifty ways of getting his accounts straight before he lightson my little cheque; and when he does, I've covered my tracks prettywell. My dear brother hasn't the slightest notion what's become of me. I dare say he'll stop making inquiries as soon as the police begin. Poorold chap! He'll feel it about the family name, and so on. '

He smiled at his own reflection in the mirror over the chimneypiece. Hewas evidently well satisfied with the performance he had narrated. Thenat last Hyacinth found himself able to speak. Again, as when he haddefeated Dr. Spenser in the college lecture-room, his own coolnesssurprised him. 

'You're an infernal blackguard!' he said. 

Captain Quinn looked at him with a surprise that was perfectly genuine. He doubted if he could have heard correctly. 

'What did you say?'

'I said, ' repeated Hyacinth, 'you are an infernal blackguard!'

'Did you really suppose that I would be going on this fool of anexpedition if I wasn't?'

'I shall tell Miss Goold the story you have just told me. I shall tellher to-morrow morning before the boat sails. '

'Very well, ' said the Captain; 'but don't suppose for a moment thatyou'll shock Finola. She doesn't know this particular story about me, but I expect she knows another every bit as bad, and I dare say she willregard the whole thing as a justifiable spoiling of the Egyptians. Bythe way '--there was a note of anxiety in his voice--'I hope you won'tfind it necessary to repeat anything I've said about the lady herself. _That_ might irritate her. '

'Is it likely, ' said Hyacinth, 'that I would repeat that kind of talk toany woman?'

'Quite so. I admire your attitude. Such things are entirely unfit forrepetition. But seriously, now, what on earth do you expect to happenwhen you tell her? I'm perfectly certain that every single volunteershe's got is just as great a blackguard--your word, my dear fellow--as Iam, and Finola knows it perfectly well. '

Hyacinth hesitated. The phrase in Miss Goold's letter in which she hadoriginally described her men as blackguards recurred to his mind. Heremembered the story of Doherty. His anger began to give way to a sickfeeling of disgust. 

'Think, now, ' said the Captain: 'is it likely that you could enlist acorps of Sunday-school teachers for this kind of work? I'll give youcredit for the highest motives, though I'm blest if I understand them;but how can you suppose that there is anyone else in the whole worldthat feels the way you feel or wants to act as you are doing?'

'I dare say you are right, ' said Hyacinth feebly. 

'Of course I'm right--perfectly right. '

Hyacinth tried to lift his glass of whisky-and-water to his lips, buthis hand trembled, and he was obliged to put it down. Captain Quinnwatched him wipe the spilt liquid off his hand, and then settle down inhis chair with his head bowed and his eyes half shut. 

'Sit up, man, ' he said. 'It's all right. You've done nothing to beashamed of, at all events. But look here, you ought not to come with usat all. 

It's no job for a man like you. You back out of it. Don't turn upto-morrow morning. I'll explain to Finola if she's there, and if notI'll write her a letter that will set you straight with her. I'm reallysorry for you, Conneally. '

Hyacinth looked up at him. 

'I'm sorry I called you a blackguard, ' he said. 'You're not any worsethan everyone else in the world. '

'Nonsense, ' said Captain Quinn. 'Don't take it like that. From yourpoint of view you were quite right to call me a blackguard. And, mindyou, there are plenty of people in the world who aren't blackguards. There's my brother, for instance. He's a bit of a prig--in fact, he'sas priggish as he well can be--but he's never done anything but runstraight. I don't suppose he could go crooked if he tried. '

Hyacinth got up. 

'Good-night, ' he said, 'and good-bye. I shan't go with you. '

'Wait a minute, ' said Captain Quinn. 'I think I've done you one goodturn to-night in stopping you going to South Africa. Now I'll do youanother, and one at the same time to that brother of mine. I left himin a hurry. I told you that, but I don't think I mentioned that I was inhis employment. He runs a woollen factory down in Mayo. I owned ashare in the business once, but that went long ago, and the whole thingbelongs to James now. I was a sort of clerk and general agent. I wasn'treally the least use, for I never did any work. James was for evercomplaining, but I'm bound to say he stuck to me. I'll give you a letterto him, and I dare say you may get the job that I've chucked. It's notmuch of a thing, but it may suit you for a while. Sit down till I writemy letter. '

Hyacinth obeyed. Since his anger evaporated a sort of numbness had creptover his mind. He scarcely understood what was said to him. He had avague feeling of gratitude towards Captain Quinn, and at the same timea great desire to get away and be alone. He felt that he required toadjust his mind to the new thoughts which had been crowded into it. Whenhe received the letter he put it into his pocket, and rose again to go. The Captain saw him to the door. 

'Good-bye. ' Hyacinth heard him, but his voice seemed far off, and hiswords meaningless. 'Take my advice and run down to Ballymoy at once. Don't hang about Finola any more. She's a splendid woman, but she's notfor you. If you married her you'd be perfectly miserable. Not that Ithink she'd ever marry you. Still, she might. Women do such odd things. If by any chance she does, you'll have to be very careful. Give her herhead, and take her easy up to the jumps. Don't try to hustle her, andfor God's sake don't begin sawing at her mouth. I'd very much like to behere to see you in the character of Mr. Augusta Goold. ' He sighed. 'But, of course, I can't. The British Isles will be too hot for me fora while. However, who can tell what might happen if I win a good medalfrom old Kruger, and capture a few British Generals? I might act bestman for you yet, if you'll wait a year or two. '

When Hyacinth got home to his lodgings the first object that met his eyewas Grealy's ancient rifle. He tied a label round its barrel addressedto the owner. Then he packed his few belongings carefully and strappedhis bag. So far he was sure of himself. He had no doubt whatever that hemust leave Dublin at once. He felt that he could not endure an interviewwith Augusta Goold. She might blame him or might pity him. Either wouldbe intolerable. She might even justify herself to him, might beat himinto submission by sheer force of her beauty and her passion, as she haddone once before. He would run no such risk. He felt that he could notsacrifice his sense of right and wrong, could not allow himself to bedragged into the moral chaos in which, it seemed to him now, Miss Gooldlived. He was unconscious of any Divine leading, or even of any directreliance on the obligations of honour. He could not himself have toldwhy he clung with such desperate terror to his plan of escaping from hissurroundings. Simply he could not do certain things or associate as afriend with people who did them. To get away from Dublin was the firstnecessity. For a moment it occurred to him that he might go to Dr. Henry, tell him the whole story, and ask for advice and help. But thatwas impossible. How could he confess the degradation of his ideal?How could he resist the inevitable reminder that he had been warnedbeforehand? Besides, not even now, after all that he had seen, could heaccept Dr. Henry's point of view. He still believed in Ireland, stillhoped to serve her, still looked for the coming of his father's captainto lead the saints to the final victory. Miss Goold had failed him, buthe was not yet ready to enrol himself a citizen of England. 

No, he must leave Dublin. But where to go? His lamp burnt dim andexpired as he sat thinking. His fire had long ago gone out. He shiveredwith cold and misery, while the faint light of the dawn stole into hisroom. He heard the first twitter of the birds in the convent gardenbehind his lodging. Then came the noise of the earliest traffic, theunnaturally loud rattle of the dust-carts on their rounds. A steamerhooted far away down the river, and an early bell rang the neighbouringnuns to prayer. Hyacinth grew desperate. Could he go home, back to thefishing-boats and simple people of Carrowkeel? A great desire for theold scenes seized upon him. He fought against it with all his might. Hehad rejected the offer of the home life once. Now, no doubt, it would beclosed against him. The boat that might have been his was sold long ago. He would not go back to confess himself a fool and a failure. 

Gradually his mind worked back over the conversation in the hotel withCaptain Quinn. The recollection of the latter part of it, which hadmeant nothing at the time, grew clear. He felt for the letter in hispocket, and drew it out. After all, why should he not offer himself toJames Quinn? Ballymoy was remote enough to be a hiding-place. It was inCounty Mayo, the Captain had said. He had never heard of the place, andit seemed likely that no one else, except its inhabitants, knew of iteither. At least, there was no reason that he could see why he shouldnot go there. His brain refused to work any longer, either at planningor remembering. His lips formed the word Ballymoy. He repeated it againand again. He seemed to go on repeating it in the troubled sleep whichcame to him. 

CHAPTER XIII

The Irish get credit, even from their enemies, for being a quick-witted, imaginative, and artistic people, yet they display astonishingly littletaste or originality in their domestic architecture. In Connaught, wherethe Celtic genius may be supposed to have the freest opportunityfor expressing itself, the towns are all exactly alike, and theirresemblance consists in the absence of any beauty which can pleasethe eye. An English country town, although the English bucolic isnotoriously as stupid as an ox, has certain features of its own. So hasa Swiss cottage or a French village. It is possible to represent theseupon Christmas cards or the lids of chocolate-boxes without labellingthem English, Swiss, or French. Any moderately well educated young ladywill recognise them at once, and exclaim without hesitation, 'How trulyEnglish!' or 'How sweetly Swiss!' But no one can depict an Irish townwith any hope of having it recognised unless he idealizes boldly, introducing a highly-intelligent pig, or a man in knee-breeches kissinga fancifully-attired colleen. And then, after all, he might as well havelabelled it Irish at once in good plain print, and saved himself thetrouble of drawing the symbolic figures. 

To describe Ballymoy, therefore, mountains, rivers, and such likenatural eccentricities being left out of the count, is to describe fiftyother West of Ireland towns. There is a railway-station, bleak, gray, and windswept, situated, for the benefit of local car-owners, a mile anda half from the town, and the road which connects the two is execrable. There is a workhouse, in Ballymoy as everywhere else in this lost landthe most prominent building. There is a convent, immense and wonderfullywhite, with rows and rows of staring windows and a far-seen figure ofthe Blessed Virgin, poised in a niche above the main door. There isa Roman Catholic church, gray-walled, gray-roofed, and unspeakablyhideous, but large and, like the workhouse and the convent, obtrudingitself upon the eye. It seems as if the inhabitants of the town must allof them be forced, and that at no distant date, either into religionor pauperism, just as small bodies floating in a pond are sucked intoconnection with one or other of the logs which lie among them. The shopsin the one tortuous street block the footpaths in front of their doorswith piles of empty packing-cases. The passenger is saluted, here by abuffet in the face from a waterproof coat suspended outside a draper's, there by a hot breath of whisky-laden air. Two shops out of everythree are public-houses. These occupy a very beautiful position in theeconomic life of the town. Their profits go to build the church, topay the priests, and to fill the coffers of the nuns. The making ofthe profits fills the workhouse. A little aloof stands the Protestantchurch, austere to look upon, expressing in all its lines a grimreproach of the people's life. Beyond it, among scanty, stooped trees, is the rectory, gray, as everything else is, wearing, like a decayedlady, the air of having lived through better days. 

Such, save for one feature, is Ballymoy, as the traveller sees it, asHyacinth Conneally saw it when he arrived there one gusty afternoon. The one unusual feature is Mr. James Quinn's woollen mill. It stands, a gaunt and indeed somewhat dilapidated building, at the bottom of thestreet, in the angle where the river turns sharply to flow under thebridge. The water just above the bridge is swept into a channel andforced to turn the wheel which works some primitive machinery within. In the centre of the mill's front is an archway through which carts passinto the paved square behind. Here is the weighbridge, and here greatbundles of heavy-smelling fleeces are unloaded. Off the square is theoffice where Mr. Quinn sits, pays for the wool, and enters the weightof it in damp ledgers. Here on Saturdays two or three men and a score ofgirls receive their wages. The business is a peculiar one. You may bringyour wool to Mr. Quinn in fleeces, just as you sheer it off the sheep'sback. He will pay you for it, more or less, according to the amountof trouble you have taken with your sheep. This is the way the youngergeneration likes to treat its wool. If you are older, and are blessedwith a wife able to card and spin, you deal differently with Mr. Quinn. For many evenings after the shearing your wife sits by the firesidewith two carding-combs in her hands, and wipes off them wonderfully softrolls of wool. Afterwards she fetches the great wheel from its nook, andyou watch her pulling out an endless gray thread while she steps backand forwards across the floor. The girls watch her, too, but not, asyou do, with sleepy admiration. Their emotion is amused contempt. Nevertheless, your kitchen wall is gradually decorated with bunches ofgreat gray balls. When these have accumulated sufficiently, you takethem to Mr. Quinn. A certain number of them become his property. Out ofthe rest he will weave what you like--coarse yellow flannel, good forbawneens, and, when it is dyed crimson, for petticoats; or blankets--notfluffy like the blankets that are bought in shops, but warm to sleepunder when the winter comes; or perhaps frieze, very thick and rough, the one fabric that will resist the winter rain. 

This portion of his business Mr. Quinn finds to be decreasing year byyear. Fewer and fewer women care to card and spin the wool. The youngermen find it more profitable to sell it at once, and to wear, insteadof the old bawneens, shirts called flannel which are brought over fromcotton-spinning Lancashire, and sold in the shops. The younger womenthink that they look prettier in gowns made artfully by the localdressmaker out of feeble materials got up to catch the eye. If now andthen, for the sake of real warmth, one of them makes a petticoat of theold crimson flannel, it is kept so short that, save in very heavy rain, it can be concealed. Unfortunately, while these old-fashioned profitsare vanishing, Mr. Quinn finds it very hard to increase the other branchof his business. The fabrics which he makes are good, so good that hefinds it difficult to sell them in the teeth of competition. Thecountry shops are flooded with what he calls 'shoddy. ' An army of eagercommercial travellers pushes showy goods on the shopkeepers and thepublic at half his price. Even the farmers in remote districts arebeginning to acquire a taste for smartness. Some things in which he usedto do a useful trade are now scarcely worth making. There is hardlyany demand for the checked head-kerchiefs. The women prefer hats andbonnets, decked with cheap ribbons or artificial flowers; and thesebring no trade to Mr. Quinn's mill. Still, he manages to hold on. TheLancashire people, though they have invented flannelette, cannot as yetmake a passable imitation of frieze, and there is a Dublin house whichbuys annually all the blankets he can turn out. It is true that eventhere, and for the best class of customers, prices have to be cut so asto leave a bare margin of profit. Yet since there is a margin, Mr. Quinnholds on, though not very hopefully. 

Hyacinth left the bulk of his luggage--a packing-case containing thebooks which the auctioneer had failed to dispose of in Carrowkeel--atthe station, and walked into Ballymoy carrying his bag. He had littledifficulty in making his way to the mill, and found the owner of it inhis office. It was difficult at first to believe that James Quinn couldbe any relation to Captain Albert, the traveller, horse-dealer, soldier, and thief. This man was tall, though he stooped when he stood to receivehis visitor. His movements were slow. His fair hair lay thin across hisforehead, and was touched above the ears with gray. His blue eyes werevery gentle, and had a way of looking long and steadily at what theysaw. A glance at his face left the impression that life, perhaps by novery gentle means, had taught him patience. 

'This letter will introduce me, ' said Hyacinth; 'it is from yourbrother, Captain, or Mr. Albert, Quinn. '

James Quinn took the letter, and turned it over slowly. Then, withoutopening it, he laid it on the table in front of him. His eyes travelledfrom it to Hyacinth's face, and rested there. It was some time before hespoke, and then it was to correct Hyacinth upon a trivial point. 

'My half-brother, ' he said. 'My father married twice, and Albert is theson of his second wife. You may have noticed that he is a great dealyounger than I am. '

'He looks younger, certainly, ' said Hyacinth, for the other was waitingfor a reply. 

'Nearly twenty years younger. Albert is only just thirty. '

The exact age of the Captain was uninteresting and seemed to be besidethe purpose of the visit. Hyacinth shifted his chair and fidgeted, uncertain what to do or say next. 

'Albert gave you this letter to me. Is he a friend of yours?'

'No. '

James Quinn looked at him again steadily. It seemed--but this may havebeen fancy--that there was a kindlier expression in his eyes after theemphatio repudiation of friendship with Albert. At length he took up theletter, and read it through slowly. 

'Why did my brother give you this letter?'

The question was a puzzling one. Hyacinth had never thought of tryingto understand the Captain's motives. Then the conversation in the hotelrecurred to him. 

'He said that he wanted to do a good turn to me and to you also. '

'What had you done for him?'

'Nothing whatever. '

Apparently James Quinn was not in the least vexed at the brevity ofthe answers he received, or disturbed because his cross-examination wasobviously disagreeable to Hyacinth. 

'In this letter, ' he went on, referring to the document as he spoke, 'he describes you as a young man who is "certainly honest, probablyreligious, and possibly intelligent. " I presume you know my brother, andif you do, you may be surprised to hear that I am quite prepared to takehis word for all this. I have very seldom known Albert to tell me lies, and I don't know why he should want to deceive me in this case. Still, I am a little puzzled to account for his giving you the letter. Can youadd nothing in the way of explanation to what you have said?'

'I don't know that I can, ' said Hyacinth. 

'Will you tell me how you met my brother, and what he is doing now, orwhere he is?'

'I do not think I should be justified in doing so. '

'Ah, well! I can understand that in certain circumstances Albert wouldbe very grateful to a man who would hold his tongue. He might be quitewilling to do you a good turn if you undertook to answer no questionsabout him. '

He smiled as he spoke, a little grimly, but there was laughter lurkingin the corners of his eyes. A Puritan will sometimes smile in such away at the thought of a sinful situation, too solemn to be laughedat openly, but appealing to a not entirely atrophied sense of humour. Hyacinth felt reassured. 

'Indeed, ' he said, 'I made no promise of silence. It is only that--well, I don't think----'

James Quinn waited patiently for the conclusion of the sentence, butHyacinth never arrived at it. 

'In this letter, ' he said at last, 'my brother asks me to give you theplace he lately held in my business. Now, I don't want to press you tosay anything you don't want to, but before we go further I must ask youthis, Were you implicated in the affair yourself?'

'I beg your pardon. I don't quite understand what you mean. '

'Well, I suppose that since my brother is anxious that you should holdyour tongue, he has done something that won't bear talking about. Wereyou implicated in--in whatever the trouble was?'

'Certainly not, ' said Hyacinth. 'In fact, it was on account of what youspeak of as "trouble" that I declined to have anything more to do withyour brother. '

'That is probably very much to your credit, and, in the light of mybrother's estimate of your character, I may say that I entirely believewhat you say. Am I to understand that you are an applicant for the postin my business which Albert held, and which this letter tells me I mayconsider vacant?'

'That is what brought me down here, ' said Hyacinth. 

'Have you any other recommendations or testimonials as to character toshow me?'

'No. But there are several people who would answer questions about me ifyou wrote to them: Dr. Henry, of Trinity College, would, or Miss AugustaGoold, or Father Moran, of Carrowkeel, in County Galway. '

'You have given me the most remarkable list of references I ever cameacross in my life. I don't suppose anyone ever before was recommendedfor a post by a Protestant divinity professor, a notoriously violentpolitical agitator, a Roman Catholic priest, and a--well, we won'tdescribe my brother. How do you come to be mixed up with all thesepeople? Who are you?'

'I am the son of Æneas Conneally, Rector of Carrowkeel, who died lastChristmas. '

'Well, ' said James Quinn, 'I suppose if all these people are preparedto recommend you, your character must be all right. Now, tell me, do youknow what the post is you are applying for?'

'No, ' said Hyacinth. 'And I may as well say that I have had noexperience or business training whatever. '

'So I should suppose from the way you have come to me. Well, my brotherwas clerk and traveller for my business. He was supposed to help me tokeep accounts and to push the sale of my goods among the shopkeepersin Connaught. As a matter of fact, he never did either the one or theother. When he was at home he did nothing. When he was on the roadhe bought and sold horses. I paid him eighty pounds a year and histravelling expenses. I also promised him a percentage on the profits ofthe sales he effected. Now, do you think this work would suit you?'

'I might not be able to do it, ' said Hyacinth, 'but I should very muchlike to be allowed to try. I can understand that I shall be very littleuse at first, and I am willing to work without any salary for a time, perhaps six months, until I have learned something about your business. '

'Come, now, that's a business-like offer. I'll give you a trial, if itwas only for the sake of your list of references. I won't keep you sixmonths without paying you if you turn out to be any good at all. And Ithink there must be something in you, for you've gone about getting thisjob in the queerest way I ever heard of. Would you like any time to makeup your mind finally before accepting the post?'

'No, ' said Hyacinth; 'I accept at once. '

They walked together through the mill, and looked at the machines andthe workers. The girls smiled when Mr. Quinn stopped to speak to them, and looked with frank curiosity at Hyacinth. The three or four men whodid the heavier work stopped and chatted for a few minutes when theycame to them. Evidently there was no soreness or distrust here betweenthe employer and the employed. When they had gone through the roomswhere the work was going on, they climbed a staircase like a ladder, andcame to the loft where the wool was stored. Hyacinth handled it as hewas directed, and endeavoured to appreciate the difference between thegood and the inferior qualities. They passed by an unglazed window atthe back of the mill, and Mr. Quinn pointed out his own house. It stoodamong trees and shrubs, now for the most part bare, but giving promiseof shady privacy in summertime. Long windows opened out on to a lawnstretching down to the watercourse which fed the millwheel. A gravelpath skirted one side of the house leading to a bridge, and thence toa doorway in a high wall, beyond which lay the road. As they lookedthe door opened, and a woman with two little girls came through. Theycrossed the bridge, and walked up to the house. 

'That is my wife, ' said Mr. Quinn, 'and my two little girls. '

He stretched out between the bars of the window, and shouted to them. All three looked back. Mrs. Quinn waved her hand, and the two childrenshouted in reply. Then a light appeared in one of the windows, andHyacinth caught a glimpse of a trim maid-servant pulling the curtainsacross it. 

'We shall be having tea at half-past six, ' said Mr. Quinn. 'Will youcome and join us? By the way, where are you staying?'

Hyacinth accepted the invitation, and confessed that he had not as yetlooked for any place to lay his head. 

'Ah! Better go to the hotel for to-night. It's not much of a place, but you will have to learn to put up with that sort of accommodation. Tomorrow we'll try and find you some decent lodgings. '

The hotel struck even Hyacinth as of inferior quality, though itboasted great things in the timetable advertisements, and called itself'Imperial' in large gold letters above its door. A smell of whisky andtobacco greeted him as he entered, and a waiter with a greasy coat, inanswer to inquiries about a bed, sent him down a dark passage to seeka lady called Miss Sweeney at the bar. Large leather cases with broadstraps and waterproof-covered baskets blocked the passage, and Hyacinthstumbled among them for some time before he discovered Miss Sweeneyreading a periodical called _Spicy Bits_ among her whisky-bottles. She was a young woman of would-be fashionable appearance, and actedapparently in the double capacity of barmaid and clerk. On hearing thatHyacinth required, not whisky, but a bedroom, she requested him to goforward to the office, indicating a glass case at the far end of the barcounter. Here he repeated his request to her through a small opening inthe glass, and received her assurance, given with great condescension, that No. 42 was vacant, and, further, that there was a fire in thecommercial room. A boy whom she summoned carried Hyacinth's bag to anextremely dirty and ill-furnished bedroom, and afterwards conductedhim to the promised fire. Two other guests were seated at it when heentered, who, after a long stare, made room for him. Apparently therewas no one else stopping in the hotel, and the whole mass of cumbrousbaggage which blocked the passage to the bar must belong to them. Hyacinth realized, with a feeling of disgust which he couldnot account for, that these were two members of his newprofession--fellow-travellers in the voyages of commerce. Hegathered--for they talked loudly, without regarding his presence--thatthey represented two Manchester firms which were rivals in the wholesaledrapery business. Very much of what they said was unintelligible to him, though the words were familiar. He knew that 'lines' could be 'quoted, 'but not apparently in the same sense in which they discussed theseoperations, and it puzzled him to hear of muslins being 'done at one andseven-eighths. ' He sat for a time wondering at the waste of money andenergy involved in sending these men to remote corners of Ireland tosearch for customers. Then he left them, and made his way down the muddystreet to Mr. Quinn's house. 

The room into which he was shown was different from any he had everseen. It was lit by a single lamp with a dull glass globe and a turffire which burnt brightly. Two straight-backed, leather-covered chairsstood one on either side of the tiled hearth. Near one stood a littletable covered with neatly-arranged books, and, rising from among them, a reading-lamp, as yet unlit. Beyond the other was a work-tablestrewed with reels and scissors, on which lay a child's frock and somestockings. The table was laid for tea. On it were plates piled up withfloury scones, delicate beleek saucers full of butter patted thin intothe shapes of shells, and jam in coloured glass dishes cased in silverfiligree. A large home-baked loaf of soda bread on a wooden platterstood at one end of the table, and near it a sponge-cake. At the otherend was an array of cups and saucers with silver spoons that glittered, a jug of cream, and one of milk. Two of the cups were larger than theothers, and had those curious bars across them which are designed tosave men from wetting their moustaches when they drink. No room and nopreparation for a meal could have offered a more striking contrast toAugusta Goold's dining-room, her groups of wineglasses, multiplicity ofheavy-handled knives and forks, and her candles shrouded in silk. Norwas the dainty neatness less remote from the cracked delf and huddledsordidness of his old home. 

Long before Hyacinth had realized an impression of the scene before himMrs. Quinn greeted him, and led him to the fire. Her two little girls, who lay on the hearthrug with a picture-book between them, were biddento make room for him. When her husband appeared she bustled off, and ina minute or two she and the maid came in bringing toast and tea and hotwater hissing in a silver urn. 

As the evening passed Hyacinth began to realize that he had entered intoa home of peace. He felt that these people were neither greatly anxiousto be rich nor much afraid of being poor. They seemed in no way frettedthat there were others higher in the social scale, cleverer or morebrilliant than they were. He understood that they were both of themreligious in a way quite different from any he had known. They neitherspoke of mysteries, like his father, nor were eager about disputings, like the men who had been his fellow-students. They were living a verysimple life, of which faith and a wide charity formed a part as naturalas eating or sleeping. When the children's bedtime came it seemed tohim a very wonderful thing that they should kneel in turns beside theirfather's knee and say their prayers aloud, when he, a stranger, was inthe room. It seemed to him less strange, because then he had been twohours longer in the company of the Quinns, that before leaving he, too, should kneel beside his hostess and listen while his new employerrepeated the familiar words of some of the old collects he had heard hisfather read in church. 

CHAPTER XIV

On Sunday, the third day after his arrival in Ballymoy, Hyacinth went tochurch. He could hardly have avoided doing so, even if he had wanted to, for Mrs. Quinn invited him to share her pew. There was no real necessityfor such hospitality, for the church was never, even under the mostfavourable circumstances, more than half full. The four front seats werereserved for a Mr. Stack, on whose property the town of Ballymoy stood. But this gentleman preferred to live in Surrey, and even when he cameover to Ireland for the shooting rarely honoured the church with hispresence. A stone tablet, bearing the name of this magnate's father, aCork pawnbroker, who had purchased the property for a small sum underthe Encumbered Estates Court Act, adorned the wall beside the pulpit. The management of the property was in the hands of a Dublin firm, sothe parish was deprived of the privilege of a resident land agent. Thedoctor, recently appointed to the district, was a Roman Catholic ofplebeian antecedents, which reduced the resident gentry of Ballymoyto the Quinns, a bank manager, and the Rector, Canon Beecher. A fewfarmers, Mr. Stack's gamekeeper, and the landlady of the Imperial Hotel, made up the rest of the congregation. 

The service was not of a very attractive or inspiriting kind. CanonBeecher--his title was a purely honorary one, not even involving theduty of preaching in the unpretending building which, in virtue ofsome forgotten history, was dignified with the name of KillinacoffCathedral--read slowly with somewhat ponderous emphasis. His thirtyyears in Holy Orders had slightly hardened an originally luscious Dublinbrogue, but there remained a certain gentle aspiration of the _d's_ and_t's_, and a tendency to omit the labial consonants altogether. He readan immense number of prayers, gathering, as it seemed to Hyacinth, thelongest ones from the four corners of the Prayer-Book. At intervals heallowed himself to be interrupted with a hymn, but resumed afterwardsthe steady flow of supplication. The eldest Miss Beecher--the Canon hadaltogether two daughters and three sons--played a harmonium. The othergirl and the three boys, with the assistance of an uncertain bass fromMr. Quinn, gave utterance to the congregation's praise. Hyacinth triedto join in the first hymn, which happened to be familiar to him, butquavered into silence towards the end of the second verse, discoveringthat the eyes of Mrs. Beecher from her pew, of the Canon from thereading-desk, of the vocal Miss Beecher and her brothers, were fixedupon him. The sermon proved to be long and uninteresting. It was aboutMelchizedek, and was so far appropriate to the Priest and King that ithad no recognisable beginning and need not apparently have ever had anend. Perhaps no one, unless he were specially trained for the purpose, could have followed right through the quiet meander-ings of the Canon'sthought. This kind of sermon, however, has the one advantage thatthe listener can take it up and drop it again at any point withoutinconvenience, and Hyacinth was able to give his attention to somesections of it. There was no attempt at eloquence or any kind oflearning displayed, but he understood, as he listened, where the Quinnsgot their religion, or at least how their religion was kept alive. Certain very simple things were reiterated with a quiet earnestnesswhich left no doubt that the preacher believed exactly what he said, andlived by the light of his faith. 

One evening shortly afterwards Canon Beecher called upon Hyacinth. Theconversation during the visit resolved itself into a kind of catechism, which, curiously enough, was quite inoffensive. The Canon learnt bydegrees something of Hyacinth's past life, and his career in TrinityCollege. He shook his head gravely over the friendship with AugustaGoold, whom he evidently regarded as almost beyond the reach of thegrace of God. Hyacinth was forced to admit, with an increasing sense ofshame, that he had never signed a temperance pledge, did not read theorgan of the Church Missionary Society, was not a member of a YoungMen's Christian Association, or even of a Gleaners' Union. He felt, ashe made each confession sorrowfully, that he was losing all hope of theCanon's friendship, and was most agreeably surprised when the interviewclosed with a warm invitation to a mid-day dinner at the Rectory on thefollowing Sunday. Mrs. Quinn, who took a sort of elder sister's interestin his goings out and comings in, was delighted when she heard that hewas going to the Rectory, and assured him that he would like both Mrs. Beecher and the girls. She confided afterwards to her husband that theinfluence of a Christian home was likely to be most beneficial to the'poor boy. '

The Rectory displayed none of the signs of easy comfort which hadcharmed Hyacinth in the Quinns' house. The floor of the square hall wascovered with a cheap, well-worn oilcloth. Its walls were damp-stained, and the only furniture consisted of a wooden chair and a somewhatrickety table. In the middle of the wall hung a large olive-green cardwith silver lettering. 'Christ is the unseen Guest in this house, 'Hyacinth read, 'the Sharer in every pleasure, the Listener to everyconversation. ' A fortnight before, he would have turned with disgustfrom such an advertisement, but now, since he had known the Quinnsand listened to the Canon's wandering sermons, he looked at it withdifferent eyes. He felt that the words might actually express a fact, and that a family might live together as if they believed them to betrue. 

'Yes, ' said the Canon, who had come in with him, and saw him gaze at it, 'these motto-cards are very nice. I bought several of them last time Iwas in Dublin, and I think I have a spare one left which I can giveyou if you like. It has silver letters like that one, but printed on acrimson ground. '

Evidently the design and the colouring were what struck him asnoticeable. The motto itself was a commonplace of Christian living, theexpression of a basal fact, quite naturally hung where it would catchthe eye of chance visitors. 

In the drawing-room Mrs. Beecher and her two daughters, still in theirhats and gloves, stood round a turf fire. They made a place at once forHyacinth, and one of the girls drew forward a rickety basket-work chair, covered with faded cretonne. He was formally introduced to them. MissBeecher and Miss Elsie Beecher had both, the latter very recently, reached the dignity of young womanhood, and wore long dresses. The threeboys, who were younger, were made known afterwards. 

When they went into the dining-room the Canon selected the soundest ofa miscellaneous collection of chairs for Hyacinth, and seated him besideMrs. Beecher. Then the elder girl--Miss Beecher's name, he learnt, wasMarion--entered in a long apron carrying a boiled leg of mutton followedby her sister with dishes of potatoes and mashed parsnips. 

'You see, ' said Mrs. Beecher, and there was no note of apology in hervoice as she made the explanation, 'my girls are accustomed to do a gooddeal of the house-work. We have only one servant, and she is not verypresentable when she has just cooked the dinner. '

Hyacinth glanced at Marion Beecher, who smiled at him with frankfriendliness, as she took her seat beside her father. He saw suddenlythat the girl was beautiful. He had not noticed this in church. There hehad no opportunity of observing the subtle grace with which shemoved, and the half-light left unrevealed the lustrous purity of hercomplexion, the radiant red and white which only the warm damp of thewestern seaboard can give or preserve. Her eyes he had seen even in thechurch, but now first he realized what unfathomable gentleness and whata wonder of frank innocence were in them. The Canon looked round thetable at his children, and there was a humorous twinkle in his eye whenhe turned to Hyacinth and quoted:

'"Your sons shall grow up as young plants, and your daughters shall beas the polished corners of the temple. "'

Perhaps nine-tenths of civilized mankind would regard five children asfive misfortunes under any circumstances, as quite overwhelming whenthey have been showered on a man with a very small income, who isobliged to live in a remote corner of Ireland. Apparently the Canondid not look upon himself as an afflicted man at all. There wasan unmistakable sincerity about the way in which he completed hisquotation:

'"Lo! thus shall the man be blessed that feareth the Lord. "'

It dawned on Hyacinth that quite possibly the Canon's view of thesituation might be the right one. It was certainly wonderfully pleasantto see the girls move through the room, and it seemed to him that theyactually realized the almost forgotten ideal of serviceable womanhood. The talk at dinner turned first on the ailments of an old woman who wasaccustomed to clean the church, but was now suspected of being pasther work; then, by an abrupt transition, on the new hat which thebank-manager's wife had brought home from Dublin; and, finally, theconnection of thought being again far from obvious, on the hymns whichhad been sung that morning. It was at this point that Hyacinth wasincluded in the conversation. Marion Beecher announced that one of thehymns was a special favourite of hers, because she remembered her mothersinging the younger children to sleep with it when they were babies. Shecaught Hyacinth looking at her while she spoke, and said to him:

'Do you sing, Mr. Conneally?'

'I do a little. '

'Oh, then you must come and help us in the choir. ' 'Choir' seemed agrandiose name for the four Beechers and Mr. Quinn, but Marion, who hadlittle experience of anything better, had no misgivings. 'I hope yousing tenor. I always long to have a tenor in my choir. Why, we mighthave one of Barnby's anthems at Easter, and we haven't been able to singone since Mr. Nash left the bank. '

Hyacinth had never sung a part in his life, and could not read music, but he grew bold, and, professing to have an excellent ear, said hewas willing to learn. The prospect of a long series of choir practicesconducted by Marion Beecher seemed to him just then an extremelypleasant one. 

After dinner, while the two girls cleared away the plates and dishes, Canon Beecher invited Hyacinth to smoke. 

'I never learnt the habit myself, ' he said. 'It wasn't so much thefashion in my young days as it is now, but I have no objection whateverto the smell. '

Hyacinth lit a cigarette apologetically. It seemed to him almost awicked thing to do, but his host evidently wished him to be comfortable. Their talk after the girls had left the room turned on politics. Hyacinth's confession of his friendship with Augusta Goold had impressedthe Canon, and he delivered himself of a very kindly little lecture onthe duty of loyalty and the sinfulness of contention with the powersthat be. His way of putting the matter neither irritated Hyacinth, likethe flamboyant Imperialism of the Trinity students, nor drove him intoself-assertion, like Dr. Henry's contemptuous reasonableness. Still, hefelt bound to make some sort of defence of the opinions which were stillhis own. 

'Surely, ' he said, 'there must be some limit to the duty of loyalty. Ifa Government has no constitutional right to rule, is a man bound to beloyal toit?'

'I think, ' said the Canon, 'that the question is decided for us. Is itnot, Mr. Conneally? "Render unto Caesar"--you remember the verse. Even ifthe Government were as unconstitutional as you appear to think, it wouldnot be more so than the Roman Government of Judaea when these words werespoken. '

Hyacinth pondered this answer. It opened up to him an entirely new wayof looking at the subject, and he could see that it might be necessaryfor a Christian to acquiesce without an attempt at resistance in anyGovernment which happened to exist. 

He remembered other verses in the New Testament which could be quotedeven more conclusively in favour of this passive obedience. Yet he feltthat there must be a fallacy lurking somewhere. It was, on the face ofit, an obvious absurdity to think that a man, because he happened tobe a Christian, was therefore bound to submit to any form of tyranny oroppression. 

'Suppose, ' he said--'I only say suppose--that a Government did immoralthings, that it robbed or allowed evil-disposed people to rob, would itstill be right to be loyal?'

'I think so, ' said the Canon quietly. 

Hyacinth looked at him in astonishment. 

'Do you mean to say that you yourself would be loyal under suchcircumstances?'

'I prefer not to discuss the question in that personal way, but theChurch to which you and I belong is loyal still, although the Governmenthas robbed us of our property and our position, and although it is nowallowing our people to be robbed still further. '

'You mean by the Disestablishment and the Land Acts?'

'Yes. I think it is our great glory that our loyalty is imperishable, that it survives even such treatment as we have received and arereceiving. '

'That is very beautiful, ' said Hyacinth slowly. 'I see that there is agreat nobility in such loyalty, although I do not even wish to share itmyself. You see, I am an Irishman, and I want to see my country greatand free. '

'I suppose, ' said the Canon, 'that it is very natural that we shouldlove the spot on earth in which we live. I think that I love Irelandtoo. But we must remember that our citizenship is in heaven, and itseems to me that any departure from the laws of the King of that countrydishonours us, and even dishonours the earthly country which we call ourown. '

Hyacinth said nothing. There flashed across him a recollection ofAugusta Goold's hope that some final insult would one day goad theIrish Protestants into disloyalty. Clearly, if Canon Beecher was to beregarded as a type, she had no conception of the religious spirit of theChurch of Ireland. But was there anyone else like this clergyman? He didnot know, but he guessed that his friends the Quinns would think of thematter in somewhat the same way. It seemed to him quite possible that inscattered and remote parishes this strangely unreasonable conception ofChristianity might survive. After a pause the Canon went on:

'You must not think that I do not love Ireland too. I look forward toseeing her free some day, but with the freedom of the Gospel. It willnot be in my time, I know, but surely it will come to pass. Our peoplehave still the simple faith of the early ages, and they have many verybeautiful virtues. They only want the dawn of the Dayspring from onhigh to shine on them, and then Ireland will be once more the Island ofSaints--_insula sanctorum_. ' He dwelt tenderly on the two words. 'I donot think it will matter much then what earthly Government bears ruleover us. But come, I see that you have finished your smoke, and I mustgo to my study to think over my sermon. '

When Hyacinth entered the drawing-room the girls surrounded him, askinghim for answers to a printed list of questions. It appeared that thecommittee of a bazaar for some charity in which it was right to beinterested had issued a sort of examination-paper, and promised a prizeto the best answerer. The questions were all of one kind: 'What is theModern Athens--the Eternal City--the City of the Tribes? Who was theWizard of the North--the Bulwark of the Protestant Faith? The earliernames on the list presented little difficulty to Hyacinth. Mariontook down his answers, whilst Elsie murmured a pleasant chorus ofastonishment at his cleverness. Suddenly he came to a dead stop. 'Whowas the Martyr of Melanesia?'

'I have never heard of him, ' said Hyacinth. 

'Never heard of the Martyr of Melanesia!' said Elsie. 'Why, we knew thatat once. '

'Yes, ' said Marion, 'there was an article on him in last month's_Gleaner_. Surely you read the _Gleaner_, Mr. Conneally?'

Hyacinth felt Marion's eyes fixed on him with something of a reproachin them. He wrestled with a vague recollection of having somewhereheard the name of the periodical. For a moment he thought of riskingcross-questioning, and saying that he had only missed the last number. Then he suddenly remembered the card with silver lettering whichhung above his coat in the hall, and told the truth with even a quiteunnecessary aggravation. 

'No, I never remember seeing a copy of it in my life. I don't even knowwhat it is about. '

'Oh!' said the girls, round-eyed with horror. 'Just think! And we allhave collecting-boxes. '

'It is a missionary periodical, ' said Marion. 'It has news in itfrom every corner of the mission-field, and every month a list of thestations that specially need our prayers. '

Hyacinth left the Rectory that night with three well-read numbers of the_Gleaner_ in his pocket. 

Afterwards he had many talks with Canon Beecher and the Quinns aboutthe work of the missionary societies. He learnt, to his surprise, thatreally immense sums of money were subscribed every year by members ofthe Church of Ireland for the conversion of the heathen in very remoteparts of the world. It could not be denied that these contributionsrepresented genuine self-denial. Young men went without a sufficiencyof tobacco, and refrained from buying sorely-needed new tennis-racquets. Ladies, with the smallest means at their command, reared marketablechickens, and sold their own marmalade and cakes. In such ways, and notfrom the superfluity of the rich, many thousands of pounds were gatheredannually. It was still more wonderful to him to discover that largenumbers of young men and women, and these the most able and energetic, devoted themselves to this foreign service, and that their brothers andsisters at home were banded together in unions to watch their doingsand to pray for them. He found himself entirely untouched by thisenthusiasm, in spite of the beautiful expression it found in the livesof his new friends. 

But it astonished him greatly that there should be this potent energyin the Irish Church. The utter helplessness of its Bishops and clergy inIrish affairs, the total indifference of its people to every effort atnational regeneration, had led him to believe that the Church itself wasmoribund. Now he discovered that there was in it an amazing vitality, a capacity of giving birth to enthusiastic souls. The knowledge broughtwith it first of all a feeling of intense irritation. It seemed to himthat all religions were in league against Ireland. The Roman Churchseized the scanty savings of one section of the people, and squanderedthem in buying German glass and Italian marble. Were the Protestantsany better, when they spent £20, 000 a year on Chinamen and negroes? TheRoman Catholics took the best of their boys and girls to make priestsand nuns of them. The Protestants were doing the same thing when theyshipped off their young men and young women to spend their strengthamong savages. Both were robbing Ireland of what Ireland neededmost--money and vitality. He would not say, even to himself, that allthis religious enthusiasm was so much ardour wasted. No doubt the Romanpriest did good work in Chicago, as the Protestant missionary did inUganda; only it seemed to him that of all lands Ireland needed most theservice and the prayers of those of her children who had the capacity ofself-forgetfulness. Afterwards, when he thought more deeply, he found agreat hope in the very existence of all this altruistic enthusiasm. Hehad a vision of all that might be done for Ireland if only the splendidenergy of her own children could be used in her service. He tried morethan once to explain his point of view. Mr. Quinn met him with blankdisbelief in any possible future for Ireland. 

'The country is doomed, ' he said. 'The people are lazy, thriftless, andpriest-ridden. The best of them are flying to America, and those thatremain are dying away, drifting into lunatic asylums, hospitals, andworkhouses. There is a curse upon us. In another twenty years therewill be no Irish people--at least, none in Ireland. Then the English andScotch will come and make something of the country. '

From Canon Beecher he met with scarcely more sympathy or understanding. 

'Yes, ' he admitted, 'no doubt we ought to make more efforts than we doto convert our fellow-countrymen. But it is very difficult to see how weare to go to work. There is one society which exists for this purpose. Its friends are full of the very kind of enthusiasm which you describe. I could point you out plenty of its agents whose whole souls arein their work, but you know as well as I do how completely they arefailing. '

'But, ' said Hyacinth, 'I do not in the least mean that we should startmore missions to Roman Catholics. It does not seem to me to matter muchwhat kind of religion a man professes, and I should be most unwilling touproot anyone's belief. What we ought to do is throw our whole force andenergy into the work of regenerating Ireland. It is possible for us todo this, and we ought to try. '

'Well, well, ' said the Canon, 'I must not let you make me argue withyou, Conneally; but I hope you won't preach these doctrines of yours tomy daughters. I think it is better for them to drop their pennies intomissionary collecting-boxes, and leave the tangled problems of Irishpolitics to those better able to understand them than we are. '

CHAPTER XV

There are certain professions, in themselves honest, useful, and evenestimable, for which society has agreed to entertain a feeling ofcontempt. It is, for instance, very difficult to think of a curateas anything except a butt for satirists, or to be respectful to theprofession of tailoring, although many a man for private pecuniaryreasons is meek before the particular individual who makes his clothes. Yet the novelist and the playwright, who hold the mirror up to modernhumanity, are occasionally kind even to curates and tailors. There is ayouthful athlete in Holy Orders who thrashes, to our immense admiration, the village bully, bewildering his victim and his admirers with hismastery of what is described a little vaguely as the 'old Oxfordscience. ' Once, at least, a glamour of romance has been shed over theson of a tailor, and it becomes imaginable that even the chalker ofunfinished coats may in the future be posed as heroic. There is still, however, a profession which no eccentric novelist has ever ventured torepresent as other than entirely contemptible. The commercial travelleris beneath satire, and outside the region of sympathy. If he appears atall in fiction or on the stage, he is irredeemably vulgar. He isnever heroic, never even a villain, rarely comic, always, poor man, objectionable. This is a peculiar thing in the literature of a peoplelike the English, who are not ashamed to glory in their commercialsuccess, and are always ready to cheer a politician who professes tohave the interests of trade at heart. Amid the current eulogies ofthe working man and the apotheosis of the beings called 'Captainsof Industry, ' the bagman surely ought to find at least an apologist. Without him it seems likely that many articles would fail to find aplace in the windows of the provincial shopkeepers. Without him largesections of the public would probably remain ignorant for years of newbrands of cigarettes, and dyspeptic people might never come across thefoods which Americans prepare for their use. 

Also the individual bagman is often not without his charm. He knows, ifnot courts and princes, at least hotels and railway companies. He is onterms of easy familiarity with every 'boots' in several counties. He cancalculate to a nicety how long a train is likely to be delayed by a fair'somewhere along the line. ' He is also full of information about localpolitics. In Connaught, for instance, an experienced member of theprofession will gauge for you the exact strength of the existing Leaguein any district. He knows what publicans may be regarded as 'priest'smen, ' and who have leanings towards independence. His knowledge isfrequently minute, and he can prophesy the result of a District Councilelection by reckoning up the number of leading men who read the _UnitedIrishman_, and weighing them against those who delight in the pages ofthe _Leader_. The men who can do these things are themselves local. Theyreside in their district, and, as a rule, push the sales and collect thedebts of local brewers and flour-merchants. The representatives of thelarger English firms only make their rounds twice or three times a year, and are less interesting. They pay the penalty of being cosmopolitan, and tend to become superficial in their judgment of men and things. 

Hyacinth, like most members of the public, was ignorant of the greatnessand interest of his new profession. He entered upon it with somemisgiving, and viewed his trunk of sample blankets and shawls withdisgust. Even a new overcoat, though warm and weatherproof, affordedhim little joy, being itself a sample of Mr. Quinn's frieze. One thoughtalone cheered him, and even generated a little enthusiasm for his work. It occurred to him that in selling the produce of the Ballymoy Millhe was advancing the industrial revival of Ireland. He knew thatother people, quite heroic figures, were working for the same end. AGovernment Board found joyous scope for the energies of its officials ingiving advice to people who wanted to cure fish or make lace. It earnedthe blessing which is to rest upon those who are reviled and evil spokenof, for no one, except literary people, who write for English magazines, ever had a good word for it. There were also those--their activitytook the form of letters to the newspapers--who desired to utilize theartistic capacity of the Celt, and to enrich the world with beautifulfabrics and carpentry. They, too, were workers in the cause of therevival. Then there were great ladies, the very cream of the Anglo-Irisharistocracy, who petted tweeds and stockings, and offered magnificentprizes to industrious cottagers. They earned quite large sums ofmoney for their protégés by holding sales in places like Belfast andManchester, where titles can be judiciously cheapened to a wealthybourgeoisie, and the wives of ship-builders and cotton-spinners willspend cheerfully in return for the privilege of shaking hands witha Countess. A crowd of minor enthusiasts fostered such industries assprigging, and there was one man who believed that the future prosperityof Ireland might be secured by teaching people to make dolls. It wasaltogether a noble army, and even a commercial traveller might holdhis head high in the world if he counted himself one of its soldiers. Hitherto results have not been at all commensurate with the amount ofprinter's ink expended in magazine articles and advertisements. Yetsomething has been accomplished. Nunneries here and there have beeninduced to accept presents of knitting-machines, and people havebegun to regard as somehow sacred the words 'technical education. 'The National Board of Education has also spent a large sum of money inreviving among its teachers the almost forgotten art of making paperboats. 

Hyacinth very soon discovered that his patriotic view of this work didnot commend itself to his brother travellers. He found that they had nofeeling but one of contempt for people whom they regarded as meddlingamateurs. Occasionally, when some convent, under a bustling MotherSuperior, advanced from the region of half-charitable sales atexhibitions into the competition of the open market, contempt becamedislike, and wishes were expressed in quite unsuitable language that thegood ladies would mind their own proper business. Until Hyacinth learntto conceal his hopes of Ireland's future as a manufacturing country hewas regarded with suspicion. No one, of course, objected to his makingwhat use he could of patriotism as an advertisement, but he was given tounderstand that, like other advertisements, it could not be quotedamong the initiated without a serious breach of good manners. Even as anadvertisement it was not rated highly. 

There was an elderly gentleman, stout and somewhat bibulous, whosuperintended the consumption of certain brands of American cigarettesin the province of Connaught. Hyacinth met him in the exceedinglydirty Railway Hotel at Knock. Since there were no other guests, and theevening was wet, the two were thrown upon each other's society in thecommercial-room. 

'I don't think, ' said Mr. Hollywell, in reply to a remark of Hyacinth's, 'that there's the least use trying to drag patriotic sentiment intobusiness. Of course, since you represent an Irish house--woollen goods, I think you said--you're quite right to run the fact for all it's worth. I don't in the least blame you. Only I don't think you'll find it pays. '

He sipped his whisky-and-water--it was still early, and he had onlyarrived at his third glass--and then proceeded to give his personalexperience. 

'Now, I work for an American firm. If there was any force in thepatriotic idea I shouldn't sell a single cigarette. My people are inthe big tobacco combine. You must have read the sort of things thenewspapers wrote about us when we started. From any point of view, British Imperial or Irish National, we should have been boycotted longago if patriotism had anything to do with trade. But look at the facts. Our chief rivals in this district are two Irish firms. They advertisein Gaelic, which is a mistake to start with, because nobody can read it. They get the newspaper people to write articles recommending a "greathome industry" to public support. They get local branches of all thedifferent leagues to pass resolutions pledging their members to smokeonly Irish tobacco. But until quite lately they simply didn't have alook in. '

'Why?' asked Hyacinth. 'Were your things cheaper or better?'

'No, ' said the other, 'I don't think they were either. You see, pricesare bound to come out pretty even in the long run, and I should saythat, if anything, they sold a slightly better article. It's hard tosay exactly why we beat them. When competition is really keen a lot oflittle things that you would hardly notice make all the difference. For one thing, I get a free hand in the matter of subscribing to localbazaars and race-meetings. I've often taken as much as a pound's worthof tickets for a five-pound note that some priest was raffling in aid ofa new chapel. It's wonderful the orders you can get from shopkeepers inthat kind of way. Then, we get our things up better. Look at that. '

He handed Hyacinth a highly-glazed packet with a picture of a handsomebrown dog on it. 

'Keep it, ' said Mr. Hollywell. 'I give away twenty or thirty ofthose packets every week. Now look inside. What have you? Oh, H. M. S. _Majestic_. That's one of a series of photos of "Britain's first lineof defence. " Lots of people go on buying those cigarettes just to geta complete collection of the photos. We supply an album to keep them infor one and sixpence. There's another of our makes which has picturesof actresses and pretty women. They are extraordinarily popular. They'reperfectly all right, of course, from the moral point of view, but one inevery ten is in tights or sitting with her legs very much crossed, justto keep up the expectation. It's very queer the people who go for thosephotos. You'd expect it to be young men, but it isn't. '

The subject was not particularly interesting to Hyacinth, but since hiscompanion was evidently anxious to go on talking, he asked the expectedquestion. 

'Young women, ' said Mr. Hollywell. 'I found it out quite by accident. Igot a lot of complaints from one particular town that our cigarettes hadno photos with them. I discovered after a while that a girl in oneof the principal shops had hit on a dodge for getting out the photoswithout apparently injuring the packets. The funny thing was thatshe never touched the ironclads or the "Types of the soldiers of allnations, " which you might have thought would interest her, but shecollared every single actress, and had duplicates of most of them. Andshe wasn't an exception. Most girls goad their young men to buy thesecigarettes and make collections of the photos. Queer, isn't it? I can'timagine why they do it. '

'You said just now, ' said Hyacinth, 'that latterly you hadn't done quiteso well. Did you run out of actresses and battleships?'

'No; but one of the Irish firms took to offering prizes and enclosingcoupons. You collected twenty coupons, and you got a silver-backedlooking-glass--girls again, you see--or two thousand coupons, and yougot a new bicycle. It's an old dodge, of course, but somehow it alwaysseems to pay. However, all this doesn't matter to you. All I wanted wasto show you that there is no use relying on patriotism. The thing to goin for in any business is attractive novelties, cheap lines, and, in thecountry shops, long credit. '

It was not very long before Hyacinth began to realize the soundness ofMr. Hollywell's contempt for patriotism. In the town of Clogher hefound the walls placarded with the advertisements of an ultra-patrioticdraper. 'Féach Annseo, ' he read, 'The Irish House. Support HomeManufactures. ' Another placard was even more vehement in its appeal. 'Why curse England, ' it asked, 'and support her manufactures?' TryO'Reilly, the one-price man. ' The sentiments were so admirable thatHyacinth followed the advice and tried O'Reilly. 

The shop was crowded when he entered, for it was market day in Clogher. The Irish country-people, whose manners otherwise are the best inthe world, have one really objectionable habit. In the street or in acrowded building they push their way to the spot they want to reach, without the smallest regard for the feelings of anyone who happens tobe in the way. Sturdy country-women, carrying baskets which doubled thepassage room they required, hustled Hyacinth into a corner, and for atime defeated his efforts to emerge. Getting his case of samples safelybetween his legs, he amused himself watching the patriot shopkeeper andhis assistants conducting their business. It was perfectly obvious thatin one respect the announcements of the attractive placard departedfrom the truth: O'Reilly was not a 'one-price man, ' He charged for everyarticle what he thought his customers were likely to pay. The result wasthat every sale involved prolonged bargaining and heated argument. Inmost cases no harm was done. The country-women were keenly alive to thevalue of their money, and evidently enjoyed the process of beatingdown the price by halfpennies until the real value of the article wasreached. Then Mr. O'Reilly and his assistants were accustomed to closethe haggle with a beautiful formula:

'To _you_, ' they said, with confidential smiles and flattering emphasison the pronoun--'to _you_ the price will be one and a penny; but, really, there will be no profit on the sale. '

Occasionally with timid and inexperienced customers O'Reilly's methodproved its value. Hyacinth saw him sell a dress-length of serge to ayoung woman with a baby in her arms for a penny a yard more than hehad charged a moment before for the same material. Another thing whichstruck him as he watched was the small amount of actual cash which waspaid across the counter. Most of the women, even those who seemed quitepoor, had accounts in the shop, and did not shrink from increasingthem. Once or twice a stranger presented some sort of a letter ofintroduction, and was at once accommodated with apparently unlimitedcredit. 

At length there was a lull in the business, and Hyacinth succeeded inspreading his goods on a vacant counter, and attracting the attention ofMr. O'Reilly. He began with shawls. 

'I hope, ' he said, 'that you will give me a good order for theseshawls. '

Mr. O'Reilly fingered them knowingly. 

'Price?' he said. 

Hyacinth mentioned a sum which left a fair margin of profit for Mr. Quinn. O'Reilly shook his head and laughed. 

'Can't do it. '

Hyacinth reduced his price at once as far as possible. 

'No use, ' said Mr. O'Reilly. 

Compared with the suave oratory to which he treated his customers, thisextreme economy of words was striking. 

'See here, ' he said, producing a bundle of shawls from a shelf besidehim. 'I get these for twenty-five shillings a dozen less from Thompsonand Taylor of Manchester. '

Hyacinth looked at them curiously. Each bore a prominent label settingforth a name for the garment in large letters surrounded with wreathsof shamrocks. 'The Colleen Bawn, ' he read, 'Erin's Own, ' 'The KathleenMavourneen, ' 'The Cruiskeen Lawn. ' The appropriateness of this lasttitle was not obvious to the mere Irishman, but the colour of thegarment was green, so perhaps there was a connection of thought in themaker's mind between that and 'Lawn. ' 'Cruiskeen' he may have taken forthe name of a place. 

'Are these, ' asked Hyacinth, 'what you advertise as Irish goods?'

Mr. O'Reilly cleared his throat twice before he replied. 

'They are got up specially for the Irish market. ' In the interests ofhis employer Hyacinth kept his temper, but the effort was a severe one. 

'These, ' he said, 'are half cotton. Mine are pure wool. They are reallyfar better value even if they were double the price. '

Mr. O'Reilly shrugged his shoulders. 

'I don't say they're not, but I should not sell one of yours for everydozen of the others. '

'Try, ' said Hyacinth; 'give them a fair chance. Tell the people thatthey will last twice as long. Tell them that they are made in Ireland. '

'That would not be the slightest use. They would simply laugh in myface. My customers don't care a pin where the goods are made. I havenever in my life been asked for Irish manufacture. '

'Then, why on earth do you stick up those advertisements?' saidHyacinth, pointing to the 'Féach Annseo' which appeared on a hoardingacross the street. 

Mr. O'Reilly was perfectly frank and unashamed. 

'The other drapery house in the town is owned by a Scotchman, and ofcourse it pays more or less to keep on saying that I am Irish. Besides, I mean to stand for the Urban Council in March, and those sort of ads. Are useful at an election, even if they are no good for business. '

'I'll tell you what I'll do, ' said Hyacinth, shirking a discussion onthe morality of advertising: 'I'll let you have a dozen shawls at costprice, and take back what you can't sell, if you give me your word to doyour best for them. '

Similar discussions followed the display of serges and blankets. Itappeared that nice-looking goods could be sent over from England atlower prices. It was vain for Hyacinth to press the fact that his thingswere better. Mr. O'Reilly admitted as much. 

'But what am I to do? The people don't want what is good. They want acheap article which looks well, and they don't care a pin whether thething is made in England, Ireland, or America. Take my advice, ' he addedas Hyacinth left the shop: 'get your boss to do inferior lines--cheap, cheap and showy. '

So far Mr. Hollywell's opinions were entirely justified. The appeal ofthe patriotic press to the public and the shopkeepers on behalf of theindustrial revival of Ireland had certainly not affected the town ofClogher. Hyacinth was bitterly disappointed; but hope, when it is bornof enthusiasm, dies hard, and he was greatly interested in a speechwhich he read one day in the 'Mayo Telegraph'. It had been made at ameeting of the League by an Ardnaree shopkeeper called Dowling. A traderival--the fact of the rivalry was not emphasized--had advertised ina Scotch paper for a milliner. Dowling was exceedingly indignant. Hequoted emigration statistics showing the number of girls who left Mayoevery year for the United States. He pointed out that all of them mightbe employed at home, as milliners or otherwise, if only the public wouldboycott shops which sold English goods or employed Scotch milliners. He more than suspected that the obnoxious advertisement was part of anorganized attempt to effect a new plantation of Connaught--'worse thanCromwell's was. ' The fact that Connaught was the only part of Irelandwhich Cromwell did not propose to plant escaped the notice of bothMr. Dowling and his audience. The speech concluded with a passionateperoration and a verse, no doubt declaimed soundingly, of 'The West'sAwake. '

Hyacinth made an expedition to Ardnaree, and called hopefully on theorator. His reception was depressing in the extreme. The shop, which waslarge and imposing, was stocked with goods which were obviously English, and Mr. Dowling curtly refused even to look at the samples of Mr. Quinn's manufactures. Hyacinth quoted his own speech to the man, and wasamazed at the cynical indifference with which he ignored the dilemma. 

'Business is one thing, ' he said, 'and politics is something entirelydifferent. '

Hyacinth lost his temper completely. 

'I shall write to the papers, ' he said, Vand expose you. I shall haveyour speech reprinted, and along with it an account of the way youconduct your business. '

A mean, hard smile crossed Mr. Dowling's mouth before he answered:

'Perhaps you don't know that my wife is the Archbishop's niece?'

Hyacinth stared at him. For a minute or two he entirely failed tounderstand what Mrs. Dowling's relationship to a great ecclesiastic hadto do with the question. At last a light broke on him. 

'You mean that an editor wouldn't print my letter because he would beafraid of offending a Roman Catholic Archbishop?'

The expression 'Roman Catholic' caught Mr. Dowling's attention. 

'Are you a Protestant?' he asked. 'You are--a dirty Protestant--and youdare to come here into my own house, and insult me and trample on myreligious convictions. I'm a Catholic and a member of the League. Whatdo you mean, you Souper, you Sour-face, by talking to me about Irishmanufactures? Get out of this house, and go to the hell that's waitingfor you!'

As Hyacinth turned to go, there flashed across his mind the recollectionof Miss Goold and her friends who wrote for the _Croppy_. 

'There's one paper in Ireland, anyhow, ' he said, 'which is not afraidof your wife nor your Archbishop. I'll write to the _Croppy_, and you'llsee if they won't publish the facts. '

Mr. Dowling grinned. 

'I don't care if they do, ' he said. 'The priests are dead against the_Croppy_, and there's hardly a man in the town reads it. Go up therenow to Hely's and try if you can buy a copy. I tell you it isn't on salehere at all, and whatever they publish will do me no harm. '

When Hyacinth returned to the hotel he found Mr. Holywell seated, withthe inevitable whisky-and-water beside him, in the commercial-room. 

'Well, Mr. Conneally, ' he said, 'and how is patriotism paying you? Findpeople ready to buy what's Irish?'

Hyacinth, boiling over with indignation, related his experience with Mr. Dowling. 

'What did I tell you?' said Mr. Hollywell. 'But anyhow you're just aswell out of a deal with that fellow. I wouldn't care to do business withhim myself. I happen to know, and you may take my word for it '--hisvoice sunk to a confidential whisper--'that he's very deep in the booksof two English firms, and that he daren't--simply daren't--placean order with anyone else. They'd have him in the Bankruptcy Courtto-morrow if he did. I shouldn't feel easy with Mr. Dowling's cheque foran account until I saw how the clerk took it across the bank counter. You mark my words, there'll be a fire in that establishment before theyear's out. '

The prophecy was fulfilled, as Hyacinth learnt from the _MayoTelegraphy_ and Mr. Dowling's whole stock of goods was consumed. Therewere rumours that a sceptical insurance company made difficulties aboutpaying the compensation demanded; but the inhabitants of Ardnaree markedtheir confidence in the husband of an Archbishop's niece by presentinghim with an address of sympathy and a purse containing ten sovereigns. 

Most of Hyacinth's business was done with small shopkeepers in remotedistricts. The country-people who lived out of reach of such centresof fashion as Ardnaree and Clogher were sufficiently unsophisticated toprefer things which were really good. Hats and bonnets were not quiteuniversal among the women in the mountain districts far back where theyspoke Irish, and Mr. Quinn's head-kerchiefs were still in request. Eventhe younger women wanted garments which would keep them warm and dry, and Hyacinth often returned well satisfied from a tour of the countryshops. Sometimes he doubted whether he ought to trust the people withmore than a few pounds' worth of goods, but he gradually learnt that, unlike the patriotic Mr. Dowling, they were universally honest. Hediscovered, too, that these people, with their imperfect English andlittle knowledge of the world, were exceedingly shrewd. They had verylittle real confidence in oratorical politicians, and their interestin public affairs went no further than voting consistently for theman their priest recommended. But they quickly understood Hyacinth'sarguments when he told them that the support of Irish manufactures wouldhelp to save their sons and daughters from the curse of emigration. 

'Faith, sir, ' said a shopkeeper who kept a few blankets and tweeds amonghis flour-sacks and porter-barrels, 'since you were talking to the boyslast month, I couldn't induce one of them to take the foreign stuff if Iwas to offer him a shilling along with it. '

CHAPTER XVI

When he returned to Ballymoy after his interview with Mr. Dowling, Hyacinth set himself to fulfil his threat of writing to the _Croppy_. He spent Saturday afternoon and evening in his lodgings with the papercontaining the blatant speech spread out before him. He blew his angerto a white heat by going over the evidence of the man's grotesquehypocrisy. He wrote and rewrote his article. It was his first attemptat expressing thought on paper since the days when he sought to satisfyexaminers with disquisitions on Dryden's dramatic talent and othertopics suited to the undergraduate mind. This was a different business. It was no longer a question of filling a sheet of foolscap withgrammatical sentences, discovering synonyms for words hard to spell. Nowthoughts were hot in him, and the art lay in finding words which wouldblister and scorch. Time after time he tore up a page of bombast orerased ridiculous flamboyancies. Late at night, with a burning head andice-cold feet, he made his last copy, folded it up, and, distrusting thecooler criticism of the morning, went out and posted it to the _Croppy_. 

A letter from Miss Goold overtook him the following Thursday in thehotel at Clogher. 

'I was delighted to hear from you again, ' she wrote. 'I was afraidyou had cut me altogether, gone over to the respectable people, andforgotten poor Ireland. Captain Quinn told me that you and he hadquarrelled, and I gathered that you rather disapproved of him. Well, hewas a bit of a blackguard; but, after all, one doesn't expect a manwho takes on a job of that kind to be anything else. I never thoughtit would suit you, and you will do me the justice of remembering that Inever wanted you to volunteer. Now about your article. It was admirable. These "Cheap Patriots"'--it was thus the article was headed--'are justthe creatures we want to scarify. Dowling and his kind are the worstenemies Ireland has to-day. We'll publish anything of that kind you sendus, and remember we're not the least afraid of anybody. It's a grandthing for a paper to be as impecunious as the _Croppy_. No man buta fool would take a libel action against us with any hope of gettingdamages. A jury might value Dowling's character at any fantastic sumthey chose, but it would be a poor penny the _Croppy_ would pay. Still, we're not so hard up that we can't give our contributors something, and next week you'll get a small cheque from the office. I hope it mayencourage you to send us more. Don't be afraid to speak out. If anythingpeculiarly seditious occurs to you, write it in Irish. I know it's allthe same to you which language you write in. Do us half a column everyfortnight or so on Western life and politics. '

Hyacinth was absurdly elated by Miss Goold's praise. He made up hismind to contribute regularly to the _Croppy_, and had visions of a greatfuture as a journalist, or perhaps a literary exponent of the ideas ofIndependent Ireland. 

Meanwhile, he became very intimate both with the Quinns and with CanonBeecher's family. Mrs. Quinn was an enthusiastic gardener, and early inthe spring Hyacinth helped her with her flowerbeds. He learnt to plaitthe foliage of faded crocuses, and pin them tidily to the ground withlittle wooden forks. He gathered suitable earth for the boxes in whichbegonias made their earliest sprout-ings, and learned to know thedaffodils and tulips by their names. Later on he helped Mr. Quinn to mowthe grass and mix a potent weed-killer for the gravel walks. There cameto be an understanding that, whenever he was not absent on a journey, hespent the latter part of the afternoon and the evening with the Quinns. As the days lengthened the family tea was pushed back to later and laterhours to give more time out of doors. 

There is something about the very occupation of gardening which isdeadening to enthusiasm. Perhaps a man learns patience by familiaritywith growing plants. Nature is never in a hurry in a garden, and thereis no use in trying to hustle a flower, whereas a great impatience isthe very life-spirit of enthusiastic patriotism. There has probablynever been a revolutionary gardener, or even a strong Radical who workedwith open-air flowers. Of course, in greenhouses things can be forced, and the spirit of the ardent reformer may find expression in the nurtureof premature blooms. Perhaps also the constant stooping which gardeningnecessitates, especially in the early spring, when the weeds growplentifully, tends to destroy the stiff mental independence which mustbe the attitude of the militant patriot. It is very difficult for a manwho has stooped long enough to have conquered his early cramps and achesto face the problems of politics with uncompromising rigidity. Hyacinthrecognised with a curious qualm of disgust that his thoughts turned lessand less to Ireland's wrongs and Ireland's future as he learnt to carefor the flowers and the grass. 

No doubt, too, the atmosphere of the Quinns' family life was notcongenial to the spirit of the Irish politician. Mrs. Quinn was totallyuninterested in politics, and except a prejudice in favour of what shecalled loyalty, had absolutely no views on any question which didnot directly affect her home and her children. Mr. Quinn had acoldly-reasonable political and economic creed, which acted on theluxuriant fancies of Hyacinth's enthusiasm as his weed-killer did onthe tender green of the paths. He declined altogether to see any good insupporting Irish manufactures simply because they were Irish. The storyof O'Reilly's attitude towards his shawls moved him to no indignation. 

'I think he's perfectly right, ' he said. 'If a man can buy cheap shawlsin England he would be a fool to pay more for Irish ones. Business can'tbe run on those lines. I'm not an object of charity, and if I can'tmeet fair competition I must go under, and it's right that I should gounder. '

Hyacinth had no answer to give. He shirked the point at issue, andattacked Mr. Quinn along another line in the hope of arousing hisindignation. 

'But it is not fair competition that you are called upon to face. Doyou call it fair competition when the Government subsidizes a woollenfactory in a convent?'

'Ah!' said Mr. Quinn, 'you are thinking of the four thousand poundsthe Congested Districts Board gave to the convent at Bobeen. But it ishardly fair to hold the Government responsible for the way that bodywastes eighty thousand pounds a year. '

'The Government is ultimately responsible, and you must admit that, after such a gift, and in view of the others which will certainlyfollow, you are called upon to meet most unfair competition. '

'Yes, I admit that. But isn't that exactly what you want to makegeneral? There doesn't seem to me any difference between giving a bountyto one industry and imposing a protective tariff in favour of another;and if your preference for Irish manufactures means anything, it meansa sort of voluntary protection for every business in the country. If youobject to the Robeen business being subsidized you can't logically tryto insist on mine being protected. '

It was puzzling to have the tables turned on him so adroitly. Hyacinthwas reduced to feeble threat. 

'Just wait a while till the nuns get another four thousand pounds, andperhaps four thousand pounds more after that, and see how it will affectyou. '

Mr. Quinn smiled. 

'I'm not much afraid of nuns as trade competitors, or, for the matter ofthat, of the Congested Districts Board either. If the Yorkshire peoplewould only import a few Mother Superiors to manage their factories, and take the advice of members of our Board in their affairs, I wouldcheerfully make them a present of any reasonable subsidy, and beat themout of the market afterwards. '

There was another influence at work on Hyacinth's mind which had as muchto do with the decay of his patriotism as either the gardening or Mr. Quinn's logic. Marion Beecher and her sister were very frequently at theMill House during the spring and summer. There was one long afternoonwhich was spent in the marking out of the tennis-ground. Mr. Quinn hadtheories involving calculations with a pencil and pieces of paper aboutthe surest method of securing right angles at the corners and parallellines down the sides of the court. Hyacinth and Marion worked obedientlywith a tape measure and the garden line. One of the boys messedcheerfully with a pail of liquid whitening. Afterwards the gardening wassomewhat deserted, and Hyacinth was instructed in the game. It tookhim a long time to learn, and for many afternoons he and Marion wereregularly beaten, but she would not give up hope of him. Often theexcuse of her coming to the Quinns was the necessity of practising somenew hymn or chant for Sunday. Hyacinth worked as hard at the music as atthe tennis under her tuition, and there came a time when he could singan easy tenor part with fair accuracy. Then in the early summer, whenthe evenings were warm, hymns were sung on the lawn in front of thehouse. There seemed no incongruity in Marion Beecher's company inpassing without a break from lawn-tennis to hymn-singing, and Mr. Quinnwas always ready to do his best at the bass with a serious simplicity, as if it were a perfectly natural and usual thing to close anafternoon's amusement with 'Rock of Ages. ' Hyacinth was not conscious ofany definite change in his attitude towards religion. He still believedhimself to be somehow outside the inner shrine of the life which theBeechers and the Quinns lived, just as he had been outside his father'sprayers. But he found it increasingly difficult after an hour or two ofcompanionship with Marion Beecher to get back to the emotions which hadswayed him during the weeks of his intimacy with Miss Goold. To writefor the _Croppy_ after sitting beside Marion in church on Sundayevenings was like passing suddenly from a quiet wood into a heatedsaloon where people wrangled. A wave of the old passionate feeling, whenit returned, affected him as raw spirit would the palate of a boy. 

One day early in summer--the short summer of Connaught, which isglorious in June, and dissolves into windy mist and warm rain in themiddle of July--Hyacinth was invited by Canon Beecher to join a boatingparty on the lake. The river, whose one useful function was the turningof Mr. Quinn's millwheel, wound away afterwards through marshy fieldsand groves of willow-trees into the great lake. At its mouth theBeechers kept their boat, a cumbrous craft, very heavy to row, but safeand suited to carry a family in comfort. The party started early--CanonBeecher, Hyacinth, and one of the boys very early, for they had towalk the two miles which separated Ballymoy from the lake shore. Mrs. Beecher, the girls, the two other boys, and the baskets of provisionsfollowed a little later on the Rectory car, packed beyond allpossibility of comfort. The Canon himself pulled an oar untiringly, butwithout the faintest semblance of style, and the party rippled with joywhen they discovered that Hyacinth also could row. 

'Now, ' said Elsie, 'we can go anywhere. We can go on rowing and rowingall day, and see places we've never seen before. '

'My dear girl, ' said her mother, 'remember that Mr. Conneally and yourfather aren't machines. You mustn't expect them to go too far. '

'Oh, but, ' said Elsie, 'father says he never gets tired if he has onlyone oar to pull. '

The Canon was preparing for his toil. The old coat, in colour now almostolive green, was folded and used as a cushion by Marion in the bow. Hiswhite cuffs, stowed inside his hat, were committed to the care of Mrs. Beecher. He rolled his gray shirtsleeves up to the elbow, and unbuttonedhis waistcoat. 

'Now, ' he said, 'I'm ready. If I'm not hurried, I'll pull along all day. But what about you, Conneally? You're not accustomed to this sort ofthing?'

But Hyacinth for once was self-confident. He might be a poor singer anda contemptible tennis player, but he knew that nothing which had to dowith boats could come amiss to him. He looked across the sparkling waterof the lake. 

'I'll go on as long as you like. You won't tire me when there's no tideand no waves. This is a very different business from getting out thesweeps to pull a nobby five miles against the strength of the ebb, witha heavy ground swell running. '

About eleven o'clock they landed on an island and ate biscuits. TheCanon told Hyacinth the story of the ruin under whose walls they sat. 

'It belonged to the Lynotts, the Welshmen of Tyrawley. They were at feudwith the Burkes, and one night in winter----'

The girls wandered away, carrying their biscuits with them. It islikely that they had heard the story every summer as long as they couldremember. Mrs. Beecher alone still maintained an attitude of admirationfor her husband's antiquarian knowledge, the more creditable because shemust have been familiar with the onset of the MacWilliam Burkes beforeeven Marion was old enough to listen. To Hyacinth the story was bothnew and interesting. It stirred him to think of the Lynotts fightinghopelessly, or begging mercy in the darkness and the cold just where hesat now saturate with sunlight and with life. He gazed across the mileof shining water which separated the castle from the land, and tried torealize how the Irish servant-girl swam from the island with an infantLynott on her back, and saved the name from perishing. How the snow musthave beaten in her face and the lake-waves choked her breath! It was agreat story, but the girls, shouting from the water's edge, reminded himthat he was out to pull an oar, and not to sentimentalize. He and theCanon rose, half smiling, half sighing, and took their places in theboat. 

They penetrated before luncheon time to a bay hitherto unknown to theBeechers. A chorus of delight greeted its discovery. The water shonebright green and very clear above the slabs of white limestone. Theshore far inland was almost verdure-less. Broad flat rocks lay bakingin the sunshine, and only the scantiest grass struggled up between theiredges. Sometimes they overlapped each other, and rose Uke an immensestaircase. Fifty yards or so from the land was a tiny island entirelyovergrown with stunted bushes. The boat was pushed up to it and alanding-place sought, but the shrubs were too thick, and it was decidedto picnic among the rocks on the land. Then Marion in the bow made adiscovery. A causeway about a foot under water led from the island tothe shore. The whole party leaned over to examine it. Every stone wasvisible in the clear water, and it was obvious that it had been plannedand built, and was no merely accidental formation of the rocks. TheCanon had heard of a similar device resorted to by an island hermitto insure the privacy of his cell. Hyacinth spoke vaguely of thesettlements of primitive communities of lake-dwellers. The three boysplanned an expedition across the causeway after luncheon. 

'We'll carry our shoes and stockings with us, ' they said, 'and thenexplore the island. Perhaps there is a hermit there still, ora primitive lake-dweller. What is a primitive lake-dweller, Mr. Conneally?'

Hyacinth was uncertain, but hazarded a suggestion that the lake-dwellerswere the people who buried each other in raths. The Canon, whosearchaeology did not go back beyond St. Patrick, offered no correction. 

Tea was made later on in yet another bay, this time on the eastern shoreof the lake. An oak wood grew down almost to the water's edge, and thebranches overhung a sandy beach, more golden than any sea-strand. Thewhole party collected dead wood and broken twigs for the fire. Then, while the girls unpacked the baskets and secured the kettle amidst thesmoke, Hyacinth lay back luxuriously and watched the sun set behind theround-shouldered mountain opposite. The long, steep slope shonebright green while the sun still rested in view above the summit; thensuddenly, when the topmost rim of it had dipped out of sight, the wholemountainside turned purple, and a glory of gold and crimson hung aboveit on the motionless streaks of cloud. Slowly the splendour faded, thepurple turned gray, and a faint breeze fluttered across the lake. 

The day was the first of many which Hyacinth gave to such expeditions. The work of Mr. Quinn's office was not so pressing as to necessitatehis spending every day there when he was in Ballymoy, and a holidaywas always obtainable. The lake scenery remained vivid in his memory inafter-years, and had its influence upon him even while he enjoyed it, unconscious of anything except the present pleasure. There was somethingbesides the innocent gaiety of the girls and the simple sincerity of theCanon's platitudes, something about the lake itself, which removed himto a spiritual region utterly remote from the fiery atmosphere of MissGoold's patriotism. Many things which once loomed very large before himsank to insignificance as he drank to the full of the desolation aroundhim. The past, in which no doubt men strove and hoped, hated and lovedand feared, had left the just recognisable ruins of some castles and thecauseway built by an unknown hermit or the prehistoric lake-dwellers. A few thatched cabins, faintly smoking, and here and there a cairn ofstones gathered laboriously off the wretched fields, were the evidencesof present activity. Now and then a man hooted to his dog as it barkedat the sheep on the hillside, or a girl drove a turf-laden donkey inlandfrom the boggy shore. Otherwise there were no signs of human life. Adeep sense of monotony and inevitableness settled down upon Hyacinth. Hecame for the first time under the great enchantment which paralyzesthe spirit and energy of the Celt. He knew himself to be, as his peoplewere, capable of spasms of enthusiasm, the victim of transitory burningsof soul. But the curse was upon him--the inevitable curse of feeling tookeenly and seeing too clearly to be strenuous and constant. The flamewould die down, the enthusiasm would vanish--it was vanishing from him, as he knew well--and leave him, not indeed content with common life, butpatient of it, and to the very end sad with the sense of possibilitiesunrealized. 

Yet it was not without many struggles and periods of return to the olderemotions that Hyacinth surrendered his enthusiasm. There still recurredto him memories of his father's vision of an Armageddon and theconception of his own part in it. Sometimes, waking very early in themorning, he became vividly conscious of his own feebleness of will andhis falling away from great purposes. The conviction that he was calledto struggle for Ireland's welfare, to sacrifice, if necessary, his lifeand happiness for Ireland, was strong in him still. He felt himselfaffected profoundly by the influences which surrounded him, but he hadnot ceased to believe that the idea of self-sacrificing labour was forhim a high vocation. He writhed, his limbs twisting involuntarily, whenthese thoughts beset him, and often he was surprised to discover that hewas actually uttering aloud words of self-reproach. 

Then he would write fiercely, brutally, catch at the excuse of somehypocrisy or corruption, or else denounce selfishness and easy-goingpatriotic sentiment, finding subject for his satire in himself. Hisarticles brought him letters of praise from Miss Goold. 'You have it, 'she wrote once, 'the thing we all seek for, the power of beating red-hotthought into sword-blades. Write more like the last. ' But the praisealways came late. The violent mood, the self-reproach, the bitterness, were past. His life was wrapt round again with softer influences, and heread his own words with shame when they reached him in print. Afterwardsfor a while, if he wrote at all, it was of the peasant life, of quaintcustoms, half-forgotten legends and folklore. These articles appearedtoo, but brought no praise from Miss Goold. Once she reproached him whenhe lapsed into gentleness for many consecutive weeks. 

'You oughtn't to waste yourself. There are fifty men and women can dothe sort of thing you're doing now; we don't want you to take it up. It's fighting men we need, not maundering sentimentalists. '

CHAPTER XVII

It was during the second year of Hyacinth's residence in Ballymoy thatthe station-master at Clogher died. The poor man caught a cold oneFebruary night while waiting for a train which had broken down threemiles outside his station. From the cold came first pneumonia, and thenthe end. Now, far to the east of Clogher, on a different branch of therailway-line, is a town with which the people of Mayo have no connectionwhatever. In it is a very flourishing Masonic lodge. Almost every maleProtestant in the town and the neighbourhood belongs to it, and theRector of the parish is its chaplain. Among its members at that time wasan intelligent young man who occupied the position of goods clerk on therailway. The Masonic brethren, as in duty bound, used their influence tosecure his promotion, and brought considerable pressure to bear on thedirectors of the company to have him made station-master at Clogher. 

It is said with some appearance of truth that no appointment in Irelandis ever made on account of the fitness of the candidate for the postto be filled. Whether the Lord Lieutenant has to nominate a LocalGovernment Board Inspector, or an Urban Council has to select a streetscavenger, the principle acted on is the same. No investigation is madeabout the ability or character of a candidate. Questions may be askedabout his political opinions, his religious creed, and sometimes aboutthe social position of his wife, but no one cares in the least about hisability. The matter really turns upon the amount of influence whichhe can bring to bear. So it happened that John Crawford, Freemason andProtestant, was appointed station-master at Clogher. Of course, nobodyreally cared who got the post except a few seniors of John Crawford's, who wanted it for themselves. Probably even they would have stoppedgrumbling after a month or two if it had not happened that a leadingweekly newspaper, then at the height of its popularity and influence, was just inaugurating a crusade against Protestants and Freemasons. The case of John Crawford became the subject of a series of bitter andvehement articles. It was pointed out that although Roman Catholics werebeyond all question more intelligent, better educated, and more uprightthan Protestants, they were condemned by the intolerance of highly-paidofficials to remain hewers of wood and drawers of water. It was shown byfigures which admitted of no controversy that Irish railways, banks, andtrading companies were, without exception, on the verge of bankruptcy, entirely owing to the apathy of shareholders who allowed their intereststo be sacrificed to the bigotry of directors. It was urged that apublic meeting should be held at Clogher to protest against the newappointment. 

The meeting was convened, and Father Fahey consented to occupy thechair. He was supported by a dispensary doctor, anxious to propitiatethe Board of Guardians with a view to obtaining a summer holiday; aleading publican, who had a son at Maynooth; a grazier, who dreaded thepossible partition of his ranch by the Congested Districts Board; andMr. O'Reilly, who saw a hope of drawing custom from the counter of hisrival draper, the Scotchman. 

Father Fahey opened the proceedings with a speech. He assured hisaudience that he was not actuated by any spirit of religious bigotryor intolerance. He wished well to his Protestant fellow-countrymen, and hoped that in the bright future which lay before Ireland men of allcreeds would be united in working for the common good of their country. These sentiments were not received with vociferous applause. Theaudience was perfectly well aware that something much more to the pointwas coming, and reserved their cheers. Father Fahey did notdisappoint them. He proceeded to show that the appointment of the newstation-master was a deliberate insult to the faith of the inhabitantsof Clogher. 

'Are we, ' he asked, 'to submit tamely to having the worst evils of theold ascendancy revived in our midst?'

He was followed by the dispensary doctor, who also began by declaringhis freedom from bigotry. He confused the issue slightly by complainingthat the new station-master was entirely ignorant of the Irish language. It was perfectly well known that in private life the doctor was in thehabit of expressing the greatest contempt for the Gaelic League, andthat he could not, if his life depended on it, have translated even Mr. O'Reilly's advertisements; but his speech was greeted with tumultuouscheers. He proceeded to harrow the feelings of his audience bydescribing what he had heard at the railway-station one evening whilewaiting for the train. As he paced the platform his attention wasattracted by the sound of a piano in the station-master's house. Helistened, and, to his amazement and disgust, heard the tune of a popularsong, 'a song'--he brought down his fist on the table as he uttered theawful indictment--'imported from England. '

'I ask, ' he went on--'I ask our venerated and beloved parish priest;I ask you, fathers of innocent families; I ask every right-thinkingpatriot in this room, are our ears to be insulted, our morals corrupted, our intellects depraved, by sounds like these?'

He closed his speech by proposing a resolution requiring the railwaycompany to withdraw the obnoxious official from their midst. 

The oratory of the grazier, who seconded the resolution, was notinferior. It filled his heart with a sense of shame, so he said, tothink of his cattle, poor, innocent beasts of the field, beinghandled by a Protestant. They had been bred, these bullocks of his, by Catholics, fed by Catholics, were owned by a Catholic, bought withCatholic money at the fairs, and yet they were told that in all Irelandno Catholic could be discovered fit to put them into a train. 

Neither the resolution itself nor the heart-rending appeal of thegrazier produced the slightest effect on the railway company. JohnCrawford continued to sell tickets, even to Father Fahey himself, andappeared entirely unconcerned by the fuss. 

About a fortnight after the meeting Hyacinth spent a night in Clogher. Mr. Holywell, the cigarette man, happened to be in the hotel, and, asusual, got through a good deal of desultory conversation while he drankhis whisky-and-water. Quite unexpectedly, and apropos of nothing thathad been said, he plumped out the question:

'What religion are you, Conneally?'

The inquiry was such an unusual one, and came so strangely from Mr. Holywell, who had always seemed a Gallio in matters spiritual, thatHyacinth hesitated. 

'I'm a Baptist myself, ' he went on, apparently with a view to palliatinghis inquisitiveness by a show of candour. 'I find it a very convenientsort of religion in Connaught. There isn't a single place of worshipbelonging to my denomination in the whole province, so I'm always ableto get my Sundays to myself. I don't want to convert you to anything orto argue with you, but I have a fancy that you are a Church of IrelandProtestant. '

Hyacinth admitted the correctness of the guess, and wondered what wascoming next. 

'Ever spend a Sunday here?'

'Never, ' said Hyacinth; 'I always get back home for the end of the weekif I can. '

'Ah! Well, do you know, if I were you, I should spend next Sunday here, and go to Mass. '

'I shall not do anything of the sort. '

'Well, it's your own affair, of course; only I just think I should do itif I were you. Good-night. '

'Wait a minute, ' said Hyacinth. 'I want to know what you mean. '

Mr. Holywell sat down again heavily. 

'Been round your customers here lately?'

'No. I only arrived this evening, and have done nothing yet. I mean togo round them to-morrow. '

'You may just as well go home by the early train for all the good you'lldo. '

Hyacinth restrained himself with an effort. He reflected that he wasmore likely to get at the meaning of these mysterious warnings if herefrained from direct questioning. After a minute of two of silence Mr. Hollywell went on:

'They had a meeting here a little while ago about the appointment ofa Protestant station-master. They didn't take much by it so far as therailway company is concerned, but I happen to know that word has goneround that every shopkeeper in the town is to order his goods as far aspossible from Catholics. Now, everybody knows your boss is a Protestant, but the people are a little uncertain about you. They've never seen youat Mass, which is suspicious, but, on the other hand, the way you gas onabout Irish manufactures makes them think you can't be a Protestant. The proper thing for you to do is to lie low till you've put in anappearance at Mass, and then go round and try for orders. '

'That's the kind of thing, ' said Hyacinth, 'that I couldn't do if I hadno religion at all; but it happens that I have convictions of a sort, and I don't mean to go against them. '

'Oh, well, as I said before, it's your own affair; only betterProtestants than you have done as much. Why, I do it myself constantly, and everyone knows that a Baptist is the strongest kind of Protestantthere is. '

This reasoning, curiously enough, proved unconvincing. 

'I can't believe, ' said Hyacinth, 'that a religious boycott of the kindis possible. People won't be such fools as to act clean against theirown interests. Considering that nine-tenths of the drapery goods in thecountry come from England and are sold by Protestant travellers, I don'tsee how the shopkeepers could act as you say. '

'Oh, of course they won't act against their own interests. I've nevercome across a religion yet that made men do that. They won't attempt toboycott the English firms, because, as you say, they couldn't; but theycan boycott you. Everything your boss makes is turned out just as welland just as cheap, or cheaper, by the nuns at Robeen. Perhaps you didn'tknow that these holy ladies have hired a traveller. Well, they have, andhe's a middling smart man, too--quite smart enough to play the trumpsthat are put into his hand; and he's got a fine flush of them now. Whatwith the way that wretched rag of a paper, which started all the fuss, goes on rampaging, and the amount of feeling that's got up over thestation-master, the peaceablest people in the place would be afraid todeal with a Protestant at the present moment. The Robeen man has thegame in his own hands, and I'm bound to say he'd be a fool if he didn'tplay it for all it's worth. I'd do it myself if I was in his shoes. '

Hyacinth discovered next day that Mr. Holywell had summed up thesituation very accurately. No point-blank questions were asked about hisreligion, but he could by no means persuade his customers to give himeven a small order. Every shop-window was filled with goods placardedostentatiously as 'made in Robeen. ' Every counter had tweeds, blankets, and flannels from the same factory. No one was in the least uncivil tohim, and no one assigned any plausible reason for refusing to deal withhim. He was simply bowed out as quickly as possible from every shop heentered. 

He returned home disgusted and irritated, and told his tale to hisemployer. Mr. Quinn recognised the danger that threatened him. For thefirst time, he admitted that his business was being seriously injuredby the competition of Robeen. He took Hyacinth into his confidence morefully than he had ever done before, and explained what seemed to be ahopeful plan. 

'I may tell you, Conneally, that I have very little capital to fall backupon in my business. Years ago when things were better than they arenow, I had a few thousands put by, but most of it went on buying mybrother Albert's share of the mill. Lately I have not been able to save, and at the present moment I can lay hands on very little money. Still, Ihave something, and what I mean to do is this: I shall give up all ideaof making a profit for the present. I shall even sell my goods at aslight loss, and try to beat the nunnery out of the market. I thinkthis religious animosity will weaken after a while, and if we offer thecheapest goods we must in the end get back our customers. '

Hyacinth was not so sanguine. 

'You forget, ' he said, 'that these people have Government money at theirbacks, and are likely to get more of it. If you sell at a loss they willdo so, too, and ask for a new grant from the Congested Districts Boardto make good their deficiency. '

Mr. Quinn sighed. 

'That is quite possible, ' he said. 'But what can I do? I must make afight for my business. '

Hyacinth hesitated. 

'Perhaps I have no right to make the suggestion, but it seems to me thatyou are bound to be beaten. Would it not be better to give in at once?Don't risk the money you have safe. Keep it, and try to sell the milland the business. '

'I shall hold on, ' said Mr. Quinn. 

'Ought you not to think of your wife? Remember what it will mean toher if you are beaten in the end, when your savings are gone and yourbusiness unsaleable. '

For a moment there were signs of wavering in Mr. Quinn's face. Thefingers of his hands twisted in and out of each other, and a pitiablelook of great distress came into his eyes. Then he unclasped his handsand placed them flat on the table before him. 

'I shall hold on, ' he said. 'I shall not close my mill while I have ashilling left to pay my workers with. '

'Well, ' said Hyacinth, 'it is for you to decide. At least, you can counton my doing my best, my very best. '

CHAPTER XVIII

Mr. Quinn carried on his struggle for nearly a year, although from thevery first he might have recognised its hopelessness. Time after timeHyacinth made his tour, and visited the shopkeepers who had once beenhis customers. Occasionally he succeeded in obtaining orders, and afaint gleam of hope encouraged him, but he had no steady success. Mr. Quinn's original estimate of the situation was so far justified thatafter a while the religious animosity died out. Shopkeepers evenexplained apologetically that they gave their orders to the Robeenconvent for purely commercial reasons. 

'Their goods are cheaper than yours, and that's the truth, Mr. Conneally. '

Hyacinth recognised that Mr. Quinn was being beaten at his own game. Hehad attempted to drive the nuns out of the market by underselling them, and now it appeared that they, too, were prepared to face a loss. It wasobvious that their losses must be great, much greater than Mr. Quinn's. Rumours were rife of large loans raised by the Mother Superior, ofmortgages on the factory buildings and the machinery. These storiesbrought very little consolation, for, as Hyacinth knew, Mr. Quinn wasvery nearly at the end of his resources. He refused to borrow. 

'When I am forced to close up, ' he said, 'I shall do so with a clearbalance-sheet. I have no wish for bankruptcy. '

'I should like, ' said Hyacinth vindictively, 'to see the Reverend Motherreduced to paying a shilling in the pound. '

'I am afraid, ' said Mr. Quinn, 'you won't see that. The convent is abranch of an immense organization. No doubt, if it comes to a pinch, funds will be forthcoming. '

'Yes, and they won't draw on their own purse till they have got allthey can out of the Congested Districts Board. I have no doubt they arecounting on another four thousand pounds to start them clear when theyhave beaten you. '

One day, quite accidentally, Hyacinth came by a piece of informationabout the working of the Robeen factory which startled him. He wastravelling home by rail. It happened to be Friday, and, as usual inthe early summer, the train was crowded with emigrants on their way toQueenstown. The familiar melancholy crowd waited on every platform. Old women weeping openly and men with faces ridiculously screwed andpuckered in the effort to restrain the rising tears clung to their sonsand daughters. Pitiful little boxes and carpet bags were piled onthe platform. Friends clung to hands outstretched through thecarriage-windows while the train moved slowly out. Then came the longmournful wail from those left behind, and the last wavings of farewell. At the Robeen station the crowd was no less than elsewhere. Thecarriages set apart for the emigrants were full, and at the last minutetwo girls were hustled into the compartment where Hyacinth sat. A woman, their mother, mumbled and slobbered over their hands. An old man, tooold to be their father, shouted broken benedictions to them. Twoyoung men--lovers, perhaps, or brothers--stood red-eyed, desolate andhelpless, without speaking. After the train had started Hyacinth lookedat the girls. One of them, a pretty creature of perhaps eighteen yearsold, wept quietly in the corner of the carriage. Beside her lay hercarpet bag and a brown shawl. On her lap was an orange, and she held acrumpled paper bag of biscuits in her hand. There was nothing unusualabout her. She was just one instance of heartbreak, the heart-break of awhole nation which loves home as no other people have ever loved it, andyet are doomed, as it seems inevitably, to leave it. She was just onemore waif thrown into the whirlpool of the great world to toil andstruggle, succeed barrenly or pitifully fail; but through it all, through even the possible loss of faith and ultimate degradation, fatedto cling to a love for the gray desolate fatherland. The other girlwas different. Hyacinth looked at her with intense interest. She was theolder of the two, and not so pretty as her sister. Her face was thin andpale, and a broad scar under one ear showed where a surgeon's knife hadcut. She sat with her hands folded on her lap, gazing dry-eyed out ofthe window beside her. There was no sign of sorrow on her face, nothingbut a kind of sulky defiance. 

After a while she took the paper bag out of her sister's hand, openedit, and began to eat the gingerbread biscuits it contained. Hyacinthspoke to her, but she turned her head away, and would not answer him. His voice seemed to rouse the younger sister, who stopped crying andlooked at him curiously. He tried again, and this time he spoke inIrish. 

At once the younger girl brightened and answered him. Apparently she hadno fear that malice could lurk in the heart of a man who spoke her ownlanguage. In a few minutes she was chatting to him as if he were an oldfriend. 

He learnt that the two girls were on their way to New York. They hada sister there who had sent them the price of their tickets. Yes, thesister was in a situation, was getting good wages, and had clothes 'asgrand as a lady's. ' She had sent home a photograph at Christmas-time, which their mother had shown all round the parish. These two were to getsituations also as soon as they arrived. Oh yes, there was no doubt ofit: Bridgy had promised. There were four of them left at home--threeboys and a girl. No doubt in time they would all follow Bridgy toAmerica--all but Seumas; he was to have the farm. No, the girlscould not get married, because their father was too poor to give themfortunes. There was nothing for them but to go to America. But theirmother had not wanted them to go. The clergy and the nuns were againstthe girls going. Indeed, they nearly had them persuaded to send Bridgy'smoney back. 

'But Onny was set on going. '

She glanced at her sister in the corner of the carriage. Hyacinth turnedto her. 

'Why do you want to leave Ireland?'

But Onny remained silent, sulky, at it seemed. It was the younger girlwho answered him. 

'They say it's a fine life they have out there. There's good money to beearned, and mightn't we be coming home some day with a fortune?'

'But aren't you sorry to leave Ireland?'

Again he looked at the elder girl, and this time was rewarded with aflash of defiant bitterness from her eyes. 

'Sorry, is it? No, but I'm glad!'

'Onny's always saying that there was nothing to be earned in thefactory. And she got more than the rest of us. Wasn't she the first girlthat Sister Mary Aloysius picked out of the school when the young ladyfrom England came over to teach us? She was the best worker they had. '

'It's true what she says, ' said Onny. 'I was the best worker they had. Iworked for them for three years, and all I was getting at the end of itwas six shillings a week. Why would I be working for that when I mightbe getting wages like Bridgy's in America? What sense would there be init?'

'But why did you work for such wages?'

'Well, now, ' said the younger girl, 'how could we be refusing theReverend Mother when she came round the town herself, and gave warningthat we'd all be wanted?'

'There's few, ' continued Onny, without noticing her sister, 'that earnedas much as I did. Many a girl works there and has no more than one andninepence to take home at the end of the week. '

Hyacinth began to understand how it was that Mr. Quinn was beinghopelessly beaten. This was no struggle between two trade rivals, to bewon by the side with the longer purse. Nor was it simply a fight betweenan independent manufacturer and a firm fed with Government bounties. Mr. Quinn's rival could count on an unlimited supply of labour at starvationwages, while he had to hire men and women at the market value of theirservices. He had been sorry for the two girls when they got into thetrain. Now he felt almost glad that they were leaving Ireland. Itappeared that they had certainly chosen the wiser part. 

He arrived at home dejected, and sat down beside the fire in his roomto give himself up to complete despair. He found no hope anywhere. Irishpatriotism, so he saw it, was a matter of words and fine phrases. No onereally believed in it or would venture anything for it. Politics was agame at which sharpers cheated each other and the people. The leaderswere bold only in sordid personal quarrels. The mass of the people wereutterly untouched by the idea of nationality, in earnest about nothingbut huckstering and petty gains. Over all was the grip of a foreignbureaucracy and a selfish Church tightening slowly, squeezing out thenation's life, grasping and holding fast its wealth. No man any longermade any demand except to be allowed to earn what would buy whiskyenough to fuddle him into temporary forgetfulness of the present miseryand the imminent tyranny. 

The slatternly maid-servant who brought him his meals and made his bedtapped at the door. 

'Please, sir, Jimmy Loughlin's after coming with a letter from Mr. Quinn, and he's waiting to know if you'll go. '

Hyacinth read the note, which asked him to call on his employer thatafternoon. 

'Tell him I'll be there. '

'Will you have your dinner before you go? The chops is in the pan below. Or will I keep them till you come back?'

'Oh, I've time enough. Bring them as soon as they're cooked, and forgoodness' sake see that the potatoes are properly boiled. '

He took up a great English weekly paper, with copies of which CanonBeecher supplied him at irregular intervals, and propped it againstthe dish-cover while he ate. The article which caught his attention washeaded 'Angels in Connaught. ' It contained an idealized account of thework of the Robeen nuns, from whose shoulders it seemed to the writerlikely that wings would soon sprout. There was a description of the oncemiserable cabins now transformed into homesteads so comfortable thatEnglish labourers would not disdain them. The people shared in theelevation of their surroundings. Men and women, lately half-nakedsavages, starved and ignorant, had risen in the scale of civilizationand intelligence to a level which almost equalled that of a Hampshirevillager. The double stream of emigration to the United States andmigration to the English harvest-fields was stopped. An earthly paradisehad been created in a howling wilderness by the self-denying labours ofthe holy ladies, aided by the statesmanlike liberality of the CongestedDistricts Board. There was another page of the article, but Hyacinthcould stand no more. 

He stood up and glanced at his watch. It was already nearly fiveo'clock. He pushed his way down the street, where the country-people, having completed their week's marketing, were loading donkeys on thefootpath or carts pushed backwards against the kerbstone. Women draggedtheir heavily-intoxicated husbands from the public-houses, and girls, damp and bedraggled, stood in groups waiting for their parents. Heturned into the gloomy archway of the mill, unlocked the iron gate, andcrossed the yard into the Quinns' garden. The lamp burned brightly inthe dining-room, and he could see Mrs Quinn in her chair by the firesidesewing. Her children sat on the rug at her feet. He saw their facesturned up to hers, gravely intent. No doubt she was telling them somestory. He stood for a minute and watched them, while the peaceful joyof the scene entered into his heart. This, no doubt, a home full of suchlove and peace, was the best thing life had got to give. It was God'smost precious benediction. 'Lo, thus shall a man be blessed who feareththe Lord. ' He turned and passed on to the door. The servant showed himin, not, as he expected, to the sitting-room he had just gazed at, butto Mr. Quinn's study. 

It was a desolate chamber. A plain wooden desk like a schoolmaster'sstood in one corner, and upon it a feeble lamp. A bookcase surmounted arow of cupboards along one wall. Its contents--Hyacinth had often lookedover them--were a many-volumed encyclopaedia, Macaulay's 'History ofEngland, ' Foxe's 'Book of Martyrs, ' a series entitled 'Heroes of theReformation, ' and some bound volumes of a trade journal. Above thechimneypiece hung two trout-rods, a landing-net, and an old gun. Thegrate was tireless. It was a room obviously not loved by its owner. Neither pleasure nor comfort was looked for in it. It was simply a placeof escape from the attractions of quiet ease when business overflowedthe proper office hours. Mr. Quinn rose from his desk when Hyacinthentered. 

'I am very glad to see you, ' he said; 'I want to have a talk with you. '

Hyacinth waited while he arranged and rearranged some papers on the deskin front of him. Mr. Quinn, although he had specially sent for Hyacinth, seemed in no hurry to get to the subject of the interview. When he didspeak, it was evident from his tone that the important topic was stillpostponed. 

'How did you get on this week?'

Hyacinth had nothing good to report. He took from his pocket thenote-book in which he entered his orders, and went over it. It containedan attenuated list. Moreover, the harvest had been bad, and old debtsvery difficult to collect. Mr. Quinn listened, apparently not veryattentively, and when the reading was over said:

'What you report this week is simply a repetition of the story of the lastsix months. I did not expect it to be different. It makes the decisionI have to make a little more inevitable, that is all. Mr. Conneally, wehave been very good friends, and since you have been in my employment Ihave been satisfied with you in every way. Now I am unable to employ youany longer. I am giving up my business. '

Hyacinth made an effort to speak, but Mr. Quinn held up his hand andsilenced him. 

'This week, ' he continued, 'I received news which settled the matterfor me. Jameson and Thorpe, the big drapers in Dublin, were my bestcustomers for certain goods. Last Monday they wrote that they had anoffer of blankets at a figure a long way below mine. I didn't believethat articles equal in quality to mine could be produced at the price, and wrote a hint to that effect. I received--nothing could have beenmore courteous--a sample of the blankets offered. Well, I admit that itwas at least equal to what I could supply in every way. I wrote againasking as a favour to be supplied with the name of the competing firm. Igot the answer to-day. Mr. Thorpe wrote himself. The Robeen convent hasundersold me. '

Hyacinth made another attempt to speak. 

'Let me finish, ' said Mr. Quinn. 'I had foreseen, of course, that thiswas coming. I have no more capital to fall back upon. I do not mean torun into debt. There is nothing for me but to dismiss my employées andshut up. '

'Yes, ' said Hyacinth. 'And then----'

He knew he had no right to ask a question about the future, but thethought of Mrs. Quinn and her children as he had seen them in thedining-room almost forced him to inquire what was to happen to them. Aspasm of extreme pain crossed Mr. Quinn's face. 

'You are thinking of my wife. It will be hard--yes, very hard. She lovedthis place, her friends here, her garden, and all the quiet, peacefullife we have lived. Well, there is to be an end of it. But don't look sodesperate. ' He forced himself to smile as he spoke. 'We shall not starveor go to the workhouse. I have a knowledge of woollen goods if I havenothing else, and I dare say I can get an appointment as foreman ortraveller for some big drapery house. But I may not be reduced to that. There is a secretary wanted just now in the office of one of the Dublincharitable societies. I mean to apply for the post. Canon Beecher andour Bishop are both members of the committee, and I am sure will dotheir best for me. The salary is not princely--a hundred and twentypounds a year, I think. But there, I ought not to be talking all thistime about myself. I must try and do something for you. '

'Never mind me, ' said Hyacinth; 'I shall be all right. But I can't bearto think of you and Mrs. Quinn. Poverty like that in Dublin! Have youthought what it means? A shabby little house in a crowded street, off atthe back of somewhere; dirt and stuffiness and vulgarity all around you. She can't be expected to stand it--or you either. '

'My dear boy, ' said Mr. Quinn, 'my wife and I have been trying all ourlives to be Christians. Shall we receive good at the Lord's hand and notevil also? However it may be with me, I know that she will not fail inthe trial. '

His face lit up as he spoke, and the smile on it was no longer forced, but clear and brave. Hyacinth knew that he was once again in thepresence of that mysterious power which enables men and women to meetand conquer loss and pain, against which every kind of misfortune beatsin vain. His eyes filled with tears as he took Mr. Quinn's hand and badehim good-night. 

CHAPTER XIX

Hyacinth had three months' work to do before he actually left Mr. Quinn's employment. He knew that at the end of that time he would beleft absolutely without income, and that it was necessary for him tolook out for some other situation. He reckoned up the remains of hisoriginal capital, and found himself with little more than a hundredpounds to fall back upon. Yet he did nothing. From time to time hebestirred himself, pondered the newspaper advertisements of vacantsituations, and mentally resolved to commence his search at once. Alwayssome excuse offered itself to justify putting the unpleasant businessoff, and he allowed himself to slip back into the quiet routine of lifeas if no catastrophe threatened him. He was, indeed, far more troubledabout the Quinns' future than his own, and when, at the end of April, Canon Beecher returned from Dublin with the news that he had secured thesecretaryship of the Church of Ireland Scriptural Schools Society forMr. Quinn, Hyacinth felt that his mind was relieved of a great anxiety. That no such post had been discovered for him did not cost him athought. In spite of his spasmodic efforts to goad himself into acondition of reasonable anxiety for his future, there remained halfconsciously present in his mind a conviction that somehow a way ofgetting sufficient food and clothes would offer itself in due time. 

The conviction was justified by the event. It was on Saturday eveningthat the Canon returned with his good news, and on Sunday morningHyacinth received a letter from Miss Goold. 

'You have no doubt heard, ' she wrote, 'that we have got a new editorfor the Croppy--Patrick O'Dwyer, Mary's brother. Of course, you rememberMary and her unpoetical hysterics the morning after the Rotunda meeting. The new editor is a splendid man. He has been on the staff of a NewYork paper for the last five years, and thoroughly understands the wholebusiness. But that's not the best of him. He hates England worse thanI do. I'm only a child beside him, bursting out into fits of tempernow and then, and cooling off again. He hates steadily, quietly, andintensely. But even that is not all that is to be said. He has gotbrains--brains enough, my dear Hyacinth, to make fools of you and meevery day and all day long. He has devised a new policy for Ireland. Theplan is simplicity itself, like all really great plans, and it _must_succeed. I won't go into it now, because I want you to come up to Dublinand see O'Dwyer. He tells me that he needs somebody else besides himselfon the staff of the _Croppy_, which, by the way, is to be enlarged andimproved. He wants a man who can write a column a week in Irish, as wellas an article now and then in good strong plain English. I suggestedyour name to him, and showed him some of the articles you had written. He was greatly pleased with the one about O'Dowd's cheap patriotism, andliked one or two of the others. He just asked one question about you:"Does Mr. Conneally hate England and the Empire, and everything English, from the Parliament to the police barrack? It is this hatred which mustanimate the work. " I said I thought you did. I told him how you hadvolunteered to fight for the Boers, and about the day you nearly killedthat blackguard Shea. He seemed to think that was good enough, and askedme to write to you on the subject. We can't offer you a big salary. Theeditor himself is only to get a hundred pounds a year for the present, and I am guaranteeing another hundred for you. I am confident that Ishan't have to pay it for more than six months. The paper is sure to goas it never went before, and in a few years we shall be able to trebleO'Dwyer's salary and double yours. Nothing like such a chance has everoffered itself in Irish history before. Everything goes to show thatthis is our opportunity. England is weaker than she has been forcenturies, is clinging desperately to the last tatters of her oldprestige. She hasn't a single statesman capable of thinking or actingvigorously. Her Parliament is the laughingstock of Europe. Her Irishpolicy may be summed up in four words--intrigue with the Vatican. InIreland the power of the faithful garrison is gone. The Protestants inthe North are sick of being fooled by one English party after another. The landlords, or what's left of them, are beginning to discover thatthey have been bought and sold. The Bishops, England's last line ofdefence, are overreaching themselves, and we are within measurabledistance of the day when the Church will be put into her proper place. There is not so much as a shoneen publican in a country town left whobelieves in the ranting of O'Rourke and his litter of blind whelps. Ireland is simply crying out for light and leading, and the _Croppy_is going to give both. You always wanted to serve Ireland. Now I amoffering you the chance. I don't say you ought to thank me, though youwill thank me to the day of your death. I don't say that you have anopportunity of becoming a great man. I know you, and I know a better wayof making sure of you than that. I say to you, Hyacinth Conneally, thatwe want you--just _you_ and nobody else. Ireland wants you. '

The letter, especially the last part of it, was sufficiently ridiculousto have moved Hyacinth to a smile. But it did no such thing. On thecontrary, its rhetoric excited and touched him. The flattery of thefinal sentences elated him. The absurdity of the idea that Irelandneeded him, a fifth-rate office clerk, an out-of-work commercialtraveller who had failed to sell blankets and flannels, did not strikehim at all. The figure of Augusta Goold rose to his mind. She flashedbefore him, an Apocalyptic angel, splended and terrible, trumpet-callinghim to the last great fight. He forgot in an instant the Quinns andtheir trouble. The years of quietness in Ballymoy, the daily intercoursewith gentle people, the atmosphere of the religion in which he hadlived, fell away from him suddenly. 

He sat absorbed in an ecstasy of joyful excitement until the jangling ofCanon Beecher's church bell recalled him to common life again. It speaksfor the strength of the habits he had formed in Ballymoy that he rosewithout hesitation and went to take his part in the morning service. 

He sat down as usual beside Marion Beecher and her harmonium. Helistened to her playing until her father entered. He found himselfgazing at her when she stood up for the opening words of the service. He felt himself strangely affected by the gentleness of her face and theslender beauty of her form. When she knelt down he could not takehis eyes off her. There came over him an inexplicable softening, arelaxation of the tense excitement of the morning. He thought of herkneeling there in the faded shabby church Sunday after Sunday for yearsand years, when he was working at hot pressure far away. He knew justhow her eyes would look calmly, trustfully up to the God she spoketo; how her soul would grow in gentleness; how love would be the veryatmosphere around her. And all the while he would struggle and fight, with no inspiration except a bitter hate. Suddenly there came on him afeeling that he could not leave her. The very thought of separationwas a fierce pain. A desire of her seized on him like uncontrollablephysical hunger. Wherever he might be, whatever life might have in storefor him, he knew that his heart would go back to her restlessly, andremain unsatisfied without her. He understood that he loved her. CanonBeecher's voice came to him as if from an immense distance:

'O God, make speed to save us. '

Then he heard very clearly Marion's sweet voice replying:

'O Lord, make haste to help us. '

There was a faint shuffling, and the congregation rose to their feet. His eyes were still on Marion, and now his whole body quivered with theforce of his newly-found love. She half turned and looked at him. Forone instant their eyes met, and he saw in hers a flash of recognition, then a strange look of fear, and she turned away from him, flushed andtrembling. He saw that she had read his heart and knew his love. 

'Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, ' readthe Canon heavily. 

Hyacinth's heart swelled in him. His whole being seemed to throb withexultation, and he responded in a voice he could not recognise for his. 

'As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world withoutend. Amen. '

Marion stood silent. Her head was bowed down, and her hands claspedtight together. 

Of the remainder of the morning's service Hyacinth could neverafterwards remember anything. No doubt Canon Beecher read the Psalms andlessons and prayers; no doubt he preached. Probably, also, hymns weresung, and Marion played them, but he could not imagine how. It seemedquite impossible that she could have touched the keys with her fingers, or that she could have uttered any sound; yet no one had remarked theabsence of hymns or even noticed any peculiarity in their performance. Not till after the service was over did he regain full consciousnessof himself and his surroundings; then he became exceedingly alert. Hewatched the Canon disappear into the vestry, heard the congregationtrample down the aisle, listened to Marion playing a final voluntary. It seemed to him as he sat there waiting for her to stop that she playedmuch longer than usual. He could hear Mrs. Beecher and Mr. Quinn talkingin the porch, and every moment he expected the Canon to appear. At lastthe music ceased, and the lid of the harmonium was closed and locked. Hestepped forward and took Marion's hands in his. 

'Marion, ' he said, 'I love you. It was only this morning that I foundit out, but I know--oh, I know--that I love you far, far more than I cantell you. '

The hand which lay in his grew cold, and the girl's head was bowed sothat he could not see her face. He felt her tremble. 

'Marion, Marion, I love you, love you, love you!'

Then very slowly she raised her head and looked at him. He stooped tokiss her lips, and felt her face flush and glow when he touched it. Thenshe drew her hands from his and fled down the church to her mother. 

Hyacinth stood agape with wonder at the words which he had spoken. Theknowledge of his love had come on him like a sudden gust, and he onlyhalf realized what he had done. He walked back to his lodgings, goingover and over the amazing words, recalling with flushed astonishment thekiss. Then a chilling doubt beset him suddenly. Did Marion know how poorhe was? Never in his life had the fear of poverty or the desire ofgain determined Hyacinth's plans. He knew very well that no suchconsiderations would have in any way affected his conduct towardsMarion. Once he realized that he loved her, the confession of hislove was quite inevitable. Yet he felt vaguely that he might be judgedblameworthy. He had read a few novels, and he knew that even the writerswhose chief business it is to glorify the passion of love do not dare torepresent it as independent of money. He knew, too, that many pennilessheroes won admiration--he did not in the least understand why theyshould--by silently deserting affectionate women. He knew that kisseswere immoral except for those who possessed a modest competence. Theseauthorized ethics of marriage engagements were wholly incomprehensibleto him, and it in no way disquieted his conscience that he had boundMarion to him with his kiss; yet he felt that she had a right to knowwhat income he hoped to earn, and what kind of home he would have tooffer her. A hundred pounds a year might be deemed insufficient, andhe knew that, not being either a raven or a lily, he could not count onfinding food and clothes ready when he wanted them. 

The daughters of the Irish Church clergy, even of the dignitaries, arenot brought up in luxury. Still, they are most of them accustomed to adaily supply of food--plain, perhaps, but sufficient--and will look foras much in the homes of their husbands. A girl like Marion Beecher doesnot expect to secure a position which will enable her to send her ownclothes to a laundress or hire a cook who can make pastry; but it is notfair to ask her to wash the family's blankets or to boil potatoes for apig. Probably her friends would think her lucky in marrying a curate ora dispensary doctor with one hundred and fifty pounds a year, andthe prospect of one-third as much again after a while. But Hyacinthremembered that he was poorer than any curate. He determined to put thematter plainly before Marion without delay. 

The Rectory door was opened for him by Elsie Beecher, and, in spite ofher wondering protests, Hyacinth walked into the dining-room and askedthat Marion should be sent to him. The room was empty, as he expected. He stood and waited for her, deriving faint comfort and courage from thethreadbare carpet, patched tablecloth, and poor crazy chairs. They werestrange properties for a scene with possibilities of deep romance in it, but they made his confession of poverty easier. 

Marion entered at last and stood beside him. He neither took her handnor looked at her. 

'When I told you to-day that I loved you, ' he said, 'I ought to havetold you that I am very poor. '

'I know it, ' she said. 

'But I am poorer even than you know. I am not in Mr. Quinn's employmentany more. I have no settled income, and only a prospect of earning avery small one. ' He paused. 'I shall have to go away from Ballymoy. Imust live in Dublin. I do not think it is fair to ask you to marry me. Ishall have no more to live upon than----'

She moved a step nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm. 

'Look at me, ' she said. 

He raised his eyes to her face, and saw again there, as he had seen inchurch, the wonderful shining of love, which is stronger than all thingsand holds poverty and hardship cheap. 

'Keep looking at me still, ' she said. 'Now tell me: Do you really thinkit matters that you are poor? Do you think I care whether you have muchor little? Tell me. '

He could not answer her, although he knew that there was only one answerto her question. 

'Do you think that I love money? Do you doubt that I love you?'

Her voice sunk almost to a whisper as she spoke, and her eyes fell fromlooking into his. Just as when he kissed her in the church, she flushedsuddenly, but this time she did not try to escape from him. Instead sheclung to his arm, and hid her face against his shoulder. He put his armsround her and held her close. 

'I know, ' he said. 'I was a fool to come here thinking that my beingpoor would matter. I might have known. Indeed, I think I did know evenbefore I spoke to you. '

She had no answer except a long soft laugh, which was half smothered inhis arms. 

CHAPTER XX

On Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoons Canon Beecher enjoyed theprivilege of a fire in his study. He was supposed to be engaged at theseseasons in the preparation of his sermons, a serious and exacting workwhich demanded solitude and profound quiet. In earlier years he reallyhad prepared his sermons painfully, but long practice brings to thepreacher a certain fatal facility. Old ideas are not improved by beingclothed in new phrases, and of new ideas--a new idea will occasionallyobtrude itself even on the Christian preacher--the Canon was exceedinglymistrustful. The study was an unexciting and comparatively comfortableroom. The firelight on winter afternoons played pleasantly on thedim gold backs of the works of St. Augustine, a fine folio editionbequeathed to Mrs. Beecher by a scholarly uncle, which reposedundisturbed along a lower shelf. Adventurous rays occasionally exploreda faded print of the Good Shepherd which hung above the books, andgleamed upon the handle of the safe where the parish registers andchurch plate were stored. The quiet and the process of digesting hismid-day dinner frequently tempted the Canon to indulge in a series ofpleasant naps on Sunday afternoons. 

When Hyacinth tapped at the study door and entered, the room was almostdark, and the sermon preparation, if proceeding at all, can have got nofurther than the preliminary concatenation of ideas. The Canon, however, was aggressively, perhaps suspiciously, wide awake. 

'Who is that?' he asked. 'Oh, Conneally, it is you. I am very glad tosee you. Curiously enough, I thought of going down to call on you thisafternoon. I wanted to have a talk with you. I dare say you have come upto consult me. '

Hyacinth was astonished. How could anyone have guessed what he cameabout? Had Marion told her father already?

'It is a sad business, ' the Canon went on--' very distressing andperplexing indeed. But so far as you personally are concerned, Conneally, I cannot regard it as an unmixed misfortune. You were meantfor something better, if I may say so, than selling blankets. Now, Ihave a plan for your future, which I talked over last week with an oldfriend of yours. Now that something has been settled about the Quinns, we must all give our minds to your affairs. '

Then Hyacinth understood that Canon Beecher expected to be consultedabout his future plans, and even had some scheme of his own in mind. 

'Yes, ' he replied, 'I shall be very glad of your help and advice, although I think I have decided about what I am going to do. It wasnot on that subject I came to speak to you to-day, but on another, moreimportant, I think, for you and for me and for Marion. '

'For Marion?'

'I ought to tell you at once that I love your daughter Marion, and I amsure that she loves me. I want to marry her. '

'My dear boy! I had not the slightest idea of this. It is one of themost extraordinary things--or perhaps extraordinary is not exactly theproper word--one of the most surprising things I----'

The Canon stopped abruptly and sat stroking his chin with his forefingerin the effort to adjust his mind to the new situation presented to it. It was characteristic of the man that the thought of Hyacinth's povertywas not the first which presented itself. Indeed, Canon Beecher was oneof those unreasonable Christians who are actually convinced of the truthof certain paradoxical sayings in the Gospel about wealth and poverty. He believed that there were things of more importance in life than thepossession of money. Fortunately, such Christians are rare, for theirabsurd creed forms a standing menace to the existence of Church andsect alike. Fortunately also, ecclesiastical authorities have sufficientwisdom to keep these eccentrics in the background, confining them as faras possible to remote and obscure places. If ever a few of them escapeinto the open and find means of expressing themselves, the wholemachinery of modern religion will become dislocated, and the Church willvery likely relapse into the barbarity of the Apostolic age. 

'I believe, Conneally, ' said the Canon at last, 'that you are a goodman. I do not merely mean that you are moral and upright, but that yousincerely desire to follow in the footsteps of the Master. '

He looked as if he wanted some kind of answer, at least a confirmationof his belief. Fresh from his interview with Marion, and having theCanon's eyes upon him, it did not seem impossible to Hyacinth to answeryes. Even the thought of the work he was to engage in with Miss Gooldand Patrick O'Dwyer seemed to offer no ground for hesitation. Was henot enlisting with them to take part in the great battle? He hadnever ceased to believe his father's words: 'And the battlefield isIreland--our dear Ireland which we love!' He felt for the moment thathe was altogether prepared to make the confession of faith the Canonrequired. 

'Yes, ' he said, 'I am on His side. '

'And you love Marion? Are you quite sure of that? Are you certain thatthis is not a passing fancy?'

This time Hyacinth had no doubt whatever about his answer. 

'I am as certain of my love as I am of anything in the world. '

'I am glad. I am very glad that this has happened--for your sake, because I have always liked you; also for Marion's sake. I shall see youhappy because you love one another, and because you both love the Lord. I ask no more than those two things. But I must go and tell my wife atonce. She will be glad, too. '

He rose and went to the door. With his hand stretched out to open it hestopped, struck by a sudden thought. 

'By the way, I ought to ask you--if you mean to be married--have youany--I mean it is necessary--I hope you won't think I am laying unduestress upon such matters, but I really--I mean we really ought toconsider what you are to live upon. '

It was the prospect of imparting the news to his wife which forced thisspeech from him. Mrs. Beecher was, indeed, the least worldly of women. Did she not marry the Canon, then a mere curate, on the slenderestincome, and bear him successively five babies in defiance of commonprudence? But it had fallen to her lot to order the affairs of thehousehold, and she had learnt that the people who give you bread andbeef demand, after an interval, more or less money in exchange. It waslikely that, after her first rapture had subsided, she would make someinquiry about Hyacinth's income and prospects. The Canon felt he oughtto be prepared. 

'Of course, I have lost my position with Mr. Quinn. You know that. But Ihave an offer of work which I hope will lead on to something better, and will enable me in a short time to earn enough money to marry on. You know--or perhaps you don't, for I am afraid I never told you '--heremembered that he had carefully concealed his connection with the_Croppy_ from his friends at Ballymoy, and paused--' I have done somelittle writing. Oh, nothing very much--not a book, or anything likethat, only a few articles for the press. Well, a friend of mine has gotme the offer of a post in connection with a weekly paper. It is not avery great thing in itself just now, but it may improve, and there isalways the prospect of picking up other work of the same kind. '

The Canon, who had never seen even an abstract of one of his own sermonsin print, had a proper reverence for the men who guide the world'sthought through the press. 

'That is very good, Conneally--very satisfactory indeed. I always knewyou had brains. But why did you never tell me what you were doing? Ishould have been deeply interested in anything you wrote. '

Hyacinth's conscience smote him. 

'The truth is, that I was sure you wouldn't approve of the paper Iwrote for. It is the _Croppy_, the organ of the extreme left wing of theNationalist party. It is Miss Goold--Augusta Goold--who now offers mework on that paper. She says---- But you had better read what she saysfor yourself. Then you will know the worst of it. '

He took the letter from his pocket. The Canon lit a candle and read itthrough slowly and attentively. When he had finished he laid it upon thetable and sat down. Hyacinth waited in extreme anxiety for what was tocome. 

'I do not like the cause you mean to work for or the people you callyour friends. I would rather see my daughter's husband doing almostanything else in the world. I would be happier if you proposed to breakstones upon the roadside. You know what my political opinions are. I regard the _Croppy_ as a disloyal and seditious paper, bent uponfostering a dangerous spirit. '

Hyacinth listened patiently. He had steeled himself against the hearingof some such words, and was determined not to be moved to argument orself-defence except as a last resort. 

'I hope, ' he said, 'that you will at least give me credit for honestlyacting in accordance with my convictions. '

'I am sure--quite sure--that you are honest, and believe that your causeis the right one. I recognise, too, though this is a very difficultthing to do, that you have every right to form and hold your ownpolitical opinions. It seems to me that they are very wrong and verymischievous, but it is quite possible that I am mistaken and prejudiced. In any case, I am not called upon to refuse you my affection or toseparate you from my daughter because we differ about politics. '

Hyacinth breathed a great sigh of relief. He looked at the Canon inwonder and admiration. It had been beyond hope that a man grown gray ina narrow faith, a faith in which for centuries religion and politics hadbeen inextricably blended, could have risen in one clear flight abovethe mire of prejudice. It seemed, even after he had spoken, impossiblethat in Ireland, where political opponents believe each other to bethieves and murderers, there could be found even one man, and he fromthe least emancipated class of all, who could understand and practisetolerance. 

'I say, ' went on the Canon, speaking very slowly, and with evidentdifficulty, 'that I have no right to put you away from me because ofyour political opinions. But there is something here '--he touched MissGoold's letter--' from which I must by all means try to save you. Will you let me speak to you, not as Marion's father, not even as yourfriend, but as Christ's ambassador set here to watch for your soul? ButI need not excuse myself for what I am about to say. You will at leastlisten to me patiently. '

He took up Miss Goold's letter and searched through it for a short time;then he read aloud:

'"He just asked one question about you: Does Mr. Conneally hate Englandand the Empire and everything English, from the Parliament to the policebarrack? For it is this hatred which must animate our work. I saidI thought you did. " Now consider what those words mean. You are todedicate your powers, the talents God has given you, to preachinga gospel of hate. This is not a question of politics. I am readyto believe that in the contest of which our unhappy country is thebattle-ground a man may be either on your side or mine, and yet bea follower of Christ. It is impossible to think that anyone candeliberately, with his eyes open, accept hatred for the inspiration ofhis life and still be true to Him. '

Hyacinth was greatly moved by the solemnity with which the Canon spoke. There was that in him which witnessed to the truth of what he heard. Yethe refused to be convinced. When he spoke it was clear that he was notaddressing his companion, for his eyes were fixed upon the picture ofthe Good Shepherd, faintly illuminated by the candle light. He desiredto order his own thought on the dilemma, to justify, if he could, hisown position to himself. 'It is true that the Gospel of Christ is aGospel of love. Yet there are circumstances in which it is wrong tofollow it. Is it possible to rouse our people out of their sordidapathy, to save Ireland for a place among the nations, except bypreaching a mighty indignation against the tyranny which has crushed usto the dust?'

He felt that Canon Beecher's eyes never left him for a moment while hespoke. He looked up, and saw in them an intense pleading. Therestole over him a desire to yield, to submit himself to this appealingtenderness. He defended himself desperately against his weakness. 

'I am not choosing the pleasanter way. It would be easier for me to giveup the fight for Ireland, to desert the beaten side, to forget the lostcause. ' He turned to Canon Beecher, speaking almost fiercely: 'Do youthink it is a small thing for me to surrender your friendship, andperhaps--perhaps to lose Marion? Is there not _some_ of the nobility ofsacrifice in refusing to listen to you?'

'I cannot argue with you. No doubt you are cleverer than I am. But I_know_ this--God is love, and only he who dwelleth in love dwelleth inGod. '

'But I do love: I love Ireland. '

'Ah yes; but He says, "Love your enemies. "'

'Then, ' said Hyacinth, 'I will not have Him for my God. '

Hardly had he spoken than he started and grew suddenly cold. It was nodoubt some trick of memory, but he believed that he heard very faintlyfrom far off a remembered voice:

'Will you be sure to know the good side from the bad, the Captain fromthe enemy. '

They were the last words his father had said to him. They had passedunregarded when they were spoken, but lingered unthought of in somerecess of his memory. Now they came on him full of meaning, insistentfor an answer. 

'You have chosen, ' said the Canon. 

He had chosen. Could he be sure that he had chosen right, that he knewthe good side from the bad?

'You have chosen, and I have no more to say. Only, before it becomesimpossible for you and me to kneel together, I ask you to let me praywith you once more. You can do this because you still believe He hearsus, although you have decided to walk no more with Him. '

They knelt together, and Hyacinth, numbly indifferent, felt his handgrasped and held. 

'O Christ, ' said Canon Beecher, 'this child of Thine has chosen to liveby hatred rather than by love. Do Thou therefore remove love from him, lest it prove a hindrance to him on the way on which he goes. Let thememory of the cross be blotted out from his mind, so that he may dosuccessfully that which he desires. '

Hyacinth wrenched his hand free from the grasp which held it, and flunghimself forward across the table at which they knelt. Except for hissobs and his choking efforts to subdue them, there was silence in theroom. Canon Beecher rose from his knees and stood watching him, his lipsmoving with unspoken supplication. At last Hyacinth also rose and stood, calm suddenly. 

'You have conquered me, ' he said. 

'My son, my son, this is joy indeed! All along I knew He could not failyou. But I have not conquered you. The Lord Jesus has saved you. '

'I do not know, ' said Hyacinth slowly, 'whether I have been saved orlost. I am not sure even now that I know the good side from the bad. But I do know that I cannot live without the hope of being loved by Him. Whether it is the better part to which I resign myself I cannot tell. No doubt He knows. As for me, if I have been forced to make a greatbetrayal, if I am to live hereafter very basely--and I think I am--atleast I have not cut myself off from the opportunity of loving Him. '

CHAPTER XXI

Canon Beecher took no notice of Hyacinth's last speech. He had returnedwith amazing swiftness and ease from the region of high emotion to thecommonplace. Excursions to the shining peaks of mystical experience arefor most men so rare that the glory leaves them with dazzled eyes, andthey walk stumblingly for a while along the dull roads of the world. But Canon Beecher, in the course of his pleading with Hyacinth, had beenonly in places very well known to him. The presence chamber of the Kingwas to him also the room of a familiar friend. It was no breathlessdescent from the green hill of the cross to the thoroughfare of commonlife. 

'Now, my dear boy, ' he said, 'we really must go and talk to my wife andMarion. Besides, I must tell you the plan I have made for you--the planI was just going to speak about when you put it out of my head with thenews of your love-making. '

For Hyacinth a great effort was necessary before he could get back tohis normal state. His hands were trembling violently. His forehead andhair were damp with sweat. His whole body was intensely cold. His mindwas confused, and he listened to what was said to him with only thevaguest apprehension of its meaning. The Canon laid a firm hand uponhis arm, and led him away from the study. In the passage he stopped, andasked Hyacinth to go back and blow out the candle which still burned onthe study table. 

'And just put some turf on the fire, ' he added; 'I don't want it to goout. '

The pause enabled Hyacinth to regain his self-command, and theperformance of the perfectly ordinary acts required of him helped tobring him back again to common life. 

When they entered the drawing-room it was evident that Mrs. Beecher hadalready heard the news, and was, in fact, discussing the matter eagerlywith Marion. She sprang up, and hastened across the room to meet them. 

'I am so glad, ' she said--'so delighted! I am sure you and Marion willbe happy together. '

She took Hyacinth's hands in hers, and held them while she spoke, thendrew nearer to him and looked up in his face expectantly. A fearfulsuspicion seized him that on an occasion of the kind she might considerit right to kiss him. It was with the greatest difficulty that hesuppressed a wholly unreasonable impulse to laugh aloud. Apparently theneed of such affectionate stimulant was strong in Mrs. Beecher. WhenHyacinth hung back, she left him for her husband, put her arms round hisneck, and kissed him heartily on both cheeks. 

'Isn't it fortunate, ' she said, 'that you saw Dr. Henry last week whileyou were in Dublin? You little thought how important that talk with himwas going to turn out--I mean, of course, important for us. It alwayswas important for Mr. --I mean for Hyacinth. '

The Canon seemed a little embarrassed. He cleared his throat somewhatunnecessarily, and then said:

'I haven't mentioned that matter yet. '

'Not mentioned Dr. Henry's offer! Then, what have you been talking aboutall this time?'

It did not seem necessary to tell Mrs. Beecher all that had been said, or to repeat the scene in the study for her benefit. The Canon clearedhis throat again. 

'I was in Dublin last week attending a meeting of the Scriptural SchoolsSociety, and I met Dr. Henry. We were talking about the Quinns. I toldyou that Mr. Quinn is to be the new secretary of the society, didn't I?Dr. Henry knows Mr. Quinn slightly, and was greatly interested in him. Your name naturally was mentioned. Dr. Henry seems to have taken awarm interest in you when you were in college, and to have a very highopinion of your abilities. He did not know what had become of you, andwas very pleased to hear that you were a friend of ours. '

Hyacinth knew at once what was coming--knew what Canon Beecher's planfor his future was, and why he was pleased with it; understood how Mrs. Beecher came to describe this conversation with Dr. Henry as fortunate. He waited for the rest of the recital, vaguely surprised at his own wantof feeling. 

'I told him, ' the Canon went on, eying Hyacinth doubtfully, 'that youhad lost your employment here. I hope you don't object to myhaving mentioned that. I am sure you wouldn't if you had heard howsympathetically he spoke of you. He assured me that he was most anxiousto help you in any way in his power. He just asked one question aboutyou. ' Hyacinth started. Where had he heard those identical words before?Oh yes, they were in Miss Goold's letter. Patrick O'Dwyer also had justasked one question about him. He smiled faintly as the Canon went on:'"Is he fit, spiritually fit, to be ordained? For it is the desire toserve God which must animate our work. " I said I thought you were. Itold him how you sang in our choir here, and how fond you seemed of ourquiet life, and what a good fellow you are. You see, I did not know thenthat I was praising the man who is to be my son-in-law. He asked me toremind you of a promise he had once made, and to say that he was readyto fufil it. I understood him to mean that he would recommend you to anyBishop you like for ordination. '

Hyacinth remained silent. He felt that in surrendering his work for the_Croppy_ he surrendered also his right to make any choice. He was readyto be shepherded into any position, like a sheep into a pen. And hehad no particular wish to resist. He saw a simple satisfaction in Mrs. Beecher's face and a beautiful joy in Marion's eyes. It was impossiblefor him to disappoint them. He smiled a response to Mrs. Beecher'skindly triumph. 

'Isn't that splendid! Now you and Marion will be able to be marriedquite soon, and I do dislike long engagements. Of course, you will bevery poor at first, but no poorer than we were. And Marion is not afraidof being poor--are you, dear?'

'That is just what I have been saying to him, ' said Marion; 'isn't it, Hyacinth? Of course I am not afraid. I have always said that if I evermarried I should like to marry a clergyman, and if one does that one issure to be poor. '

Evidently there was no doubt in either of their minds that Hyacinthwould accept Dr. Henry's offer. Nor had he any doubt himself. The thingseemed too inevitable to be anything but right. Only on Canon Beecher'sface there lingered a shadow of uncertainty. Hyacinth saw it, andrelieved his mind at once. 

'I shall write to Dr. Henry to-night and thank him. I shall ask him totry and get me a curacy as soon as possible. '

'Thank you, ' said the Canon. 

'I think, ' added Hyacinth, 'that I should prefer getting work inEngland. '

'Oh, why, ' said Mrs. Beecher. 'Wouldn't it be better to stay in Ireland!and then we might have Marion somewhere within reach. '

'My dear, ' said the Canon, 'we must let Hyacinth decide for himself. Iam sure he knows what is wisest for him to do. '

Hyacinth was not at all sure that he knew what was wisest, and he wasquite certain that he had not decided for himself in any matter of theslightest importance. He had suggested an English curacy in the vaguehope that it might be easier there to forget his hopes and dreams forIreland. It seemed to him, too, that a voluntary exile, of which hecould not think without pain, might be a kind of atonement for thebetrayal of his old enthusiasm. 

The Canon followed him to the door when he left. 

'My dear boy'--there was a break in his voice as he spoke--' my dearboy, you have made me very happy. I am sure that you will not enter uponthe work of the ministry from any unworthy motive. The call will becomeclearer to you by degrees. I mean the inward call. The outward call, theleading of circumstance, has already made abundantly plain the way youought to walk in. The other will come--the voice which brings assuranceand peace when it speaks. '

Hyacinth looked at him wistfully. There seemed very little possibilityof anything like assurance for him, and only such peace as might begained by smothering the cries with which his heart assailed him. TheCanon held his hand and wrung it. 

'I can understand why you want to go to England. Your political opinionswill interfere very little with your work there. Here, of course, itwould be different. Yes, your choice is certainly wise, for nothingmust be allowed to hinder your work. "Laying aside every weight, " youremember, "let us run the race. " Yes, I understand. '

It was perfectly clear to Hyacinth that the Canon did not understand inthe least. It was not likely that anyone ever would understand. 

Gradually his despondency gave way before the crowding in of thoughts ofsatisfaction. He was to have Marion, to live with her, to love her, andbe loved by her as long as they both lived. He saw life stretching outbefore him, a sunlit, pleasant journey in Marion's company. It did notseem to him that any trouble could be really bad, any disappointmentintolerable, any toil oppressive with her love for an atmosphere roundhim. He believed, too, that the work he was undertaking was a good work, perhaps the highest and noblest kind of work there is to be done in theworld. From this conviction also came a glow of happiness. Yet therekept recurring chill shudderings of self-reproach. Something within himkept whispering that he had bartered his soul for happiness. 

'I have chosen the easier and therefore the baser way, ' he said. 'I haveshrunk from toil and pain. I have refused to make the sacrifice demandedof me. '

He went back again to the story of his father's vision. For a momentit seemed quite clear that he had deliberately refused the call to thegreat fight, that he had judged himself unworthy, being cowardly andselfish in his heart. Then he remembered that the Captain of whom hisfather had told him was no one else but Christ, the same Christ of whomCanon Beecher spoke, the Good Shepherd whose love he had discovered tobe the greatest need of all. 

'I must have Him, ' he said--'I must have Him--and Marion. '

Again with the renewed decision came a glow of happiness and a sense ofrest, until there rose, as if to smite him, the thought of Ireland--ofIreland, poor, derided of strangers, deserted by her sons, roped in asa prize-ring where selfish men struggle ignobly for sordid gains Thechildren of the land fled from it sick with despair. Its deserted houseswere full of all doleful things. Cormorants and the daughters of the owllodged in the lintels of them. 

Sullen desolation was on the threshold, while satyrs cried to theirfellows across tracts of brown rush-grown land. Aliens came to hiss andpassed by wagging their hands. Over all was the monotony of the graysky, descending and still descending with clouds that came upon theland, mistily folding it in close embraces of death. Voices sounded faroff and unreal through the gloom. The final convulsive struggles of thenation's life grew feebler and fewer. Of all causes Ireland's seemed themost hopelessly lost. Was he, too, going to forsake her? He felt that inspite of all the good promised him there would always hang over his lifea gloom that oven Marion's love would not disperse, the heavy shadow ofIreland's Calvary. For Marion there would be no such darkness, nor wouldMarion understand it. But surely Christ understood. Words of His crowdedto the memory. 'When He beheld the city He wept over it, saying, Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem!' Most certainly He understood this, as Heunderstood all human emotion. He, too, had yearned over a nation's fall, had felt the heartbreak of the patriot. 

'I have chosen Him, ' he said at last. 'Once having caught a glimpse ofHim, I could not do without Him. He understands it all, and He has givenme Marion. '

CHAPTER XXII

It was a brilliant July day, and the convent at Robeen was decked for afestival. The occasion was a very great one. Cloth of gold hung in thechapel, the entrance-hall was splendid with flowers, and the wholewhite front of the buildings had put on signs of holiday. Indeed, this festival was unique, the very greatest day in the history of thesisterhood. Easter, Christmas, and the saints' days recurred annuallyin their proper order, and the emotions they brought with them were nodoubt familiar to holy ladies whose business it was to live in closetouch with the other world. But on this day the great of the earth, beings much more unapproachable, as a rule, than the saints, were tovisit the convent. Honour was to be paid to ladies whose magnificencewas guaranteed by worldly titles; to the Proconsuls of the far-offImperial power, holders of the purse-strings of the richest nationupon earth; to Judges accustomed to sit in splendid robes and awfulhead-dresses, pronouncing the doom of malefactors; to a member of theCabinet, a very mighty man, though untitled; and quite possibly--aglittering hope--to the Lord Lieutenant himself. 

It was therefore no wonder that the nuns had decked their conventwith all possible splendour. On each side of the iron gateway was aflag-post. From the top of one fluttered the green banner of Ireland, with its gold harp and a great crown over it. From the other hungthe Union Jack, emblem of that marriage of nationalities for whoseconsummation eight centuries have not sufficed. It was hoisted upsidedown--not with intentional disrespect, but because Sister Gertrude, whosuperintended this part of the decorations, had long ago renounced theworld, and did not remember that the tangled crosses had a top or abottom to them. Between the posts hung a festoon of signalling flags, long pointed strips of bunting with red balls or blue on them. Thecentral streamer just tipped as it fluttered the top of the iron crosswhich marked the religious nature of the gateway. The straight gravelwalk inside was covered with red baize, and on each side of it wereplanted tapering poles, round which crimson and white muslin circledin alternate stripes, giving them the appearance of huge old-fashionedsugar-sticks. These added to the gaiety of the scene, though it cannotbe supposed that they were of any actual use. The most bewilderedvisitor was hardly likely to stray off the red baize or miss his way tothe door in front of him. Within the great entrance-hall were palms andflowering shrubs in pots or tubs. The mosaic flooring, imported fromItaly, and a source of pride to all the Sisters, shone with much washingand polishing. The Madonna with the blue eyes and the golden crown, before which even Bishops crossed themselves, was less in evidence thanusual, for the expected guests were mostly heretics. She stood retiredbehind the flower-pots, and veiled her benignity with the leaves ofpalms. 

Right and left of the hall stretched corridors, whose shining parquetinvited the curious to explore the working-rooms and eating-rooms whichlay beyond. The door of the chapel stood open, and offered a visionof simpering angels crowding the canvas of the altar-piece, ajustly-admired specimen of German religious art. Before it, dimlyseen, two nuns knelt, types of conventual piety, absorbed in spiritualcontemplation amid the tumult of the world's invasion of theirsanctuary. Another door led to the garden. Here a fountain played into agreat stone basin, and neat gravel walks intersected each other at sharpangles among flower-beds. The grass which lay around the maze of pathswas sacred as a rule, even from the list slippers of the nuns, butto-day booths stood on it like stalls at a charity bazaar, hung withtweeds, blankets, and stockings. A tall Calvary lowered incongruouslyover one. An inferior Madonna, deposed from her old station in theentrance-hall, presided in a weather-beaten blue robe over another. 

Beyond the garden, blocked off from it by a white wall, lay the factoryitself, the magnet which was drawing the great of the earth to thenunnery. Here were the workers, all of them bright young women, smilingpleasantly and well washed for the occasion. They were dressed in neatviolet petticoats and white blouses, with shawls thrown back from theirheads, a glorified presentment of the Mayo woman's working dress. Hereand there, a touch of realism creditable to the Reverend Mother's talentfor stage management, one sat in bare feet--not, of course, dust or mudstained, as bare feet are apt to be in Connaught, but clean. The carefulobserver of detail might have been led to suppose that the Sistersimproved upon the practice of the Holy Father himself, and daily washedthe feet of the poor. 

Everywhere fresh-complexioned, gentle-faced nuns flitted silently about. The brass crosses pendent over their breasts relieved with a singleglitter the sombre folds of their robes. Snowy coifs, which had cost theindustrial schoolgirls of a sister house hours of labour and many tears, shone, glazed and unwrinkled, round their heads. Even the youngest ofthem had acquired the difficult art of walking gracefully with her handsfolded in front of her. 

At about two o'clock the visitors began to arrive, although the trainfrom Dublin which was to bring the very elect was not due for anotherhalf-hour. Lady Geoghegan, grown pleasantly stout and cheerfullybenignant, came by a local train, and rejoiced the eyes of beholderswith a dress made of one of the convent tweeds. Sir Gerald followedher, awkward and unwilling. He had been dragged with difficulty from hisbooks and the society of his children, and was doubtful whether a cigarin a nunnery garden might not be counted sacrilege. With them wasa wonderful person--an English priest: it was thus he describedhimself--whom Lady Geoghegan had met in Yorkshire. His charming mannersand good Church principles had won her favour and earned him the holidayhe was enjoying at Clogher House. He was arrayed in a pair of graytrousers, a white shirt, and a blazer with the arms of Brazenose Collegeembroidered on the pocket, his sacerdotal character being marked onlyby his collar. He leaped gaily from the car which brought them from thestation, and, as he assisted his hostess to alight, amazed the littlecrowd around the gate by chaffing the driver in an entirely unknowntongue. The good man had an ear for music, and plumed himself on hisability to pick up any dialect he heard--Scotch, Yorkshire, or Irishbrogue. The driver was bewildered, but smiled pleasantly. He realizedthat the gentleman was a foreigner, and since the meaning of his speechwas not clear, it was quite likely that he might be hazy about the valueof money and the rates of car hire. 

The Duchess of Drummin came in her landau. Like Lady Geoghegan, shemarked the national and industrial nature of the occasion in her attire. At much personal inconvenience, for the day was warm, she wore a longcloak of rich brown tweed, adorned with rows of large leather-coveredbuttons. Lady Josephine Maguire fluttered after her. She had biddenher maid disguise a dress, neither Irish nor homespun, with as muchCarrickmacross lace as could be attached to it. Lord Eustace, whorepresented his father, appeared in all the glory of a silk hat and afrock-coat. He eyed Sir Gerald's baggy trousers and shabby wideawakewith contempt, and turned away his eyes from beholding the vanity ofobviously bad form when he came face to face with the English priest inhis blazer. 

A smiling nun took charge of each party as it arrived. Lady Geogheganplied hers with questions, and received a series of quite uninforminganswers. Her husband followed her, bent principally upon escapingfrom the precincts if he could. Already he was bored, and he knew thatspeeches from great men were in store for him if he were forced tolinger. The Duchess of Drummin eyed each object presented to her noticegravely through long-handled glasses, but gave her attendant nun verylittle conversational help. Lady Josephine made every effort to beintelligent, and inquired in a dormitory where the looking-glasseswere. She was amazed to hear that the nuns did, or failed to do, theirhair--the head-dresses concealed the result of their efforts--withoutmirrors. Lord Eustace was preoccupied. Amid his unaccustomedsurroundings he walked uncertain whether to keep his hat on his heador hold it in his hands. The English priest, whose name was Austin, gotdetached from Lady Geoghegan, and picked up a stray nun for himself. Shetook him, by his own request, straight to the chapel. He crossed himselfwith elaborate care on entering, and knelt for a moment before thealtar. The nun was delighted. 

'So you, too, are a Catholic?'

'Certainly, ' he replied briskly--'an English Catholic. '

'Ah! many of our priests go to England. Perhaps you have met FatherO'Connell. He is on a London mission. '

'No, ' said Mr. Austin, 'I do not happen to have met him. My church is inYorkshire. '

The nun gazed at him in amazement. 

'Your church! Then you are----

'Yes, ' he said, 'I am a priest. '

Her eyes slowly travelled over him. They began at the gray trousers, passed to the blazer, resting a moment on the college arms, whichcertainly suggested the ecclesiastical, and remained fixed on hiscollar. After all, why should she, a humble nun, doubt his word when hesaid he was a priest? Perhaps he might belong to some order of whichshe had never heard. Eccentricities of costume might be forced on theEnglish clergy by Protestant intolerance. She smothered her uncertainty, and took him at his word. They went together into the garden. Mr. Austintook off his hat before the tarnished Madonna, and crossed himselfagain. The nun's doubts vanished. 

'I think, ' he said, 'that I should like to buy some of this tweed. Is itfor sale?'

'Oh, certainly. Sister Aloysia will sell it to you. We are so glad, sovery glad, when anyone will buy what our poor workers make. It is all ahelp to the good cause. '

'Now this, ' said Mr. Austin, fingering a bright-green cloth, 'would makea nice lady's dress. Don't you think so?'

The nun cast down her eyes. 

'I do not know, Father, about dresses. Sister Aloysia, the ReverendFather wants to buy tweed to make a dress for '--she hesitated; perhapsit was his niece, but he looked young to have a full-grown niece--'forhis sister. '

Sister Aloysia looked round her, puzzled. She saw no Reverend Father. 

'This, ' said the other, 'is Father--Father----'

'Austin, ' he helped her out. 

'Father Austin, ' added the nun. 

'And you wish, ' said Sister Aloysia, 'to buy a dress for your sister?'

'Not for my sister, ' said Mr. Austin--'for my wife. '

Both nuns started back as if he had tried to strike them. 

'Your wife! Your wife! Then you are a Protestant. '

'Certainly not, ' he said. 'I detest all Protestants. I am a Catholic--anAnglo-Catholic. '

Neither of the nuns had ever heard of an Anglo-Catholic before. What manner of religion such people might profess was doubtful andunimportant. One thing was clear--this was not a priest in any sense ofthe word which they could recognise. They distrusted him, as a wolf, not certainly in the clothing, but using the language, of a sheep. Thesituation became embarrassing. Mr. Austin prepared to bow himself away. 

'I think, ' he said, 'I shall ask Lady Geoghegan'--he rolled the titleout emphatically; it formed a salve to his wounded dignity--'I shall askLady Geoghegan to purchase the tweed for me. I must be on the look-outfor a friend who promised to meet me here this afternoon--a young manwhom I contemplate engaging as my curate. I am most particular in thechoice of a curate, and should, of course, prefer a public schooland 'Varsity man. I need scarcely say that I refer only to Oxford andCambridge as the Universities. As a rule, I do not care for Irishmen, but on the recommendation of my friend Dr. Henry, I am willing toconsider this Mr. Conneally. '

It seemed to Mr. Austin that a preference for the English Universities, the friendship of a distinguished professor, a contempt for the mereIrishman, and a titled hostess ought to restore the respect he hadforfeited by the mention of his wife. Curiously enough, and this showsthe disadvantage of a monastic seclusion from the world, the nunsremained unimpressed. The conception of a married priest was too muchfor them. As he walked away Mr. Austin heard Sister Aloysia murmur:

'How very indecent!'

Meanwhile, the train from Dublin had arrived, and Mr. Austin, when hereturned after his interview with Hyacinth, found that even the two nunshe had victimized had forgotten him in the excitement of gazing atmore important visitors. Mr. Justice Saunders, a tall, stout man with aflorid face, made a tour of the factory under the charge of one of thesenior Sisters. He took little notice of what he was shown, beingmainly bent on explaining to his escort how he came to be known in legalcircles as 'Satan Saunders. ' Afterwards he added a tale of how he hadonce bluffed a crowd in an out-of-the-way country town into giving threecheers for the Queen. 

'You're all loyal here, ' he said. 'I saw the Union Jack flying over thegate as I came in. '

The nun smiled, a slow, enigmatic smile, and the Judge, watching her, was struck by her innocence and simplicity. '

'Surely, ' she said, 'the Church must always be loyal. '

'Well, I'm not so sure of that. I've met a few firebrands of priests inmy time. '

'Oh, those!' she said with a shrug of her shoulders. 'You must not thinkof them. It will always be easy to keep them in order when the timecomes. They spring from the cabins. What can you expect of them? But theChurch---- Can the Church fail of respect for the Sovereign?'

Mr. Clifford and Mr. Davis followed Judge Saunders. They were members ofthe Congested Districts Board, and it was clear from the manner ofthe nun who escorted them that they were guests of very considerableimportance in her estimation. Mr. Clifford was an Englishman who hadbeen imported to assist in governing Ireland because he was married tothe sister of the Chief Secretary's wife. He was otherwise qualifiedfor the task by possessing a fair knowledge of the points of a horse. Hebelieved that he knew Ireland and the Irish people thoroughly. 

His colleague, Mr. Davis, was a man of quite a different stamp. Theson of a Presbyterian farmer in County Tyrone, he had joined the IrishParliamentary party, and made himself particularly objectionable inWestminster. He had devoted his talents to discovering and publishingthe principles upon which appointments to lucrative posts are madeby the officials in Dublin Castle. It was found convenient at last toprovide him with a salary and a seat on the Congested Districts Board. Thus he found himself engaged in ameliorating the lot of the Connaughtpeasants. Mr. Clifford used to describe him as 'a bit of a bounder--infact, a complete outsider--but no fool. ' His estimate of Mr. Cliffordwas perhaps less complimentary. 

'Every business, ' he used to say, 'must have at least one gentleman init to do the entertaining and the dining out. We have Mr. Clifford. He'sa first-rate man at one of the Lord Lieutenant's balls. '

A professor from Trinity College was one of the two guests conducted bythe Reverend Mother herself. Nominally this learned gentleman existedfor the purpose of impressing upon the world the beauties of Latinpoetry, but he was best known to fame as an orator on the platformsof the Primrose League, and a writer of magazine articles on Irishquestions. He was a man who owed his success in life largely to hisfaculty for always keeping beside the most important person present. TheLord Lieutenant, being slightly indisposed, had been unable to make anearly start, so the most honourable stranger was Mr. Chesney, the ChiefSecretary. To him Professor Cairns attached himself, and received ashare of the Reverend Mother's blandishments. 

Mr. Chesney himself was dapper and smiling as usual. Even the earlyhour at which he had been obliged to leave home had neither ruffled histemper nor withered the flower in his buttonhole. He spent his moneygenerously at the various stalls in the garden, addressed friendlyremarks to the women in the factory, and asked the questions with whichMr. Davis had primed him in the train. 

Quite a crowd of minor people followed the great statesman. There werebarristers who hoped to become County Court Judges, and ladies whoenjoyed a novel kind of occasion for displaying their clothes, hoping tosee their names afterwards in the newspaper accounts of the proceedings. There were a few foremen from leading Dublin shops, who foresaw thepossibility of a fashionable boom in Robeen tweeds and flannels. Therewere also reporters from the Dublin papers, and a representative--MissO'Dwyer--of a syndicate which supplied ladies' journals with accounts ofthe clothes worn at fashionable functions. 

The supreme moment of the day arrived when the company assembled tolisten to words of wisdom from the orators selected to address them. Seats had been provided by carting in forms from the neighbouringnational schools. A handsomely-carved chair of ecclesiastical designawaited Mr. Chesney. 

He opened his speech by assuring his audience that there was no occasionfor him to address them at all, a truth which struck home to the heartof Sir Gerald, who was trying to arrange himself comfortably at a deskdesigned for a class of infants. 

'Facts, ' Mr. Chesney explained himself, 'are more eloquent than words. You have seen what I could never have described to you--the contentedworkers in this factory and the artistic designs of the fabrics theyweave. Many of you remember what Robeen was a few years ago--a howlingwilderness. We are told on high authority that even the wilderness shallblossom as a rose. '

He bowed in the direction of the Reverend Mother, possibly with afeeling that it was suitable to acknowledge her presence when quotingHoly Writ, possibly with a vague idea that she might consider herselfa spiritual descendant of the Prophet Isaiah. 'You see it now a hive ofhappy industry. '

He observed with pleasure that the reporters were busy with theirnote-books, and he knew that these editors of public utterance might berelied on to unravel a tangled metaphor before publishing a speech. Hewent on light-heartedly, confident that in the next day's papers hiswilderness would blossom into something else, and that the hive, ifit appeared at all, would be arrived at by some other process thanblossoming. The habit of rolling out agreeable platitudes to audiencesforced to listen is one which grows on public men as dram-drinking doeson the common herd. Mr. Chesney was evidently enjoying himself, andthere seemed no reason why he should ever stop. He could, and perhapswould, have gone on for hours but for the offensive way in which JudgeSaunders snapped the case of his watch at the end of every period. Therewas really no hurry, for the special train which was to bring them backto Dublin would certainly wait until they were ready for it. Mr. Chesneyfelt aggrieved at the repeated interruption, and closed his speechwithout giving the audience the benefit of his peroration. 

The Judge came next, and began with reminding his hearers that hewas known as 'Satan Saunders. ' An account of the origin of the namefollowed, and was enjoyed even by those who had listened to the Judge'soratory before, and therefore knew the story. There was somethingpiquant, almost _risqué_, in the constant repetition of a really wickedword like 'Satan' in the halls of a nunnery. The audience laughedreassuringly, and the Judge went on to supply fresh pabulum for mirth bysuggesting that the Reverend Mother should clothe her nuns in their owntweeds. He was probably right in supposing that the new costumes wouldadd a gaiety to the religious life. Other jests followed, and he satdown amid a flutter of applause after promising that when he nextpresided over the Winter Assizes in a draughty court-house he would sendfor a Robeen blanket and wrap his legs in it. 

Mr. Clifford, who followed the Judge, began by wondering whether anyonepresent had ever been in Lancashire. After a pause, during which no oneowned to having crossed the Channel, he said that Lancashire was thehome of the modern factory. There every man and woman earned good wages, wore excellent clothes, and lived in a house fitted with hot and coldwater taps and a gas-meter. It was his hope to see Mayo turned intoanother Lancashire. When ladies of undoubted commercial ability, likethe Lady Abbess who presided over the Robeen convent--Lady Abbesssounded well, and Mr. Clifford was not strong on ecclesiasticaltitles--took the matter up, success was assured. All that was requiredfor the development of the factory system in Mayo was capital, and that'we, the Congested Districts Board, are in a position to supply. ' Withthe help of some prompting from Mr. Davis, he proceeded to laybefore the audience a few figures purporting to explain the Board'sexpenditure. 

Professor Cairns was evidently anxious to follow Mr. Clifford, if onlyin the humble capacity of the proposer of a vote of thanks. But Idsname was not on the programme, and Mr. Chesney was already engaged in awhispered conversation with the Reverend Mother. Ignoring the professor, almost rudely, he announced that the company in general was invited totea in the dining-room. 

The refreshments provided, if not substantial, were admirable inquality. There happened just then to be a young lady engaged, at theexpense of the County Council, in teaching cookery in a neighbouringconvent. She was sent over to Robeen for the occasion, and made a numberof delightful cakes at extremely small expense. The workers in thefactory had given the butter she required as a thank-offering, and thenecessary eggs came from another convent where the nuns, with financialassistance from the Congested Districts Board, kept a poultry-farm. The Reverend Mother dispensed her hospitality with the same air ofgenerosity with which Mr. Clifford had spoken of providing capital forthe future ecclesiastical factories. 

CHAPTER XXIII

The Reverend Mother bowed out the last of her guests, and retired toher own room well satisfied. She was assured of further support fromthe Congested Districts Board, and certain debts which had grownuncomfortably during her struggle with Mr. Quinn need trouble her nolonger. Her goods would be extensively advertised next morning in thedaily press. Her house would obtain a celebrity likely to attractthe most eligible novices--those, that is to say, who would bring thelargest sums of money as their dowries. There arose before her mind avision of almost unbounded wealth and all that might be done with it. What statues of saints might not Italy supply! French painters andGerman organ-builders would compete for the privilege of furnishing thechapel of her house. Already she foresaw pavements of gorgeous mosaic, windows radiant with Munich glass, and store of vestments to makeher sacristy famous. Grandiose plans suggested themselves of foundingdaughter houses in Melbourne, in Auckland, in Capetown, in Natal. Allthings were possible to a well-filled purse. She saw how her Ordermight open schools in English towns, where girls could be taught French, Italian, Latin, music, all the accomplishments dear to middle-classparents, at ridiculously low fees, or without fees at all. She stirredinvoluntarily at the splendour of her visions. The day's wearinessdropped off from her. She rose from her chair and went into the chapel. She prostrated herself before the altar, and lay passive in a glow ofwarm emotion. For God, for the Mother of God, for the Catholic Church, she had laboured and suffered and dared. Now she was well within sightof the end, the golden reward, the fulfilment of hopes that had neverbeen altogether selfish. 

Her thoughts, sanctified now by the Presence on the altar, drifted outagain on to the shining sea of the future. What she, a humble nun, had done others would do. A countless army of missionary men and womenmarching from the Irish shore would conquer the world's conquerors, regain for the Church the Anglo-Saxon race. Once in the far past Irishmen and women had Christianized Europe, and Ireland had won her glorioustitle, 'Island of Saints. ' Now the great day was to dawn again, thegreat race to be reborn. For this end had Ireland been kept faithful andpure for centuries, just that she might be at last the witness tothe spiritual in a materialized world. For this end had the Church inIreland gone through the storm of persecution, suffered the blight ofthe world's contempt, that she might emerge in the end entirely fittedfor the bloodless warfare. 

'And I am one of the race, a daughter of Ireland. And I am aworker--nay, one who has accomplished something--in the vineyard of theChurch. Ah, God!'

She was swept forward on a wave of emotion. Thought ceased, expiringin the ecstasy of a communion which transcended thought. Then suddenly, sharp as an unexpected pain, an accusation shot across her soul, shattering the coloured glory of the trance in an instant. 

'Who am I that I should boast?'

The long years of introspection, the discipline of hundreds ofheart-searching confessions, the hardly-learned lesson of self-distrust, made it possible for her to recognise the vain-glory even with the haloof devotion shining round it. She abased herself in penitence. 

'Give me the work, my Lord; give others the glory and the fruit of it. Let me toil, but withhold the reward from me. May my eyes not see it, lest I be lifted up! Nay, give me not even work to do, lest I should bepraised or learn to praise myself. "Nunc dimittis servam tuam, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace. "'

There stole over her a sense of peace--numb, silent peace--wholly unlikethe satisfaction which had flooded her in her own room or during theearlier ecstasy before the altar. She raised her eyes slowly till theyrested on the shrine where the body of the sacrifice reposed. 

'Quia viderunt oculi mei salutare tuum. '

At last she rose. The lines of care and age gathered again upon herface. Her eyes gleamed with keen intelligence. She braced herself withthe thought of all that might still lie before her. The advice of Iago, strangely sanctified, clamoured in her heart--' Put money in thy purse. '

CHAPTER XXIV

The Reverend Mother was not the only person well satisfied with theday. The Right Hon. T. J. Chesney leant back in his saloon-carriage, and puffed contentedly at his cigar. It might be his partoccasionally--indeed, frequently--to talk like a fool, but the man wasshrewd enough. It really seemed that he had hit on the true method ofgoverning Ireland. Nationalist members of Parliament could be muzzled, not by the foolish old methods of coercion, but by winning the goodwillof the Bishops. No Irish member, dared open his mouth when a priestbid him keep it shut, or give a vote contrary to the wishes of thehierarchy. And the Bishops were reasonable men. They looked at thingsfrom a point of view intelligible to Englishmen. There was no ridiculoussentimentality about their demands. For so much money they would silencethe clamour of the Parliamentary party; for so much more they wouldpreach a modified loyalty, would assert before the world that the Irishpeople were faithful servants of the Sovereign; for a good lump sum downthey would undertake to play 'God Save the King' or 'Rule, Britannia'on the organ at Maynooth. Of course, the money must be paid: Mr. Chesneywas beginning to understand that, and felt the drawback. It would havebeen much pleasanter and simpler if the Bishops would have been contentwith promises. There was a certain difficulty in obtaining the necessaryfunds without announcing precisely what they-were for. But, after all, a man cannot be called a great statesman without doing something todeserve the title, and British statesmanship is the art of hoodwinkingthe taxpayer. That is all--not too difficult a task for a clever man. Mr. Chesney reckoned on no power in Ireland likely to be seriouslytroublesome. The upper classes were either helpless and sulking, orhelpless and smiling artificially. They might grumble in private ortry to make themselves popular by joining the chorus of the Church'sflatterers. Either way their influence was inconsiderable. Was thereanyone else worth considering? The Orangemen were still a noisy faction, but their organization appeared to be breaking up. They were more benton devouring their own leaders than interfering with him. There were anumber of people anxious to revive the Irish language, who at one timehad caused him some little uneasiness. He had found it quite impossibleto understand the Gaelic League, and, being an Englishman, arrivedgradually at the comfortable conclusion that what he could notunderstand must be foolish. Now, he had great hopes that the Bishopsmight capture the movement. 

If once it was safely under the patronage of the Church, he hadnothing more to fear from it No doubt, resolutions would be passed, but resolutions------ Mr. Chesney smiled. There were, of course, theimpossible people connected with the _Croppy_. Mr. Chesney did not likethem, and in the bottom of his heart was a little nervous about them. They seemed to be very little afraid of the authority of the Church, and he doubted if the authority of the state would frighten them atall. Still, there were very few of them, and their abominable spirit ofindependence was spreading slowly, if at all. 

'They won't, ' he said to himself, 'be of any importance for some yearsto come, at all events, and five years hence----'

In five years Mr. Chesney hoped to be Prime Minister, or perhaps tohave migrated to the House of Lords, At least, he expected to be outof Ireland, Meanwhile, he lighted a fresh cigar. The condition of thecountry was extremely satisfactory, and his policy was working outbetter than he had hoped. 

The other travellers by the special train were equally well pleased, Ireland, so they understood Mr. Chesney, was to be made happy andcontented, peaceful and prosperous. It followed that there must beBoards under the control of Dublin Castle--more and more Boards, anendless procession of them. There is no way devised by the wit of manfor securing prosperity and contentment except the creation of Boards, If Boards, then necessarily officials--officials with salaries andtravelling allowances. Nice gentlemanly men, with villas at Dalkey andKilliney, would perform duties not too arduous in connection with theBoards, and carry out the benevolent policy of the Government. Therewas not a man in the train, except the newspaper reporters, who did notbelieve in the regeneration of Ireland by Boards, and everyone hoped totake a share in the good work, with the prospect of a retiring pensionafterwards. 

The local magnates--with the exception of Sir Gerald Geoghegan, whosetemper had been bad from the first--also went home content. The minds ofgreat ladies work somewhat confusedly, for Providence, no doubt wisely, has denied to most of them the faculty of reason. It was enough for themto feel that the nuns were 'sweet women, ' and that in some way not veryclear Mr. Chesney was getting the better of 'those wretched agitators. '

Only one of all whom the special train had brought down failed to returnin it. Mary O'Dwyer slipped out of the convent before the speechesbegan, and wandered away towards the desolate stony hill where thestream which turns the factory mill took its rise. It grieved her tomiss the cup of tea which a friendly nun had led her to expect; but eventea might be too dearly purchased, and Miss O'Dwyer had a strong disliketo listening to what Augusta Goold described as the 'sugared hypocrisiesof professional liars. ' Besides, she had her cigarette-case in herpocket, and a smoke, unattainable for her in the convent or the train, was much to be desired. She left the road at the foot of the hill, andpicked her way along the rough bohireen which led upwards along thecourse of the stream. After awhile even this track disappeared. Thestream tumbled noisily over rocks and stones, the bog-stained waterglowing auburn-coloured in the sunlight. The ling and heather werespringy under her feet, and the air was sweet with the scent of thebog-myrtle. She spied round her for a rock which cast a shade upon thekind of heathery bed she had set her heart to find. Her eyes lit upona little party--a young man and two girls--encamped with a kettle, aspirit-stove, and a store of bread-and-butter. Her renunciation of theconvent tea had not been made without a pang. She looked longingly atthe steam which already spouted from the kettle. The young man saida few words to the girls, then stood up, raised his hat to her, andbeckoned. She approached him, wondering. 

'Surely it can't be--I really believe it is----'

'Yes, Miss O'Dwyer, it really is myself, Hyacinth Conneally. '

'My dear boy, you are the last person I expected to meet, though ofcourse I knew you were somewhere down in these parts. '

'Come and have some tea, ' said Hyacinth. 'And let me introduce you toMiss Beecher and Miss Elsie Beecher. '

Miss O'Dwyer took stock of the two girls. 'They make their own clothes, 'she thought, 'and apparently only see last year's fashion-plates. Theeldest isn't bad-looking. How is it all West of Ireland girls have suchglorious complexions? Her figure wouldn't be bad if her mother boughther a decent pair of stays. I wonder who they are, and what they aredoing here with Hyacinth. They can't be his sisters. '

While they drank their tea certain glances and smiles gave her aninkling of the truth. 'I suppose Hyacinth is engaged to the elder one, 'she concluded. 'That kind of girl wouldn't dare to make eyes at a manunless she had some kind of right to him. '

After tea she produced her cigarette-case. 

'I hope you don't mind, ' she said to Marion. 'I know it's very shocking, but I've had a tiring day and an excellent tea, and oh, this heather isdelicious to lie on!' She stretched herself at full length as she spoke. 'I really must smoke, just to arrive at perfect felicity for once in mylife. How happy you people ought to be who always have in a place likethis!'

'Oh, ' said Marion, 'it sometimes rains, you know. '

'Ah! and then these sweet spots get boggy, I suppose, and you have towear thick, clumping boots. '

Her own were very neat and small, and she knew that they must obtrudethemselves on the eye while she lay prone. Elsie, whose shoes werepatched as well as thick-soled, made an ineffectual attempt to coverthem with her skirt. 

'Now, ' said Hyacinth, 'tell us what you are doing down here. Theyhaven't made you an inspectress of boarded-out workhouse children, havethey? or sent you down to improve the breed of hens?'

'No, ' said Miss O'Dwyer; 'I have spent the afternoon helping to governIreland. '

Marion and Elsie gazed at her in wonder. A lady who smoked cigarettesand bore the cares of State upon her shoulders was a novelty to them. 

'I have sat in the seats of the mighty, ' she said; 'I have breathed thesame air as Mr. Chesney and two members of the C. D. B. Think of that!Moreover, I might, if I liked, have drunk tea with a Duchess. '

'Oh, ' said Hyacinth, 'you were at the convent function, I suppose. Iwonder I didn't see you. '

'What on earth were _you_ doing there? I thought you hated the nuns andall their ways. '

'Go on about yourself, ' said Hyacinth. 'You are not employed by theGovernment to inspect infant industries, are you?'

'Oh no; I was one of the representatives of the press. I have notes hereof all the beautiful clothes worn by the wives and daughters of the WestBritish aristocracy. Listen to this: "Lady Geoghegan was gowned in animportant creation of saffron tweed, the product of the convent looms. We are much mistaken if this fabric in just this shade is not destinedto play a part in robing the _élégantes_ who will shed a lustre on ourhouse-parties during the autumn. " And this--you must just listen tothis. '

'I won't, ' said Hyacinth; 'you can if you like, Marion. I'll shut myears. '

'Very well, ' said Miss O'Dwyer; 'I'll talk seriously. When are youcoming up to Dublin? You know my brother has taken over the editorshipof the _Croppy_. We are going to make it a great power in the country. We are coming out with a policy which will sweep the old set ofpolitical talkers out of existence, and dear the country of Mr. Chesneyand the likes of him. ' She waved her hand towards the convent. 'Oh, itis going to be great. It is great already. Why don't you come and helpus?'

Hyacinth looked at her. She had half risen and leaned upon her elbow. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. There was no doubt aboutthe genuineness of her enthusiasm. The words of her poem, long since, hesupposed, blotted from his memory, suddenly returned to him:

 'O, desolate mother, O, Erin, When shall the pulse of thy life which but flutters in Connacht Throb through thy meadows and boglands and mountains and cities?'

Had it come at last, this revival of the nation's vitality? Had it comejust too late for him to share it?

'I shall not help you, ' he said sadly; 'I do not suppose that I evercould have helped you much, but now I shall not even try. '

She looked at him quickly with a startled expression in her eyes. Thenshe turned to Marion. 

'Are you preventing him?' she said. 

'No, ' said Hyacinth; 'it is not Marion. But I am going away--going toEngland. I am going to be ordained, to become an English curate. Do youunderstand? I came here to-day to see the man who is to be my Rector, and to make final arrangements with him. '

'Oh, Hyacinth!'

For some minutes she said no more. He saw in her face a wonderingsorrow, a pathetic submissive-ness to an unexpected disappointment, likethe look in the face of a dog struck suddenly by the hand of a friend. He felt that he could have borne her anger better. No doubt if he hadmade his confession to Augusta Goold he would have been overwhelmed withpassionate wrath or withered by a superb contemptuous stare. Then hecould have worked himself to anger in return. But this!

'You will never speak to any of us again, ' she went on. You will beashamed even to read the _Croppy_. You will wear a long black coat andgray gloves. You will learn to talk about the "Irish Problem" and theinestimable advantages of belonging to a world-wide Empire, and aboutthe great heart of the English people. I see it all--all that willhappen to you. Your hair will get quite smooth and sleek. Then you willbecome a Vicar of a parish. You will live in a beautiful house, withVirginia creeper growing over it and plum-trees in the garden. You willhave a nice clean village for a parish, with old women who drop curtsiesto you, and men--such men! stupid as bullocks! I know it all. And youwill be ashamed to call yourself an Irishman. Oh, Hyacinth!'

Miss O'Dwyer's catalogue of catastrophes was curiously mixed. Perhapsthe comedy in it tended to obscure the utter degradation of the ruinshe described. But the freakish incongruity of the speech did not strikeHyacinth. He found in it only two notes--pity that such a fate awaitedhim, and contempt for the man who submitted to it. 

'I cannot help myself. Will you not make an effort to understand? I amtrying to; do what is right. '

She shook her head. 

'No, ' he said, 'I know it is no use. You could not understand even if Itold you all I felt. '

Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. He heard her sob. Then she turnedwithout a word and left them. He stood watching her till she reachedthe road and started on her walk to the railway-station. Then he tookMarion's two hands in his, and held them fast. 

'Will _you_ understand?' he asked her. 

She looked up at him. Her face was all tenderness. Love shone onhim--trusting, unquestioning, adoring love, love that would be loyal tothe uttermost; but her eyes were full of a dumb wonder. 

CHAPTER XXV

One morning near the end of September the _Irish Times_ published a listof Irish graduates ordained in England on the previous Sunday. Amongother names appeared:

'Hyacinth Conneally, B. A. , T. C. D. , deacon, by the Bishop of Ripon, forthe curacy of Kirby-Stowell. '

Shortly afterwards the _Croppy_ printed the following verses, signed'M. O'D. ':

 'EIRE TO H. C. 

 'Bight across the low, flat curragh from the sea, Drifting, driving sweeps the rain, Where the bogborn, bent, brown rushes grow for me, Barren grass instead of grain. 

 'Out across the sad, soaked curragh towards the sea, Striding, striving go the men, With their spades and forks and barrows toil for me That my corn may grow again

 'Ah I but safe from blast of wind and bitter sea, You who loved me---Tusa féin-- Live and feel and work for others, not for me, Never coming back again. 

 'Yes, while all across the curragh from the West Drifts the sea-rain off the sea, You have chosen. Have you chosen what is best For yourself, O son, and me?'

Hyacinth read the verses, cut them out of the _Croppy_, and locked themin the box in which he stored the few papers of interest he possessed. The sorrowful judgment pronounced on his conduct affected him, but onlyin a dull way, like an additional blow upon a limb already bruised tonumbness. He accepted his new duties and performed them without anyfeeling of enthusiasm, and after a little while without any definitehope of doing any good. He got no further in understanding the people hehad to deal with, and he was aware that even those of them who came mostfrequently into contact with him regarded him as a stranger. A youngdoctor whose wife took a fancy to Marion tried to make friends with him. The result was unsatisfactory, owing to Hyacinth's irresponsiveness. Hecould not, without yawning piteously, spend an evening discussing theperformances of the local cricket club; nor did his conduct improve whenthe two ladies suspended their talk and sacrificed an hour to playingfour-handed halma with their husbands. An unmarried solicitor, attractedby Marion's beauty and friendliness, adopted the habit of calling atHyacinth's little house about nine or ten o'clock in the evening. Hewas a man full of anecdote and simple mirth, and he often stayed, quitehappily, till midnight. Every week he brought an illustrated paper asan offering to Marion, and recommended the short stories in it; toher notice. He often asked Hyacinth's advice and help in solving theconundrums set by the prize editor. He took a mild interest in politics, and retailed gossip picked up at the Conservative Club. After a while hegave up coming to the house. Hyacinth blamed himself for being cold andunfriendly to the man. 

Mr. Austin treated Hyacinth with kindness and some consideration, muchas a wise master treats an upper servant. He was anxious that his curateshould perform many and complicated ceremonies in church, was seriouslyintent on the wearing of correctly-coloured stoles, and 'ran, ' as heexpressed it himself, a very large number of different organizations, ofeach of which the objective appeared to be a tea-party in the parochialhall. Hyacinth accepted his tuition, bowed low at the times when Mr. Austin liked to bow, watched for the seasons when stoles bloomed whiteand gold, changed to green, or faded down to violet. He tried tomake himself agreeable to the 'united mothers' and the rest when theyassembled for tea-drinking. Mr. Austin asserted that these were themethods by which the English people were being taught the Catholicfaith. Hyacinth did not doubt it, nor did he permit himself to wonderwhether it was worth while teaching them. 

To Marion the new life was full of many delights. The surplicedchoir-boys gratified her aesthetic sense, and she entered herself as oneof a band of volunteers who scrubbed the chancel tiles and polished abrass cross. She smiled, kissed, and petted Hyacinth out of the fits ofdepression which came on him, managed his small income with wonderfulskill, and wrote immensely long letters home to Ballymoy. 

CHAPTER XXVI

It is very hard for a poor man to travel from one side of England to theother side of Ireland, because railway companies, even when, to allurethe public, they advertise extraordinary excursions, charge a greatdeal for their tickets. The journey becomes still more difficult ofaccomplishment when the poor man is married. Then there are two ticketsto be bought, and very likely most of the money which might have boughtthem has been spent securing the safe arrival of a baby--a third personwho in due time will also require a railway-ticket. This was Hyacinth'scase. For two summers he had no holiday at all, and it was only by themost fortunate of chances that he found himself during the thirdsummer in a position to go to Ballymoy. He sublet his house to afreshly-arrived supervisor of Inland Revenue, who wanted six weeksto look about for a suitable residence. With the nine pounds paid inadvance by this gentleman, Hyacinth and Marion, having with them theirbaby, a perambulator, and much other luggage, set off for Ballymoy. 

The journey is not a very pleasant one, because it is made over thelines of three English railway companies, whose trains refuse to connectwith each other at junctions, and because St. George's Channel isgenerally rough. The discomfort of third-class carriages is more acutelyfelt when the Irish shore is reached, but the misery of having to feedand tend a year-old child lasts the whole journey through. Therefore, Marion arrived in Dublin dishevelled, weary, and, for all her naturalplacidness, inclined to be cross. The steamer came to port at an hourwhich left them just the faint hope of catching the earliest train toBallymoy. Disappointment followed the nervous strain of a rush acrossDublin. Two long hours intervened before the next train started, and thepeople who keep the refreshment-room in Broadstone Station are not earlyrisers. Marion, without tea or courage, settled herself and the baby inthe draughty waiting-room. 

Hyacinth was also dishevelled, dirty, and tired, having borne his fullshare of strife with the child's worst moods. But the sight of Irelandfrom the steamer's deck filled him with a strange sense of exultation. He wished to shout with gladness when the gray dome of the Custom Houserose to view, immense above the low blanket of mist. Even the incrediblyhideous iron grating of the railway viaduct set his pulse beatingjoyfully. He drew deep breaths, inhaling various abominable smellsdelightedly. The voices of the sleepy porters on the quay roused in hima craving for the gentle slovenliness of Irish speech. He fussed andhustled Marion beyond the limits of her endurance, pretending eagernessto catch the early train, caring in reality not at all whether any trainwere caught or missed, filled only with a kind of frenzy to keep movingsomehow further into Ireland. In the cab he gave utterance to ridiculouspleasantries. He seized the child from Marion, and held him, wailingpiteously, half out of the window, that his eyes might rest on the greatgilt characters which adorn the offices of the Gaelic League. It waswith rapture that he read Irish names, written and spelt in Irish, abovethe shops, and saw a banner proclaiming the annual festival of IrishIreland hanging ovei the door of the Rotunda. The city had grown moreIrish since he left it. There was no possibility now, even in the earlymorning, with few people but scavengers and milkmen in the streets, ofmistaking for an English town. 

While Marion sat torpid in the waiting-room, he paced the platformeagerly from end to end. He saw the train pushed slowly into positionbeside the platform, watched porters sweep the accumulated débris ofyesterday's traffic from the floors of the carriages, and rub withfilthy rags the brass doorhandles. Little groups of passengers began toarrive--first a company of cattle-jobbers, four of them, red-faced menwith keen, crafty eyes, bound for some Western fair; then a laughingparty of tourists, women in short skirts and exaggeratedly protectiveveils, men with fierce tweed knickerbockers dragging stuffed hold-allsand yellow bags. These were evidently English. Their clear high-pitchedvoices proclaimed contempt for their surroundings, and left no doubt oftheir nationality. One of them addressed a bewildered porter in cheerfulsong:

 'Are you right there, Michael? are you right? Have you got the parcel there for Mrs. White?'

He felt, and his companions sympathized, that he was entering into thespirit of Irish life. Then, heralded by an obsequious guard, came agreat man, proconsular in mien and gait. Bags and rugs were wheeledbeside him. In his hand was a despatch-box bearing the tremendousinitials of the Local Government Board. He took complete possession ofa first-class smoking carriage, scribbled a telegram, perhaps ofinternational importance, handed it to the guard for instant despatch, and lit a finely-odorous cigar. Hyacinth, humbled by the mere view ofthis incarnation of the Imperial spirit, went meekly to the waiting-roomto fetch Marion and his child. He led them across the now crowdedplatform towards a third-class carriage. 

'I will not go with you in your first-class carriage, Father Lavelle; sothat's flat. Nor I won't split the difference and go second either, ifthat's what you're going to propose to me. Is it spend what would keepthe family of a poor man in bread and tea for a week, for the sake ofeasing my back with a cushion? Get away with you. The plain deal board'sgood enough for me. And, moreover, I doubt very much if I've the moneyto do it, if I were ever so willing. I'm afraid to look into my purse tocount the few coppers that's left in it after paying that murdering billin the hotel you took me to. Gresham, indeed! A place where they'renot ashamed to charge a poor old priest three and sixpence for hisbreakfast, and me not able to eat the half of what they put before me. '

Hyacinth turned quickly. Two priests stood together near the bookstall. The one, a young man, handsome and well-dressed, he did not know. Theother he recognised at once. It seemed to be the same familiarly shabbyblack coat which he wore, the same many-stained waistcoat, the identicalsilk hat, ruffled and rain-spotted. The same pads of flesh hung flaccidfrom his jaws; the red, cracked knuckles of his hands, well remembered, were enormous still. Only the furrows on the face seemed to be plougheddeeper and wider, and a few more stiff hairs curled over the generalbushiness of the grizzled eyebrows. 

'Father Moran!' cried Hyacinth. 

'I am Father Moran. You're right there. But who _you_ are or how youcome to know me is more than I can tell. But wait a minute. I've a sortof recollection of your voice. Will you speak to me again, and maybeI'll be able to put a name on you. '

Hyacinth said a few words rapidly in Irish. 

'I have you now, ' said the priest. 'You're Hyacinth Conneally, the boythat went out to fight for the Boers. Father Lavelle, this is a friendof mine that I've known ever since he was born, and I haven't laid eyeson him these six years or more. You're going West, Mr. Conneally? But ofcourse you are. Where else would you be going? We'll travel togetherand talk. If it's second-class you're going, Father Lavelle will haveto lend me the money to pay the extra on my ticket, so as I can go withyou. Seemingly it's a Protestant minister you've grown into. Wellnow, who'd have thought it? And you so set on fighting the battle ofArmageddon and all. It's a come-down for you, so it is. But never mind. You might have got yourself killed in it. There's many a one killed ormaimed for life in smaller fights than it. It's better to be a ministerany day than a corpse or a cripple. And as you are a minister, it'slikely to be third-class you're travelling. Times are changed sinceI was young. It was the priests travelled third-class then, if theytravelled at all, and the ministers were cocked up on the cushions, looking down on the likes of us out of the windows with the little redcurtains half-drawn across them. Now it'll be Father Lavelle there, with his grand new coat that he says is Irish manufacture--but Idon't believe him--who'll be doing the gentleman. But come along, Mr. Conneally--come along, and tell me all the battles you fought and theGenerals you made prisoners of, and how it was you took to preachingafterwards. '

Hyacinth, somewhat shyly, introduced the priest to Marion. Then aticket-collector drove them into their carriage and locked the door. 

Father Moran began to catechize Hyacinth before the train started, anddrew from him, as they went westwards, the story of his disappointments, doubts, hopes, veerings, and final despair. Hyacinth spoke unwillinglyat first, giving no more than necessary answers to the questions. Then, because he found that reticence called down on him fresh andmore detailed inquiries, and also because the priest's evident andsympathetic interest redeemed a prying curiosity from offensiveness, he told his tale more freely. Very soon there was no more need ofquestioning, and Father Moran's share in the talk took the form ofcomments interrupting a narrative. 

Of Captain Albert Quinn he said:

'I've heard of him, and a nice kind of a boy he seems to have been. Isuppose he fought when he got there. He's just the sort that would besplendid at the fighting. Well, God is good, and I suppose it's todo the fighting for the rest of us that He makes the likes of CaptainQuinn. Did you hear that they wanted to make him a member of Parliament?Well, they did. Nothing less would please them. But what good wouldthat be, when he couldn't set foot in the country for fear of beingarrested?'

Later on he was moved to laughter. 

'To think of your going on the road with a bag full of blankets andshawls! I never heard of such a thing, and all the grand notions yourhead was full of! Why didn't you come my way? I'd have made Raffertygive you an order. I'd have bought the makings of a frieze coat from youmyself--I would, indeed. '

Afterwards he became grave again. 

'I won't let you say the hard word about the nuns, Mr. Conneally. Don'tdo it, now. There's plenty of good convents up and down through thecountry--more than ever you'll know of, being the black Protestant youare. And the ones that ruined your business--supposing they did ruinit, and I've only your word for that--what right have you to be blamingthem? They were trying to turn an honest penny by an honest trade, andthat's just what you and your friend Mr. Quinn were doing yourselves. '

Hyacinth, conscious of a failure in good taste, shifted his ground, onlyto be interrupted again. 

'Oh, you may abuse the Congested Districts Board to your heart'scontent. I never could see what the Government made all the Boards forunless it was to keep the people out of mischief. As long as there isa Board of any kind about the country every blackguard will be so busythrowing stones at it that he won't have time nor inclination leftto annoy decent people. And I'll say this for the Congested DistrictsBoard: they mean well. Indeed they do; not a doubt of it. There's onegood thing they did, anyway, if there isn't another, and that's whenthey came to Carrowkeel and bought the big Curragh Farm that neversupported a Christian, but two herds and some bullocks ever since thefamine clearances. They fetched the people down off the mountains andput them on it. Wasn't that a good thing, now? Sure, all GovernmentBoards do more wrong than right. It's the nature of that sort ofconfederation. But it's all the more thankful we ought to be when oncein a while they do something useful. '

Hyacinth came to tell of the choice which Canon Beecher offered him, anddwelt with tragic emphasis on his own decision. The priest listened, asmile on his lips, a look of pity which belied the smile in his eyes. 

'So you thought Ireland would be lost altogether unless you wrotearticles for Miss Goold in the _Croppy?_ It's no small opinion you haveof yourself, Hyacinth Conneally. And you thought you'd save your soul bygoing to preach the Gospel to the English people? Was that it, now?'

'It was not, ' said Hyacinth, 'and you know it wasn't. '

'Of course it wasn't. What was I thinking of to forget the young ladythat was in it? A fine wife you've got, any way. God bless her, and makeyou a good husband to her! By the looks of her she's better than youdeserve. I suppose it was to get money you went to England, so as to buyher pretty dresses and a beautiful house to live in? Did you think you'dgrow rich over there?'

'Indeed I did not, ' said Hyacinth bitterly. 'I knew we'd never be rich. '

'Well, then, couldn't you as well have been poor in Ireland? And better, for everybody's poor here. But there, I know well enough it wasn't moneyyou were after. Don't be getting angry with me, now. It wasn't for thesake of saving your soul you went, nor to get your nice wife, though aman might go a long way for the likes of her. I don't know why you went, and it's my belief you don't know yourself. But you made a mistake, whatever you did it for, going off on that English mission. Is it amission you call it when you're a Protestant? I don't think it is, butit doesn't matter. You made a mistake. Why don't you come back again?'

'God knows I would if I could. It's hungry I am to get back--just sickwith hunger and the great desire that is on me to be back again inIreland. '

'Well, what's to hinder you? Let me tell you this: There's been fourmen in your father's place since he died. Never a one of the first threewould stay. They tell me the pay's small, and the place is desolate tothem for the want of Protestants, there being none, you may say, but thecoastguards. After the third of them left it was long enough before theygot the fourth. I hear they went scouring and scraping round the fourcoasts of the country with a trawl-net trying to get a man. And nowthey've got him he's all for going away. He says there's no work to do, and no people to preach to. But you'd find work, if you were there. I'dfind you work myself--work for the people you knew since you were born, that's in the way at last of getting to be the men and women they weremeant to be, and that wants all the help can be got for them. Why don'tyou come back?'

'Indeed, Father Moran, I would if I could. ' 'If you could! What's theuse of talking? Isn't your wife's father a Canon? And wouldn't thatprofessor in the college that you used to tell me of do something foryou? What's the good of having fine friends like that if they won't getyou sent to a place like Carrowkeel, that never another minister butyourself would as much as cat his dinner in twice if he could help it?'

Hyacinth glanced doubtfully at Marion. The child lay quiet in her arms. She slept uncomfortably. It was clear that she had not cared to listento the conversation of the two men. 

THE END