THE POWER OF HATRED.
While these things were going on, the Rector of Templemore, a truly
unhappy man, was hurrying back as fast as ever he could to his home.
He hardly thought at all of the Mostyns. He had left them in very good
hands. Jane Faithful was well known to produce extraordinary results.
But it was the thought of sending his child, his darling, he might
almost say his best beloved, away from him for three long months, which
tortured the Rector's brave heart.
How could he live without her? And in addition to the fact of his own
loneliness he felt anxious about Maureen. He had left his dear little
girl in a queer state of mind. He had left her with an expression on
her sweet face which he had never seen there before.
Maureen had had a moral shock; Maureen had had a mental shock.
The Rector dreaded he knew not what. Was that lovely nature to be
overthrown, was that sweet soul to go down, down in future, instead of
soaring up, as the lark rises to his heaven of blue? The Rector could
scarcely believe that Felicity was the right place for Maureen, and yet
he had promised to propose the matter to her; and if she agreed to it,
to part from his little bright darling for three long months. He felt
quite aged and desperately weary.
As he drove up to Templemore on the evening of the second day of his
journey, he was met by Dominic. He heard the voices of the other
children chattering merrily as they were taken off to bed, but there
was no sound of Maureen's voice to greet his ears.
"Father," said Dominic, "there is no use in hiding things. Maureen is
gone!"
"My God," said the Rector. He pressed his hand to his heart. It gave
him a stab like a knife.
"Don't take on, dad; please don't take on. She has not done anything
desperate. She has simply gone away."
"Tell me everything, my son. Are you positive that the--the child is
safe?"
"Yes," said Dominic; "there is no mystery about it. She is quite safe."
"Then she has gone to the Colonel," said the Rector in a relieved
voice. "Good, I thought she might do that. She is wonderfully fond of
'dear Colonel,' as she calls him."
"No, no; she has not gone to Colonel Herbert. She has certainly been
very queer, and although I tried to talk to her and cheer her all
I could, she hardly replied and did not take the least interest in
anything. Then yesterday morning she came to me with her plans. Her
darling little face was as white as death, but terribly determined, and
that strange light which does not come from God, father, was still
in her eyes, and it--it sort of haunted me; but she spoke gently,
just as she used to speak--the harshness had left her dear voice--it
was only, father, that I could not bear to look at her eyes. You know
how lovely they used to be. Well, she had settled everything all by
herself, and told me that she had sent Garry with Fly-away back to
Colonel Herbert. She said she had written a line to him asking him to
keep the horse until he heard from her again; and if he never heard,
she hoped he would not sell Fly-away. Then she said to me, 'Dominic, I
am not good, and I cannot stay in the house with good people. I may get
right again. I don't feel like it just now; so as I have money enough,
I have arranged my plans. You know old Pegeen has a sister called Grace
Connor, and she has a little bit of a cabin in the wilds of Kerry. I am
going to stay with Grace, who is deaf, and won't worry me at all, and
if ever, ever I feel better, Dominic, you'll be sure I'll come flying
home. But not now, for I'm not fit for this dear home. Take great care
of Uncle Pat. I won't leave him a message, for I am not, not _good_
enough; but _he'll_ understand.'
"Well, father," continued Dominic, "that's all; and Pegeen took her
herself to Grace Connor, and Pegeen has returned with her eyes almost
blinded from crying, for she does so love our Maureen."
The Rector of Templemore, tired as he was, went straight to the kitchen
to interview Pegeen. He found the poor woman in the deepest distress,
but more than inclined to pour out her troubles into the sympathetic
ears of her dearly loved master.
"Ah! thin, worra the day, and sorra the day," she sobbed. "But there,
masther dear, the wean is safe enough. Grace, own sister to meself, is
poor, and mighty poor entirely, but at the very laste, she's clane.
Ye could ate yer vittles off the floor, so to shpake; and Grace won't
worrit the poor lamb, seeing by the affliction of the Almighty that she
is as deaf as a stone."
The Rector thanked Pegeen very kindly, with that gentle courtesy which
was his prerogative. He then went into the dining-room and told Dominic
what he intended to do.
Owing to the Rector's increase of fortune he was now able to send all
his children to first-rate schools, and although Dominic was a little
old to enter Rugby, yet the whole thing had been arranged, and by
the headmaster's consent he was to stay there for three years, when
he hoped to get a good scholarship if possible for his father's own
college, Balliol.
The boy was full of talent and loved the thought of the life which
stretched before him. He was particularly manly for his age and really
looked more than his sixteen years; but when the Rector went on to
explain Jane Faithful's remarkable decision, Dominic O'Brien turned a
little pale.
"I think we must put off Rugby until after Christmas," he said. "It
won't do to leave you alone in this house, dad. Denis and Kitty will
of course go back to school. You will necessarily be alone. I cannot
leave you. What is more, I _won't_ leave you."
"Good boy," said the Rector. "From what you say you seem to think that
Maureen will go to Felicity."
"At the present moment I feel certain she will go," said Dominic, "but
of course one cannot be sure of anything. You must let me stay with
you, dad."
"Dominic, I cannot! God knows I have done enough to injure my poor
children, but now that the chance has arrived, I do not intend to throw
your young life away. The headmaster will not let you go to Rugby
unless you join at the autumn term. It is all arranged, my lad; pray
don't torture me any further."
"I wish I needn't, but I'm afraid I must. I will gladly give up Rugby.
You can get me a tutor here and we'll work for a scholarship for old
Balliol. I am not so ignorant as you think me, dad; but my first duty
is to you."
"Suppose we ask Maureen what she thinks," replied the Rector.
"Ah, well, I'll do what she wishes. But I know what she'll say. Father,
you look physically fit to drop. Let me take you to your room."
"I am going to see Maureen by the earliest train to-morrow," said the
Rector. "So, perhaps, you are right, my son, and I'd better lie down
and try to take what sleep I can."
Unknown to his father, Dominic slipped into Maureen's little bedroom.
He even left the door between that room and his father's slightly
ajar. Thus he was on the watch, for he was far too anxious to sleep at
all that night. But the Rector, worn out with sorrow, slept and had
horrible dreams. He was awakened from one, worse than any other, by a
light hand touching him on the shoulder, and there stood Dominic with a
little tray of tea and bread and butter in his hand.
"You must get up, dear old Gaffer," he said. "The phaeton will be round
in less than half an hour. Pegeen has given me full directions as to
the whereabouts of her sister's cottage. I am going with you--you know
that, of course."
"Yes, Dominic, my boy."
The Rector sipped his tea, which was fragrant and good, ate his bread
and butter, and was on the way to Kingsala in time to catch the very
first train, which would leave that fashionable and quaint resort at
half-past eight in the morning. Dominic secured first-class tickets for
himself and his father. They had to endure the usual tiresome wait at
the Half-way House, but presently the train from Bradley steamed in,
the travellers took their places, and by-and-by, to their great relief,
found themselves in the city of Cork.
It was considered a very noble city by Dominic's young eyes, but the
Rector had been further afield. He knew what to do now, and exactly how
to proceed. Dominic watched his father intently. He had a time-table
in his pocket and discovered that the first train to Mallow, on the
Blackwater, did not start until half-past twelve o'clock. At Mallow
they would have to change and get into one of the slow-going trains
which proceed to Kerry.
"Father," said the boy, "we have lots of time. You've got to eat."
"I did eat. You brought me something to my room."
"A cup of tea and a little bread and butter," replied Dominic. "Oh,
dad, I'm awfully hungry. Let's go to Baker's in the Mall and have a
right good meal."
The Rector certainly could go hungry himself, not having the slightest
appetite, but he would not allow such a proceeding on the part of his
son, so to Baker's they went, that shop of great renown, where they
had coffee of the richest, and different sorts of slim cakes, cut thin
like wafers and buttered hot; and then each partook of a large plate
of delicate, pink Limerick ham. It must be owned that the boy enjoyed
his food, and it must be owned also that the Rector at least partook of
his; whether he tasted it or not is another matter. They then took an
outside car and drove to the station, from which, if they so wished,
they could take a train to Dublin city, but from which they could also
get to Mallow, that most lovely old-world town on the borders of the
county Cork. They passed the swift-flowing waters--well might they
be called the Blackwater, so dark and deep, yet clear, were all their
depths. They then had a tiresome wait for a train for Kerry.