The Reverend Mother was not the only person well satisfied with the
day. The Right Hon. T. J. Chesney leant back in his saloon-carriage,
and puffed contentedly at his cigar. It might be his part
occasionally--indeed, frequently--to talk like a fool, but the man was
shrewd enough. It really seemed that he had hit on the true method of
governing Ireland. Nationalist members of Parliament could be muzzled,
not by the foolish old methods of coercion, but by winning the goodwill
of the Bishops. No Irish member dared open his mouth when a priest
bid him keep it shut, or give a vote contrary to the wishes of the
hierarchy. And the Bishops were reasonable men. They looked at things
from a point of view intelligible to Englishmen. There was no ridiculous
sentimentality about their demands. For so much money they would silence
the clamour of the Parliamentary party; for so much more they would
preach a modified loyalty, would assert before the world that the Irish
people were faithful servants of the Sovereign; for a good lump sum down
they would undertake to play ‘God Save the King’ or ‘Rule, Britannia’
on the organ at Maynooth. Of course, the money must be paid: Mr. Chesney
was beginning to understand that, and felt the drawback. It would have
been much pleasanter and simpler if the Bishops would have been content
with promises. There was a certain difficulty in obtaining the necessary
funds without announcing precisely what they were for. But, after all,
a man cannot be called a great statesman without doing something to
deserve the title, and British statesmanship is the art of hoodwinking
the taxpayer. That is all--not too difficult a task for a clever man.
Mr. Chesney reckoned on no power in Ireland likely to be seriously
troublesome. The upper classes were either helpless and sulking, or
helpless and smiling artificially. They might grumble in private or
try to make themselves popular by joining the chorus of the Church’s
flatterers. Either way their influence was inconsiderable. Was there
anyone else worth considering? The Orangemen were still a noisy faction,
but their organization appeared to be breaking up. They were more bent
on devouring their own leaders than interfering with him. There were a
number of people anxious to revive the Irish language, who at one time
had caused him some little uneasiness. He had found it quite impossible
to understand the Gaelic League, and, being an Englishman, arrived
gradually at the comfortable conclusion that what he could not
understand must be foolish. Now, he had great hopes that the Bishops
might capture the movement.
If once it was safely under the patronage of the Church, he had
nothing more to fear from it. No doubt, resolutions would be passed,
but resolutions------ Mr. Chesney smiled. There were, of course, the
impossible people connected with the _Croppy_. Mr. Chesney did not like
them, 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 at
all. Still, there were very few of them, and their abominable spirit of
independence was spreading slowly, if at all.
‘They won’t,’ he said to himself, ‘be of any importance for some years
to come, at all events, and five years hence----’
In five years Mr. Chesney hoped to be Prime Minister, or perhaps to
have migrated to the House of Lords, At least, he expected to be out
of Ireland, Meanwhile, he lighted a fresh cigar. The condition of the
country was extremely satisfactory, and his policy was working out
better 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 and
contented, peaceful and prosperous. It followed that there must be
Boards under the control of Dublin Castle--more and more Boards, an
endless procession of them. There is no way devised by the wit of man
for securing prosperity and contentment except the creation of Boards.
If Boards, then necessarily officials--officials with salaries and
travelling allowances. Nice gentlemanly men, with villas at Dalkey and
Killiney, would perform duties not too arduous in connection with the
Boards, and carry out the benevolent policy of the Government. There
was not a man in the train, except the newspaper reporters, who did not
believe in the regeneration of Ireland by Boards, and everyone hoped to
take a share in the good work, with the prospect of a retiring pension
afterwards.
The local magnates--with the exception of Sir Gerald Geoghegan, whose
temper had been bad from the first--also went home content. The minds of
great ladies work somewhat confusedly, for Providence, no doubt wisely,
has denied to most of them the faculty of reason. It was enough for them
to feel that the nuns were ‘sweet women,’ and that in some way not very
clear Mr. Chesney was getting the better of ‘those wretched agitators.’
Only one of all whom the special train had brought down failed to return
in it. Mary O’Dwyer slipped out of the convent before the speeches
began, and wandered away towards the desolate stony hill where the
stream which turns the factory mill took its rise. It grieved her to
miss the cup of tea which a friendly nun had led her to expect; but even
tea might be too dearly purchased, and Miss O’Dwyer had a strong dislike
to listening to what Augusta Goold described as the ‘sugared hypocrisies
of professional liars.’ Besides, she had her cigarette-case in her
pocket, 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, and
picked her way along the rough bohireen which led upwards along the
course of the stream. After awhile even this track disappeared. The
stream tumbled noisily over rocks and stones, the bog-stained water
glowing auburn-coloured in the sunlight. The ling and heather were
springy under her feet, and the air was sweet with the scent of the
bog-myrtle. She spied round her for a rock which cast a shade upon the
kind of heathery bed she had set her heart to find. Her eyes lit upon
a little party--a young man and two girls--encamped with a kettle, a
spirit-stove, and a store of bread-and-butter. Her renunciation of the
convent tea had not been made without a pang. She looked longingly at
the steam which already spouted from the kettle. The young man said
a few words to the girls, then stood up, raised his hat to her, and
beckoned. 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 of
course I knew you were somewhere down in these parts.’
‘Come and have some tea,’ said Hyacinth. ‘And let me introduce you to
Miss 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. The
eldest isn’t bad-looking. How is it all West of Ireland girls have such
glorious complexions? Her figure wouldn’t be bad if her mother bought
her a decent pair of stays. I wonder who they are, and what they are
doing here with Hyacinth. They can’t be his sisters.’
While they drank their tea certain glances and smiles gave her an
inkling 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 man
unless 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 is
delicious 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 my
life. How happy you people ought to be who always have in a place like
this!’
‘Oh,’ said Marion, ‘it sometimes rains, you know.’
‘Ah! and then these sweet spots get boggy, I suppose, and you have to
wear thick, clumping boots.’
Her own were very neat and small, and she knew that they must obtrude
themselves on the eye while she lay prone. Elsie, whose shoes were
patched as well as thick-soled, made an ineffectual attempt to cover
them with her skirt.
‘Now,’ said Hyacinth, ‘tell us what you are doing down here. They
haven’t made you an inspectress of boarded-out workhouse children, have
they? or sent you down to improve the breed of hens?’
‘No,’ said Miss O’Dwyer; ‘I have spent the afternoon helping to govern
Ireland.’
Marion and Elsie gazed at her in wonder. A lady who smoked cigarettes
and 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 the
same 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. I
wonder I didn’t see you.’
‘What on earth were _you_ doing there? I thought you hated the nuns and
all their ways.’
‘Go on about yourself,’ said Hyacinth. ‘You are not employed by the
Government to inspect infant industries, are you?’
‘Oh no; I was one of the representatives of the press. I have notes here
of all the beautiful clothes worn by the wives and daughters of the West
British aristocracy. Listen to this: “Lady Geoghegan was gowned in an
important creation of saffron tweed, the product of the convent looms.
We are much mistaken if this fabric in just this shade is not destined
to play a part in robing the _élégantes_ who will shed a lustre on our
house-parties during the autumn.” And this--you must just listen to
this.’
‘I won’t,’ said Hyacinth; ‘you can if you like, Marion. I’ll shut my
ears.’
‘Very well,’ said Miss O’Dwyer; ‘I’ll talk seriously. When are you
coming up to Dublin? You know my brother has taken over the editorship
of 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 of
political talkers out of existence, and clear the country of Mr. Chesney
and the likes of him.’ She waved her hand towards the convent. ‘Oh, it
is going to be great. It is great already. Why don’t you come and help
us?’
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 about
the genuineness of her enthusiasm. The words of her poem, long since, he
supposed, 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 come
just too late for him to share it?
‘I shall not help you,’ he said sadly; ‘I do not suppose that I ever
could have helped you much, but now I shall not even try.’
She looked at him quickly with a startled expression in her eyes. Then
she turned to Marion.
‘Are you preventing him?’ she said.
‘No,’ said Hyacinth; ‘it is not Marion. But I am going away--going to
England. I am going to be ordained, to become an English curate. Do you
understand? 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 wondering
sorrow, a pathetic submissiveness to an unexpected disappointment, like
the 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 had
made his confession to Augusta Goold he would have been overwhelmed with
passionate wrath or withered by a superb contemptuous stare. Then he
could have worked himself to anger in return. But this!
‘You will never speak to any of us again,’ she went on. You will be
ashamed even to read the _Croppy_. You will wear a long black coat and
gray gloves. You will learn to talk about the “Irish Problem” and the
inestimable advantages of belonging to a world-wide Empire, and about
the great heart of the English people. I see it all--all that will
happen to you. Your hair will get quite smooth and sleek. Then you will
become a Vicar of a parish. You will live in a beautiful house, with
Virginia creeper growing over it and plum-trees in the garden. You will
have a nice clean village for a parish, with old women who drop curtsies
to you, and men--such men! stupid as bullocks! I know it all. And you
will be ashamed to call yourself an Irishman. Oh, Hyacinth!’
Miss O’Dwyer’s catalogue of catastrophes was curiously mixed. Perhaps
the comedy in it tended to obscure the utter degradation of the ruin
she described. But the freakish incongruity of the speech did not strike
Hyacinth. He found in it only two notes--pity that such a fate awaited
him, and contempt for the man who submitted to it.
‘I cannot help myself. Will you not make an effort to understand? I am
trying to do what is right.’
She shook her head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I know it is no use. You could not understand even if I
told you all I felt.’
Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. He heard her sob. Then she turned
without a word and left them. He stood watching her till she reached
the road and started on her walk to the railway-station. Then he took
Marion’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 on
him--trusting, unquestioning, adoring love, love that would be loyal to
the uttermost; but her eyes were full of a dumb wonder.