KILCASH.
O'Brien and O'Hanlon gained the top of the cliff, and reached the car
waiting on the road without saying anything further. The former was
busy with his thoughts; the latter, after O'Brien's word "Wait," sank
into indifference.
"I'm ashamed of two sensible men such as you," said the driver, in a
southern brogue, "going down there on an uncertain season like this,
and at the end of daylight. It's a mercy you ever got back alive."
"Or dead," said O'Brien, with a laugh.
"Never mind, Terry; we're none the worse for it. Now, drive on to
Kilcash, and pull up at the Strand Hotel."
The driver whipped his horse, and the remainder of the journey was
accomplished in silence.
Kilcash is a small, straggling village, built on the slopes of the
cliffs surrounding Kilcash Bay, and on the low ground lying in front
of the bay. In summer it is usually pretty full of people, for
although no railway has yet reached it, hundreds of families live in
the neighbourhood, and many who dwell at a distance use it as a
holiday resort. In winter it is dreary, deserted, dead. The closed-up
lodging-houses and cottages which, under the influence of the summer
sun, grow bright and cheerful with flowers and the faces of children,
in winter stare with blank window eyes at the cold gray sky and
monotonous level of the sea. It was difficult to say who governed
Kilcash--five policemen and seven coastguardsmen, possibly; for there
was no other sign of official life.
There was no Corporation, no Commissioners under the Towns Improvement
Act, no gas-house, no water-works, no sanitary board, no guardians of
the poor, no bellman, no watering-carts, no workhouse, no police-court,
no tax or rate collector, no exciseman, no soldier, no lawyer. There
were only three institutions, and these were curative--namely, two
houses of worship of different denominations, and a dispensary.
Indirect taxation reached the people occultly; of direct taxation they
knew nothing. No doubt some one paid for mending their sewer when the
rain-water of winter burst it. No doubt some one paid for putting
metal on the roads when the ruts became absolutely dangerous. No doubt
some one paid the men who built up the breach in the Storm Wall.
There was a slumbering belief that the police had powers, and the
coastguards functions. For instance, the police fished a good deal,
smoked fairly well, and were respectable with haughtiness. The
coastguards had a boat. In the eyes of Kilcash the possession of a
boat was sufficient to account for anything in the world. The
coastguards went out in their boat only in fine weather, which gave
them the aspect of gentlemen. They kept their boat scrupulously mopped
and painted--painted, not tarred; which was foppish, and a little
weak-minded. They carefully displayed in the station on the hill,
carbines and cutlasses of which Kilcash stood in no more awe than it
did of the bulrushes in the bog at the back of the village. To be
sure, there was a theory that upon occasion the police might call on
the coastguards to come out and assist them. But what this occasion
was no one knew. Sergeant Mahony had been heard to hint broadly that
in such a dire extremity--which would not, he said, curdle his blood
in the least--the chief command would devolve on him. Although nothing
was known for certain as to the exigency which might place the whole
offensive and defensive forces of the village under the command of
Mahony, Tim Curran had, when going home late of an evening, said he
supposed the landing of the French in Dublin Bay would lead to that
extraordinary act of power. Tim had been in Dublin for three days, and
was believed to be infallible on all matters connected, or that might
ever be connected, with the bay--from herrings to the French Fleet. It
must not be deduced from this that Kilcash assumed a very servile
attitude towards Dublin; for if Dublin had a bay, so likewise had
Kilcash.
In the village there was one secret held by all, known by all, but
scarcely once in a lifetime spoken of by one neighbour to another. It
is more than likely that this secret would never have been dreamed of
only for a fool once famous in the village, now long since dead. And
even this fool told the secret to but few. For a reason lost in the
obscurity of local dulness, this fool was named "The Prince of
Orange." He went about barefooted, in the most gaudy raiment he could
beg. He preferred a soldiers or a huntsman's cast-off coat to any
other, and if he was fortunate enough to get such a garment, he
stitched to it all the blue, yellow, and green ribbons he could lay
hands on. He was one of the villagers killed by the monster of the
Black Rock. On the outer face of it the fishing was generally good for
long lines, and one day, while making believe to fish there with an
old brace and a piece of tattered ribbon tied together, he was
surprised and overwhelmed.
The great secret of the people of Kilcash was that no man, woman, or
child of the whole village could understand why people came there in
summer. Of course the advent of the visitors filled the pockets of the
inhabitants, which was no more than the inhabitants were entitled to
expect, which was no more than natural, since it has been so for
generations. But why should people come to Kilcash in the summer
months? It was said they came to the sea. But why?
Supposing a sailor had been at sea for three years and then came home
to Kilcash, did he want to look at the land? Did any one in the world
ever want to see the land? These people who came with the long, hot
days had near their own homes lakes or rivers, or pools or wells. All
these were water--nothing but water. There was salt in one, and not in
the other--that was all the difference. Put a bucket of sea-water
beside a bucket of fresh, and who could tell the difference without
tasting or smelling?
When a man came back from a three years' cruise, did he go straight
off into the country and stand or lie staring at the fields and
haystacks? Not he. Either he came home to Kilcash, or went to a big
town where he could see strange sights and buy fine things with his
wages. Some came to fish. To fish! Why, every gurnet they caught cost
them about a pound of money. The doctors told them to come for health.
Health! What did they think of rheumatism, and fever, and bronchitis,
and pleurisy, and lumbago, and other diseases, a thousand times worse
at the sea than inland? Did any one ever know the land to kill a man?
How many thousands a year did the sea kill? In the heat of summer it
was all very well to bathe, and swim, and lie about on the sands and
rocks, to wade and tumble into pools and get drenched with spray. But
wait until the winter comes. Wait until they get the wages of their
summer folly. Wait until they are racked by pains, and choked with a
cough, and crippled with stiff joints. When they feel the penalties
they are far from the place where they incurred them, and the fools of
doctors tell them they must go back to the sea next summer in order to
get finally rid of their maladies! Rubbish. In reality they come to
the sea to drive in the few nails still wanting in their coffins.
This secret made the people of Kilcash conscious of being hypocrites,
and accounted for the forced smile with which they greeted visitors in
summer, and the night of leaden gloom which descended on them when the
visitors departed for the year. The inhabitants of Kilcash never
smiled in winter. To laugh in winter would have sounded like a pæan
over their miserable, misguided visitors. It would have indicated a
heartless and brutal nature.
O'Brien and O'Hanlon alighted at the "Strand Hotel," and ordered
dinner and beds. During dinner, O'Hanlon made two ineffectual attempts
to extract O'Brien's idea from him, but the latter would not speak. He
smiled, and repeated his former word "Wait." O'Brien in his turn tried
to induce O'Hanlon to talk, but the latter answered in the briefest
and most apathetic way. The dinner was finished in absolute silence.
When it was over, O'Brien rose and said:
"You won't mind my going out for an hour or so?"
"Going out!" cried O'Hanlon, rousing up. "Where on earth are you going
at such an hour, in such a place? Not to that accursed Black Rock?"
"No, no," said O'Brien. "Only I'm quite sure you would never dream of
entering such a place, I would ask you to come with me."
"What place?"
"Oh, you're too respectable for it, I assure you."
"Nonsense! I'll go with you."
"I'll lay you a sovereign you don't."
"Done!"
"Done! I'm going to the 'Blue Anchor' to drink a pint of beer and
smoke a pipe of tobacco. Hand over the money."
"The 'Blue Anchor'--the Blue 'Anchor!' Are _you_ out of your mind too,
or are you joking? Oh, I know! You want to get rid of me for an hour,
but don't like to say so."
"I have a bet of a sovereign on it, and I'll take the money now, if
you like. Will that convince you?"
"No; I'll pay when you come back and tell me you have been there. But
if you really are going to that low beershop, tell me what you are
going there for."
"Amusement. I find you dull."
O'Hanlon screwed up his eyes and regarded O'Brien closely.
"What is it?" he asked.
He knew O'Brien much too well to think he meant to be offensive, or
even smart at the expense of an old friend without good reason. He
suspected O'Brien was waiving a direct answer, which might cause pain
to his hearer.
"It's something you suspect, and don't like to tell me. You're not
going over to the dispensary to ask Dr. Flynn to drop in presently, as
though by accident, and find me here, and make an informal
examination?"
This was said half-playfully.
"Take care," said O'Brien, as he buttoned on his overcoat. "If you
don't knock off talking about your infernal sanity, you'll drive _me_
mad; and won't that be a nice kettle of fish? Now look here: Are you,
or are you not, coming with me to the 'Blue Anchor' to smoke a frugal
pipe and drink a frugal pint of beer--or, more correctly, a pint of
frugal beer? Yes or no?"
"No," answered O'Hanlon, sinking back hopelessly on the chair from
which he had risen. "It would be as much as my professional position
is worth."
"All right, then; I'm off. I'll be back within an hour. Don't forget
you owe me a sovereign;" and he left the room.