IX

'The Imitation' dropped on his knees, and he wondered if the spiritual

impulse it had awakened in him was exhausted, or if the continual

splashing of the rain on the pane had got upon his nerves.

'But it isn't raining in Italy,' he said, getting up from his chair;

'and I am weary of the rain, of myself--I am weary of everything.' And

going to the window, he tried to take ant interest in the weather,

asking himself if it would clear up about 3 o'clock. It cleared usually

late in the afternoon for a short while, and he would be able to go out

for half an hour. But where should he go? He foresaw his walk from end

to end before he began it: the descent of the hill, the cart-track and

the old ruts full of water, the dead reeds on the shore soaking, the

dripping trees. But he knew that about 3 o'clock the clouds would lift,

and the sunset begin in the gaps in the mountains. He might go as far as

the little fields between Derrinrush and the plantations, and from there

he could watch the sunset. But the sunset would soon be over, and he

would have to return home, for a long evening without a book. Terrible!

And he began to feel that he must have an occupation--his book! To write

the story of the island castles would pass the time, and wondering how

he might write it, whether from oral tradition or from the books and

manuscripts which he might find in national libraries, he went out about

3 o'clock and wandered down the old cart-track, getting his feet very

wet, till he came to the pine-wood, into which he went, and stood

looking across the lake, wondering if he should go out to Castle Island

in a boat--there was no boat, but he might borrow one somewhere--and

examine what remained of the castle. But he knew every heap of old

stones, every brown bush, and the thick ivy that twined round the last

corner wall. Castle Hag had an interest Castle Island had not. The

cormorants roosted there; and they must be hungry, for the lake had been

too windy for fishing this long while. A great gust whirled past, and he

stood watching the clouds drifting overhead--the same thick vapour

drifting and going out. For nearly a month he was waiting for a space of

blue sky, and a great sadness fell upon him, a sick longing for a

change; but if he yielded to this longing he would never return to

Garranard. There seemed to be no way out of the difficulty--at least, he

could see none.

A last ray lit up a distant hillside, his shadow floated on the wet

sand. The evening darkened rapidly, and he walked in a vague diffused

light, inexpressibly sad to find Moran waiting for him at the end of an

old cart-track, where the hawthorns grew out of a tumbled wall. He would

keep Moran for supper. Moran was a human being, and--

'I've come to see you, Gogarty; I don't know if I'm welcome.'

'It's joking you are. You'll stay and have some supper with me?'

'Indeed I will, if you give me some drink, for it's drink that I'm

after, and not eating. I'd better get the truth out at once and have

done with it. I've felt the craving coming on me for the last few

days--you know what I mean--and now it's got me by the throat. I must

have drink. Come along, Gogarty, and give me some, and then I'll say

good-bye to you for ever.'

'Now what are you saying?'

'Don't stand arguing with me, for you can't understand, Gogarty--no one

can; I can't myself. But it doesn't matter what anybody understands--I'm

done for.'

'We'll have a bit of supper together. It will pass from you.'

'Ah, you little know;' and the priests walked up the hill in silence.

'Gogarty, there's no use talking; I'm done for. Let me go.'

'Come in, will you?' and he took him by the arm. 'Come in. I'm a bigger

man than you, Moran; come in!'

'I'm done for,' Father Moran said again.

Father Oliver made a sign of silence, and when they were in the parlour,

and the door shut behind them, he said:

'You mustn't talk like that, and Catherine within a step of you.'

'I've told you, Gogarty, I'm done for, and I've just come here to bid

you good-bye; but before we part I'd like to hear you say that I haven't

been wanting in my duties--that in all the rest, as far as you know,

I've been as good a man as another.'

'In all but one thing I know no better man, and I'll not hear that

there's no hope.'

'Better waste no time talking. Just let me hear you say again that I've

been a good man in everything but one thing.'

'Yes, indeed;' and the priests grasped hands.

And Catherine came into the room to ask if Father Moran was stopping to

supper. Father Oliver answered hurriedly: 'Yes, yes, he's staying. Bring

in supper as soon as you can;' and she went away, to come back soon

after with the cloth. And while she laid it the priests sat looking at

each other, not daring to speak, hoping that Catherine did not suspect

from their silence and manner that anything was wrong. She seemed to be

a long while laying the cloth and bringing in the food; it seemed to

them as if she was delaying on purpose. At last the door was closed, and

they were alone.

'Now, Moran, sit down and eat a bit, won't you?'

'I can't eat anything. Give me some whisky; that is what I want. Give me

some whisky, and I will go away and you'll never see me again. Just a

glass to keep me going, and I will go straight out of your parish, so

that none of the disgrace will fall upon you; or--what do you think? You

could put me up here; no one need know I'm here. All I want are a few

bottles of whisky.'

'You mean that I should put you up here and let you get drunk?'

'You know what I mean well enough. I'm like that. And it's well for you

who don't want whisky. But if it hadn't been for whisky I should have

been in a mad-house long ago. Now, just tell me if you'll give me drink.

If you will, I'll stay and talk with you, for I know you're lonely; if

not, I'll just be off with myself.'

'Moran, you'll be better when you've had something to eat. It will pass

from you. I will give you a glass of beer.'

'A glass of beer! Ah, if I could tell you the truth! We've all our

troubles, Gogarty--trouble that none knows but God. I haven't been

watching you--I've been too tormented about myself to think much of

anyone else--but now and then I've caught sight of a thought passing

across your mind. We all suffer, you like another, and when the ache

becomes too great to be borne we drink. Whisky is the remedy; there's

none better. We drink and forget, and that is the great thing. There are

times, Gogarty, when one doesn't want to think, when one's afraid,

aren't there?--when one wants to forget that one's alive. You've had

that feeling, Gogarty. We all have it. And now I must be off. I must

forget everything. I want to drink and to feel the miles passing under

my feet.'

And on that he got up from the fire.

'Come, Moran, I won't hear you speak like that.'

'Let me go. It's no use; I'm done for;' and Father Oliver saw his eyes

light up.

'I'll not keep you against your will, but I'll go a piece of the road

with you.'

'I'd sooner you didn't come, Gogarty.'

Without answering, Father Oliver caught up his hat and followed Father

Moran out of the house. They walked without speaking, and when they got

to the gate Father Oliver began to wonder which way his unhappy curate

would choose for escape. 'Now why does he take the southern road?' And a

moment after he guessed that Moran was making for Michael Garvey's

public-house, 'and after drinking there,' he said to himself, 'he'll go

on to Tinnick.' After a couple of miles, however, Moran turned into a

by-road leading through the mountains, and they walked on without saying

a word.

And they walked mile after mile through the worn mountain road.

'You've come far enough, Gogarty; go back. Regan's public-house is

outside of your parish.'

'If it's outside my parish, it's only the other side of the boundary;

and you said, Moran, that you wouldn't touch whisky till to-morrow

morning.'

The priests walked on again, and Father Oliver fell to thinking now what

might be the end of this adventure. He could see there was no hope of

persuading Father Moran from the bottle of whisky.

'What time do you be making it, Gogarty?'

'It isn't ten o'clock yet.'

'Then I'll walk up and down till the stroke of twelve ... I'll keep my

promise to you.'

'But they'll all be in bed by twelve. What will you do then?'

Father Moran didn't give Father Gogarty an answer, but started off

again, and this time he was walking very fast; and when they got as far

as Regan's public-house Father Oliver took his friend by the arm,

reminding him again of his promise.

'You promised not to disgrace the parish.'

'I said that.... Well, if it's walking your heart is set upon, you

shall have your bellyful of it.'

And he was off again like a man walking for a wager. But Father Oliver,

who wouldn't be out-walked, kept pace with him, and they went striding

along, walking without speaking.

Full of ruts and broken stones, the road straggled through the hills,

and Father Oliver wondered what would happen when they got to the top of

the hill. For the sea lay beyond the hill. The road bent round a

shoulder of the hill, and when Father Oliver saw the long road before

him his heart began to fail him, and a cry of despair rose to his lips;

but at that moment Moran stopped.

'You've saved me, Gogarty.'

He did not notice that Father Gogarty was breathless, almost fainting,

and he began talking hurriedly, telling Father Oliver how he had

committed himself to the resolution of breaking into a run as soon as

they got to the top of the hill.

'My throat was on fire then, but now all the fire is out of it; your

prayer has been answered. But what's the matter, Gogarty? You're not

speaking.'

'What you say is wonderful indeed, Moran, for I was praying for you. I

prayed as long as I had breath; one can't pray without breath or speak.

We'll talk of this presently.'

The priests turned back, walking very slowly.

'I feel no more wish to drink whisky than I do to drink bog-water. But

I'm a bit hot, and I think I'd like a drink, and a drink of water will

do me first-rate. Now look here, Gogarty: a miracle has happened, and

we should thank God for it. Shall we kneel down?'

The road was very wet, and they thought it would do as well if they

leant over the little wall and said some prayers together.

'I've conquered the devil; I know it. But I've been through a terrible

time, Gogarty. It's all lifted from me now. I'm sorry I've brought you

out for such a walk as this.'

'Never mind the walk, Moran, so long as the temptation has passed from

you--that's the principal thing.'

To speak of ordinary things was impossible, for they believed in the

miracle, and, thanking God for this act of grace, they walked on until

they reached Father Oliver's gate.

'I believe you're right, Moran; I believe that a miracle has happened.

You'll go home straight, won't you?'

Father Moran grasped Father Oliver's hand.

'Indeed I will.'

And Father Oliver stood by his gate looking down the road, and he didn't

open it and go through until Father Moran had passed out of sight.

Pushing it open, he walked up the gravel path, saying to himself, 'A

miracle, without doubt. Moran called it a miracle and it seems like one,

but will it last? Moran believes himself cured, that is certain;' and

Father Oliver thought how his curate had gripped his hand, and felt sure

that the grip meant, 'You've done me a great service, one I can never

repay.'

It was a pleasure to think that Moran would always think well of him.

'Yes, Moran will always think well of me,' he repeated as he groped his

way into the dark and lonely house in search of a box of matches. When

his lamp was lighted he threw himself into his armchair so that he might

ponder better on what had happened. 'I've been a good friend to him, and

it's a great support to a man to think that he's been a good friend to

another, that he kept him in the straight path, saved him from himself.

Saved himself from himself,' he repeated;' can anybody be saved from

himself?' and he began to wonder if Moran would conquer in the end and

take pride in his conquest over himself.

There was no sound, only an occasional spit of the lamp, and in the

silence Father Oliver asked if it were the end of man's life to trample

upon self or to encourage self. 'Nora,' he said, 'would answer that self

is all we have, and to destroy it and put in its place conventions and

prejudices is to put man's work above God's. But Nora would not answer

in these words till she had spoken with Mr. Walter Poole.' The name

brought a tightening about his heart, and when Father Oliver stumbled to

his feet--he had walked many miles, and was tired--he began to think he

must tell Nora of the miracle that had happened about a mile--he thought

it was just a mile--beyond Patsy Regan's public-house. The miracle would

impress her, and he looked round the room. It was then he caught sight

of a letter--her letter. The envelope and foreign stamp told him that

before he read the address--her writing! His hand trembled and his cheek

paled, for she was telling him the very things he had longed to know.

She was in love with Poole! she was not only in love with him--she was

his mistress!

The room seemed to tumble about him, and he grasped the end of the

chimney-piece. And then, feeling that he must get out into the open air,

he thought of Moran. He began to feel he must speak to him. He couldn't

remember exactly what he had to say to him, but there was something on

his mind which he must speak to Moran about. It seemed to him that he

must go away with Moran to some public-house far away and drink. Hadn't

Moran said that there were times when we all wanted drink? He tried to

collect his thoughts.... Something had gone wrong, but he couldn't

remember what had gone wrong or where he was. It seemed to him that

somebody had lost her soul. He must seek it. It was his duty. Being a

priest, he must go forth and find the soul, and bring it back to God. He

remembered no more until he found himself in the midst of a great wood,

standing in an open space; about him were dripping trees, and a ghostly

sky overhead, and no sound but that of falling leaves. Large leaves

floated down, and each interested him till it reached the wet earth.

And then he began to wonder why he was in the wood at night, and why he

should be waiting there, looking at the glimmering sky, seeing the

oak-leaves falling, remembering suddenly that he was looking for her

soul, for her lost soul, and that something had told him he would find

the soul he was seeking in the wood; so he was drawn from glade to glade

through the underwoods, and through places so thickly overgrown that it

seemed impossible to pass through. And then the thorn-bushes gave way

before him, for he was no longer alone. She had descended from the trees

into his arms, white and cold, and every moment the wood grew dimmer;

but when he expected it to disappear, when he thought he was going to

escape for ever with her, an opening in the trees discovered the lake,

and in fear he turned back into the wood, seeking out paths where there

was little light.

Once he was within the wood, the mist seemed to incorporate again; she

descended again into his arms, and this time he would have lifted the

veil and looked into her face, but she seemed to forbid him to recognize

her under penalty of loss. His desire overcame him, and he put out his

hand to lift the veil. As he did so his eyes opened, he saw the wet

wood, the shining sky, and she sitting by a stone waiting for him. A

little later she came to meet him from behind the hawthorns that grew

along the cart-track--a tall woman with a little bend in her walk.

He wondered why he was so foolish as to disobey her, and besought her to

return to him, and they roamed again in the paths that led round the

rocks overgrown with briars, by the great oak-tree where the leaves were

falling. And wandering they went, smiling gently on each other, till she

began to tell him that he must abide by the shores of the lake--why, he

could not understand, for the wood was much more beautiful, and he was

more alone with her in the wood than by the lake.

The sympathy was so complete that words were not needed, but they had

begun in his ears. He strove to apprehend the dim words sounding in his

ears. Not her words, surely, for there was a roughness in the voice, and

presently he heard somebody asking him why he was about this time of

night, and very slowly he began to understand that one of his

parishioners was by him, asking him whither he was going.

'You'll be catching your death at this hour of the night, Father

Oliver.'

And the man told Father Oliver he was on his way to a fair, and for a

short-cut he had come through the wood. And Father Oliver listened,

thinking all the while that he must have been dreaming, for he could

remember nothing.

'Now, your reverence, we're at your own door, and the door is open.

When you went out you forgot to close it.'

The priest didn't answer.

'I hope no harm will come to your reverence; and you'll be lucky if you

haven't caught your death.'

X

He stopped in his undressing to ponder how Moran had come to tell him

that he was going away on a drinking-bout, and all their long walk

together to within a mile of Regan's public-house returned to him bit by

bit, how Moran knelt down by the roadside to drink bog-water, which he

said would take the thirst from him as well as whisky; and after bidding

Moran good-night he had fallen into his armchair. It was not till he

rose to his feet to go to bed that he had caught sight of the letter.

Nora wrote--he could not remember exactly what she wrote, and threw

himself into bed. After sleeping for many hours, his eyes at last

opened, and he awoke wondering, asking himself where he was. Even the

familiar room surprised him. And once more he began the process of

picking his way back, but he couldn't recall what had happened from the

time he left his house in search of Moran till he was overtaken by Alec

in the wood. In some semi-conscious state he must have wandered off to

Derrinrush. He must have wandered a long while--two hours, maybe more

--through the familiar paths, but unaware that he was choosing them. To

escape from the effort of remembrance he was glad to listen to

Catherine, who was telling him that Alec was at the door, come up from

the village to inquire how the priest was.

She waited to hear Father Oliver's account of himself, but not having a

story prepared, he pretended he was too tired to speak; and as he lay

back in his chair he composed a little story, telling how he had been

for a long walk with Father Moran, and, coming back in the dark, had

missed his way on the outskirts of the wood. She began to raise some

objections, but he said she was not to excite herself, and went out to

see Alec, who, not being a quick-witted fellow, was easily persuaded

into an acceptance of a very modified version of the incident, and

Father Oliver lay back in his chair wondering if he had succeeded in

deceiving Catherine. It would seem that he had, for when she came to

visit him again from her kitchen she spoke of something quite different,

which surprised him, for she was a very observant woman of inexhaustible

curiosity. But this time, however, he had managed to keep his secret

from her, and, dismissing her, he thought of Nora's letter.

_From Miss Nora Glynn to Father Oliver Gogarty._

'RAPALLO, ITALY,

'_December_ 12, 19--.

'DEAR FATHER GOGARTY,

'I received "The Imitation" to-day and your two letters, one asking me

if I had got the book. We had left Munich without giving instructions

about our letters, so please accept my apologies and my best thanks.

The Elizabethan translation, as you point out, is beautiful English, and

I am glad to have the book; it will remind me of you, and I will keep it

by me even if I do not read it very often. I passed the book over to Mr.

Poole; he read it for a few minutes, and then returned it to me. "A

worthy man, no doubt," he said, "but prone to taking things for granted.

'The Imitation,'" he continued, "reminds me of a flower growing in the

shade of a cloister, dying for lack of sun, and this is surely not the

right kind of reading for you or your friend Father Oliver." I feel sure

you want a change. Change of scene brings a change of mind. Why don't

you come to Italy? Italy is the place for you. Italy is your proper

mind. Mr. Poole says that Italy is every man's proper mind, and you're

evidently thinking of Italy, for you ask for a description of where I am

staying, saying that a ray of Italian sunlight will cheer you. Come to

Italy. You can come here without danger of meeting us. We are leaving at

the end of the month.

'But I could go on chattering page after page, telling you about gardens

and orange-trees (the orange-trees are the best part of the decoration;

even now the great fruit hangs in the green leaves); and when I had

described Italy, and you had described all the castles and the islands,

we could turn back and discuss our religious differences. But I doubt if

any good would come of this correspondence. You see, I have got my work

to do, and you have got yours, and, notwithstanding all you say, I do

not believe you to be unable to write the history of the lake and its

castles. Your letters prove that you can, only your mind is unhinged by

fears for my spiritual safety, and depressed by the Irish climate. It is

very depressing, I know. I remember how you used to attribute the

history of Ireland to the climate: a beautiful climate in a way, without

extremes of heat and cold, as you said once, without an accent upon it.

But you are not the ordinary Irishman; there is enough vitality in you

to resist the languor of the climate. Your mood will pass away.... Your

letter about the hermit that lived on Church Island is most beautiful.

You have struck the right note--the wistful Irish note--and if you can

write a book in that strain I am sure it will meet with great success.

Go on with your book, and don't write to me any more--at least, not for

the present. I have got too much to do, and cannot attend to a lengthy

correspondence. We are going to Paris, and are looking forward to

spending a great deal of time reading in the National Library. Some day

we may meet, or take up this correspondence again. At present I feel

that it is better for you and better for me that it should cease. But

you will not think hardly of me because I write you this. I am writing

in your own interests, dear Father Gogarty.

'Very sincerely yours,

'NORA GLYNN.'

He read the letter slowly, pondering every sentence and every word, and

when he had finished it his hand dropped upon his knee; and when the

letter fell upon the hearthrug he did not stoop to pick it up, but sat

looking into the fire, convinced that everything was over and done.

There was nothing to look forward to; his life would drag on from day to

day, from week to week, month to month, year to year, till at last he

would be taken away to the grave. The grave is dreamless! But there

might be a long time before he reached it, living for years without

seeing or even hearing from her, for she would weary of writing to him.

He began to dream of a hunt, the quarry hearing with dying ears the

horns calling to each other in the distance, and cast in his chair, his

arms hanging like dead arms, his senses mercifully benumbed, he lay, how

long he knew not, but it must have been a long time.

Catherine came into the room with some spoons in her hands, and asked

him what was the matter, and, jumping up, he answered her rudely, for

her curiosity annoyed him. It was irritating to have to wait for her to

leave the room, but he did not dare to begin thinking while she was

there. The door closed at last; he was alone again, and his thoughts

fixed themselves at once on the end of her letter, on the words, 'Go on

with your book, and don't write to me any more--at least, not for the

present. I have too much to do, and cannot attend to a lengthy

correspondence.' The evident cruelty of her words surprised him. There

was nothing like this in any of her other letters. She intended these

words as a _coup de grâce_. There was little mercy in them, for they

left him living; he still lived--in a way.

There was no use trying to misunderstand her words. To do so would be

foolish, even if it were possible for him to deceive himself, and the

rest of her letter mattered nothing to him. The two little sentences

with which she dismissed him were his sole concern; they were the keys

to the whole of this correspondence which had beguiled him. Fool that he

had been not to see it! Alas! we see only what we want to see. He

wandered about the lake, trying to bring himself to hate her. He even

stopped in his walks to address insulting words to her. Words of common

abuse came to his tongue readily, but there was an unconquerable

tenderness in his heart always; and one day the thought went by that it

was nobler of her to make him suffer than to have meekly forgiven him,

as many women would have done, because he was a priest. He stopped

affrighted, and began to wonder if this were the first time her easy

forgiveness of his mistake had seemed suspicious. No, he felt sure that

some sort of shadow of disappointment had passed at the back of his mind

when he read her first letter, and after having lain for months at the

back of his mind, this idea had come to the surface. An extraordinary

perversion, truly, which he could only account for by the fact that he

had always looked upon her as being more like what the primitive woman

must have been than anybody else in the world; and the first instinct of

the primitive woman would be to revenge any slight on her sexual pride.

He had misread her character, and in this new reading he found a

temporary consolation.

As he sat thinking of her he heard a mouse gnawing under the boards,

and every night after the mouse came to gnaw. 'The teeth of regret are

the same; my life is being gnawed away. Never shall I see her.' It

seemed impossible that life would close on him without his seeing her

face or hearing her voice again, and he began to think how it would be

if they were to meet on the other side. For he believed in heaven, and

that was a good thing. Without such belief there would be nothing for

him to do but to go down to the lake and make an end of himself. But

believing as he did in heaven and the holy Catholic Church to be the

surest way of getting there, he had a great deal to be thankful for.

Poole's possession of her was but temporary, a few years at most,

whereas his possession of her, if he were so fortunate as to gain

heaven, and by his prayers to bring her back to the true fold, would

endure for ever and ever. The wisest thing, therefore, for him to do

would be to enter a Trappist monastery. But our Lord says that in heaven

there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage, and what would heaven

be to him without Nora? No more than a union of souls, and he wanted her

body as well as her soul. He must pray. He knew the feeling well--a sort

of mental giddiness, a delirium in the brain; and it increased rapidly,

urging him to fall on his knees. If he resisted, it was because he was

ashamed and feared to pray to God to reserve Nora for him. But the whirl

in his brain soon deprived him of all power of resistance, and, looking

round the room hurriedly to assure himself he was not watched, he fell

on his knees and burst into extemporary prayer: '_O my God, whatever

punishment there is to be borne, let me bear it. She sinned, no doubt,

and her sins must be atoned for. Let me bear the punishment that thou,

in thine infinite wisdom, must adjudge to her, poor sinful woman that

she is, poor woman persecuted by men, persecuted by me. O my God,

remember that I lent a willing ear to scandalmongers, that I went down

that day to the school and lost my temper with her, that I spoke against

her in my church. All the sins that have been committed are my sins; let

me bear the punishment. O my Lord Jesus Christ, do thou intercede with

thy Father and ask him to heap all the punishment on my head. Oh, dear

Lord Jesus, if I had only thought of thee when I went down to the

school, if I had remembered thy words, "Let him who is without sin cast

the first stone," I should have been spared this anguish. If I had

remembered thy words, she might have gone to Dublin and had her baby

there, and come back to the parish. O my God, the fault is mine; all the

faults that have been committed can be traced back to me, therefore I

beseech of thee, I call upon thee, to let me bear all the punishment

that she has earned by her sins, poor erring creature that she is. O my

God, do this for me; remember that I served thee well for many years

when I lived among the poor folk in the mountains. For all these years I

ask this thing of thee, that thou wilt let me bear her punishment. Is it

too much I am asking of thee, O my God, is it too much?'_

When he rose from his knees, bells seemed to be ringing in his head,

and he began to wonder if another miracle had befallen him, for it was

as if someone had laid hands on him and forced him on his knees. But to

ask the Almighty to extend his protection to him rather than to Mr.

Poole, who was a Protestant, seemed not a little gross. Father Oliver

experienced a shyness that he had never known before, and he hoped the

Almighty would not be offended at the familiarity of the language, or

the intimate nature of the request, for to ask for Nora's body as well

as her soul did not seem altogether seemly.

It was queer to think like that. Perhaps his brain was giving way. And

he pushed the plates aside; he could not eat any dinner, nor could he

take any interest in his garden.

The dahlias were over, the chrysanthemums were beginning. Never had the

country seemed so still: dead birds in the woods, and the sounds of

leaves, and the fitful December sunlight on the strands--these were his

distractions when he went out for a walk, and when he came in he often

thought it would be well if he did not live to see another day, so heavy

did the days seem, so uneventful, and in these languid autumn days the

desire to write to Nora crept nearer, until it always seemed about him

like some familiar animal.

_From Father Oliver Gogarty to Miss Nora Glynn._

'GARRANARD, BOHOLA,

'_December_ 30, 19--.

'DEAR MISS GLYNN,

'I should have written to you before, but I lacked courage. Do you

remember saying that the loneliness of the country sometimes forced you

to kneel down to pray that you might die? I think the loneliness that

overcame you was the loneliness that comes at the end of an autumn day

when the dusk gathers in the room. It seems to steal all one's courage

away, and one looks up from one's work in despair, asking of what value

is one's life. The world goes on just the same, grinding our souls away.

Nobody seems to care; nothing seems to make any difference.

'Human life is a very lonely thing, and for that it is perhaps

religious. But there are days when religion fails us, when we lack

courage, lonesomeness being our national failing. We were always

lonesome, hundreds of years ago as much as to-day. You know it, you have

been through it and will sympathize. A caged bird simply beats its wings

and dies, but a human being does not die of loneliness, even when he

prays for death. You have experienced it all, and will know what I feel

when I tell you that I spend my time watching the rain, thinking of

sunshine, picture-galleries, and libraries.

'But you were right to bid me go on with the book I spoke to you about.

If I had gone away, as you first suggested, I should have been unhappy;

I should have thought continually of the poor people I left behind; my

abandonment of them would have preyed on my mind, for the conviction is

dead in me that I should have been able to return to them; we mayn't

return to places where we have been unhappy. I might have been able to

get a parish in England or a chaplaincy, but I should have always looked

upon the desertion of my poor people as a moral delinquency. A quiet

conscience is, after all, a great possession, and for the sake of a

quiet conscience I will remain here, and you will be able to understand

my scruple when you think how helpless my people are, and how essential

is the kindly guidance of the priest.

'Without a leader, the people are helpless; they wander like sheep on a

mountain-side, falling over rocks or dying amid snowdrifts. Sometimes

the shepherd grows weary of watching, and the question comes, Has a man

no duty towards himself? And then one begins to wonder what is one's

duty and what is duty--if duty is something more than the opinions of

others, something more than a convention which we would not like to hear

called into question, because we feel instinctively that it is well for

everyone to continue in the rut, for, after all, a rut means a road, and

roads are necessary. If one lets one's self go on thinking, one very

soon finds that wrong and right are indistinguishable, so perhaps it is

better to follow the rut if one can. But the rut is beset with

difficulties; there are big holes on either side. Sometimes the road

ends nowhere, and one gets lost in spite of one's self. But why am I

writing all these things to you?'

Why, indeed? If he were to send this letter she would show it to Mr.

Poole, and they would laugh over it together. 'Poor priesty!' they would

say, and the paper was crumpled and thrown into the fire. 'My life is

unendurable, and it will grow worse,' he said, and fell to thinking how

he would grow old, getting every day more like an old stereotyped plate,

the Mass and the rosary at the end of his tongue, and nothing in his

heart. He had seen many priests like this. Could he fall into such

miserable decadence? Could such obedience to rule be any man's duty? But

where should he go? It mattered little whither he went, for he would

never see her any more, and she was, after all, the only real thing in

the world for him.

So did he continue to suffer like an animal, mutely, instinctively,

mourning his life away, forgetful of everything but his grief; unmindful

of his food, and unable to sleep when he lay down, or to distinguish

between familiar things--the birds about his house, the boys and girls

he had baptized. Very often he had to think a moment before he knew

which was Mary and which was Bridget, which was Patsy and which was

Mike, and very often Catherine was in the parlour many minutes before he

noticed her presence. She stood watching him, wondering of what he was

thinking, for he sat in his chair, getting weaker and thinner; and soon

he began to look haggard as an old man or one about to die. He seemed to

grow feebler in mind; his attention wandered away every few minutes from

the book he was reading. Catherine noticed the change, and, thinking

that a little chat would be of help, she often came up from her kitchen

to tell him the gossip of the parish; but he could not listen to her,

her garrulousness seemed to him more than ever tiresome, and he kept a

book by him, an old copy of 'Ivanhoe,' which he pretended he was reading

when he heard her step.

Father Moran came to discuss the business of the parish with him and

insisted on relieving Father Oliver of a great deal of it, saying that

he wanted a rest, and he often urged Father Oliver to go away for a

holiday. He was kind, but his talk was wearisome, and Father Oliver

thought he would prefer to read about the fabulous Rowena than to hear

any more about the Archbishop. But when Father Moran left Rowena bored

him, and so completely that he could not remember at what point he had

left off reading, and his thoughts wandered from the tournament to some

phrase he had made use of in writing to Nora, or, it might be, some

phrase of hers that would suddenly spring into his mind. He sought no

longer to discover her character from her letters, nor did he criticize

the many contradictions which had perplexed him: it seemed to him that

he accepted her now, as the phrase goes, 'as she was,' thinking of her

as he might of some supernatural being whom he had offended, and who had

revenged herself. Her wickedness became in his eyes an added grace, and

from the rack on which he lay he admired his executioner. Even her

liking for Mr. Poole became submerged in a tide of suffering, and of

longing, and weakness of spirit. He no longer had any strength to

question her liking for the minor prophets: there were discrepancies in

everyone, and no doubt there were in him as well as in her. He had once

been very different from what he was to-day. Once he was an ardent

student in Maynooth, he had been an energetic curate; and now what was

he? Worse still, what was he becoming? And he allowed his thoughts to

dwell on the fact that every day she was receding from him. He, too, was

receding. All things were receding--becoming dimmer.

He piled the grate up with turf, and when the blaze came leaned over it,

warming his hands, asking himself why she liked Mr. Poole rather than

him. For he no longer tried to conceal from himself the fact that he

loved her. He had played the hypocrite long enough; he had spoken about

her soul, but it was herself that he wanted. This admission brought some

little relief, but he felt that the relief would only be temporary.

Alas! it was surrender. It was worse than surrender--it was abandonment.

He could sink no deeper. But he could; we can all sink deeper. Now what

would the end be? There is an end to everything; there must be an end

even to humiliation, to self-abasement. It was Moran over again. Moran

was ashamed of his vice, but he had to accept it, and Father Oliver

thought how much it must have cost his curate to come to tell him that

he wanted to lie drunk for some days in an outhouse in order to escape

for a few days from the agony of living. 'That is what he called it, and

I, too, would escape from it.'

His thoughts turned suddenly to a poem written by a peasant in County

Cork a hundred years ago to a woman who inspired a passion that wrecked

his mind altogether in the end. And he wondered if madness would be the

end of his suffering, or if he would go down to the lake and find rest

in it.

'Oh, succour me, dear one, give me a kiss from thy mouth,

And lift me up to thee from death,

Or bid them make for me a narrow bed, a coffin of boards,

In the dark neighbourhood of the worm and his friends.

My life is not life but death, my voice is no voice but a wind,

There is no colour in me, nor life, nor richness, nor health;

But in tears and sorrow and weakness, without music, without

sport, without power,

I go into captivity and woe, and in the pain of my love of thee.'