As the end of her conventual period drew nigh Eileen resolved never to
go back to the spotted world, but to ask her father to pay her dowry as
Bride to the Church, and she had just placed in Marcelle's niche the
letter informing Lieutenant Doherty of her call to the higher life (and
pointing out how apter than ever his confessions would now be) when
Marcelle's signal warned her to look in her own niche. There she found a
letter which she could not read till bread-and-chocolate time, but which
then took the flavour out of these refreshments. Her lover--he leaped to
that verbal position in her thought in this moment of crisis--was ordered
off in haste to Afghanistan. The geographical proficiency which had won
her so many marks served her only too well, but she hastened to extract
her atlas from the fatal niche, and to pore over her geographical misery.
She felt she ought to withdraw her own letter for revision, but she could
not get at Marcelle or even make her understand. In her perturbation she
gave Cabul and Candahar as Kings of Navarre, and Marcelle, implacable as
a pillar-box, went away in the evening like a mail-cart.
But the very same night the Superior handed Eileen an opened cablegram
which banished Lieutenant Doherty much farther than Afghanistan. Her
father was very ill, and called her to his bedside. Things had a way of
happening simultaneously to Eileen, these coincidences dogged her life,
so that she came to think of them as the rival threads of her life
getting tangled at certain points and then going off separately again.
After all, if you have several strings to your life, she told herself,
it would be more improbable that they should always remain separate than
that they should sometimes intertwine.
Eileen reached the Castle through a tossing avenue of villagers, weeping
and blessing, and divined from their torment of sympathy that "his
honour" was already in his grave. Poor feckless father, how she had loved
him spite all his rollicking ways, or perhaps because of them. Through
her tears she saw him counting--on his entry into Paradise--the children
who had preceded him, and more than ever fuzzled by the flapping of their
wings. Oh, poor dearest, how unhomely it would all be to him, this other
world where his jovial laugh would shock the nun-like spirits, where
there was no more claret, cold, mulled, or buttered, and no sound of horn
or tally-ho.
Perhaps it was as well that so many of his brood had gone before him, for
with his departure the Castle fell metaphorically about the ears of the
survivors. Creditors gave quarter no longer, and Mrs. O'Keeffe found
herself reduced to a modest red-gabled farmhouse, with nothing saved from
the crash save that part of her dowry which was invested in trustees for
the education of her boys. There was no question of Eileen returning to
the Convent as a pupil: her desire to take the veil failed at the thought
that now she could only be a dowerless working-sister, not a teacher. And
for teaching, especially music-teaching, she felt she had a real gift. By
a natural transition arose the idea of becoming a music-teacher or a
governess outside a Convent, and since her stay at home only helped to
diminish her mother's resources, she resolved to augment them by leaving
her. Family pride forbade the neighbourhood witnessing a deeper decline.
The O'Keeffes were still "the Quality"; it would be better to seek her
fortunes outside Ireland and retain her prestige at home. The dual
existence would give relish and variety.
Eileen's mind worked so quickly that she communicated these ideas to her
mother, ere that patient lady had quite realised that never more would
she say, "It's your wife I am, Bagenal dear."
"No, no, you are not to be going away," cried Mrs. O'Keeffe, in alarm.
"Why wouldn't I?" asked Eileen.
Mrs. O'Keeffe could not tell, but looked mysterious meanings. This
excited Eileen, so that the poor woman had no rest till she answered
plainly, "Because, mavourneen, it's married you are going to be,
please the saints."
"Married! Me!"
"It was your father's dying wish, God keep his soul."
"But to whom?"
"You should be asking the priest how good he is. Didn't you notice that
the chapel is being white-washed afresh and how clear the Angelus bell
rings? Not that it matters much to him, for he has lashings of money as
well as a heart of gold."
"Hasn't he a name, too?"
"Don't jump down my throat, Eileen darling. I shouldn't be thinking of
O'Flanagan if your father--"
"O'Flanagan! Do you mean the man that bought our Castle at the auction?"
"And isn't it beautifully repaired he's having it for you? He saw you
when you were home for the holidays, and he asked us for your hand, all
so humble, but your father told him he must wait till you came home for
good."
"O'Flanagan!" Eileen flicked him away with her thumb. "A half-mounted
gentleman like that."
"Eileen aroon, beggars can't be choosers."