CHAPTER II

SOME PARISHIONERS

I

The way before him was plain enough, yet his uncle's apathy and

constitutional infirmity of purpose seemed at times to thwart him. Some

two or three days ago, he had come running down from Kilmore with the

news that a baby had been born out of wedlock, and Father Stafford had

shown no desire that his curate should denounce the girl from the altar.

"The greatest saints," he said, "have been kind, and have found excuses

for the sins of others."

And a few days later, when Father Maguire told his uncle that the

Salvationists had come to Kilmore, and that he had walked up the

village street and slit their drum with a carving knife, his uncle had

not approved of his conduct, and what had especially annoyed Father Tom

was that his uncle seemed to deplore the slitting of the drum in the

same way as he deplored that the Kavanaghs had a barrel of porter in

every Saturday, namely, as one of those regrettable excesses to which

human nature is liable. On being pressed he had agreed with his nephew

that dancing and drinking were no preparation for the Sabbath, but he

would not agree that evil could be suppressed by force. He had even

hinted that too strict a rule brought about a revolt against the rule,

and when Father Tom had expressed his disbelief at any revolt against

the authority of the priest, Father Stafford said:--

"They may just leave you, they may just go to America."

"Then you think that it is our condemnation of sin that is driving the

people to America."

"My dear Tom, you told me the other day that you met a lad and a lass

walking along the roadside, and that you drove them home. You told me

you were sure they were talking about things they should not talk

about; you have no right to assume these things. You're asking of the

people an abstinence you don't practice yourself. Sometimes your

friends are women."

"Yes. But--"

Father Tom's anger prevented him from finding an adequate argument.

Father Stafford pushed the tobacco bowl towards his nephew.

"You're not smoking, Tom."

"Your point is that a certain amount of vice is inherent in human

nature, and that if we raise the standard of virtuous living our people

will escape from us to New York or London."

"The sexes mix freely everywhere in western Europe; only in Ireland and

Turkey is there any attempt made to separate them."

Later in the evening Father Tom insisted that the measure of

responsibility was always the same.

"I should be sorry," said his uncle, "to say that those who inherit

drunkenness bear the same burden of responsibility as those who come of

parents who are quite sane--"

"You cannot deny, uncle John, that free will and predestination--"

"My dear Tom, I really must go to bed. It is after midnight."

As he walked home, Father Maguire thought of the great change he

perceived in his uncle. Father Stafford liked to go to bed at eleven,

the very name of St. Thomas seemed to bore him; fifteen years ago he

would sit up till morning. Father Maguire remembered the theological

debates, sometimes prolonged till after three o'clock, and the

passionate scholiast of Maynooth seemed to him unrecognisable in the

esurient Vicar-General, only occasionally interested in theology, at

certain hours and when he felt particularly well. He could not

reconcile the two ages, his mind not being sufficiently acute to see

that after all no one can discuss theology for more than

five-and-twenty years without wearying of the subject.

The moon was shining among the hills and the mystery of the landscape

seemed to aggravate his sensibility, and he asked himself if the

guardians of the people should not fling themselves into the forefront

of the battle. Men came to preach heresy in his parish--was he not

justified in slitting their drum?

He had recourse to prayer, and he prayed for strength and for guidance.

He had accepted the Church, and in the Church he saw only apathy,

neglect, and bad administration on the part of his superiors.... He had

read that great virtues are, like large sums of money, deposited in the

bank, whereas humility is like the pence, always at hand, always

current. Obedience to our superiors is the sure path. He could not

persuade himself that it was right for him to allow the Kavanaghs to

continue a dissolute life of drinking and dancing. They were the talk

of the parish; and he would have spoken against them from the altar,

but his uncle had advised him not to do so. Perhaps his uncle was

right; he might be right regarding the Kavanaghs. In the main he

disagreed with his uncle, but in this particular instance it might be

well to wait and pray that matters might improve.

Father Tom believed Ned Kavanagh to be a good boy. Ned was going to

marry Mary Byrne, and Father Tom had made up this marriage. The Byrnes

did not care for the marriage--they were prejudiced against Ned on

account of his family. But he was not going to allow them to break off

the marriage. He was sure of Ned, but in order to make quite sure he

would get him to take the pledge. Next morning when the priest had done

his breakfast, and was about to unfold his newspaper, his servant

opened the door, and told him that Ned Kavanagh was outside and wanted

to see him.

It was a pleasure to look at this nice, clean boy, with his winning

smile, and the priest thought that Mary could not wish for a better

husband. Ned's smile seemed a little fainter than usual, and his face

was paler; the priest wondered, and presently Ned told the priest that

he had come to confession, and going down on his knees, he told the

priest that he had been drunk last Saturday night, and that he had come

to take the pledge. He would never do any good while he was at home,

and one of the reasons he gave for wishing to marry Mary Byrne was his

desire to leave home. The priest asked him if matters were mending, and

if his sister showed any signs of wishing to be married.

"Sorra sign," said Ned.

"That's bad news you're bringing me," said the priest, and he walked up

and down the room, and they talked over Kate's wilful character.

"From the beginning she did not like living at home," said the priest.

"I don't care about living at home," said Ned.

"But for a different reason," remarked the priest. "You want to leave

home to get married, and have a wife and children, if God is pleased to

give you children."

Kate had been in numerous services, and the priest sat thinking of the

stories he had heard. He had heard that Kate had come back from her

last situation in a cab, wrapped up in blankets, saying she was ill. On

inquiry it was found that she had only been three or four days in her

situation; three weeks had to be accounted for. He had questioned her

himself regarding this interval, but had not been able to get any clear

and definite answer from her.

"She and mother never stop quarrelling about Pat Connex."

"It appears," said the priest, "that your mother went out with a jug of

porter under her apron, and offered a sup of it to Pat Connex, who was

talking with Peter M'Shane, and now he is up at your cabin every

Saturday."

"That's it," said Ned.

"Mrs. Connex was here the other day, and I can tell you that if Pat

marries your sister he will find himself cut off with a shilling."

"She's been agin us all the while," said Ned. "Her money has made her

proud, but I don't blame her. If I had the fine house she has, maybe I

would be as proud as she."

"Maybe you would," said the priest. "But what I am thinking of is your

sister Kate. She will never get Pat Connex. Pat will never go against

his mother."

"Well, you see he comes up and plays the melodion on Saturday night,"

said Ned, "and she can't stop him from doing that."

"Then you think," said the priest, "that Pat will marry your sister?"

"I don't think she wants to marry him."

"If she doesn't want to marry him, what's all this talk about?"

"She likes to meet Pat in the evenings and go for a walk with him, and

she likes him to put his arm round her waist and kiss her, saving your

reverence's pardon."

"It is strange that you should be so unlike. You come here and ask me

to speak to Mary Byrne's parents for you, and that I'll do, Ned, and it

will be all right. You will make a good husband, and though you were

drunk last night, you have taken the pledge to-day, and I will make a

good marriage for Kate, too, if she'll listen to me."

"And who may your reverence be thinking of?"

"I'm thinking of Peter M'Shane. He gets as much as six shillings a week

and his keep on Murphy's farm, and his mother has got a bit of money,

and they have a nice, clean cabin. Now listen to me. There is a poultry

lecture at the school-house to-night. Do you think you could bring your

sister with you?"

"We used to keep a great many hens at home, and Kate had the feeding of

them, and now she's turned agin them, and she wants to live in town,

and she even tells Pat Connex she would not marry a farmer, however

much he was worth."

"But if you tell her that Pat Connex will be at the lecture will she

come?"

"Yes, your reverence, if she believes me."

"Then do as I bid you," said the priest; "you can tell her that Pat

Connex will be there."

II

After leaving the priest Ned crossed over the road to avoid the

public-house. He went for a walk on the hills, and it was about five

when he turned towards the village. On his way there he met his father,

and Ned told him that he had been to see the priest, and that he was

going to take Mary to the lecture.

Michael Kavanagh wished his son God-speed. He was very tired; and he

thought it was pretty hard to come home after a long day's work to find

his wife and daughter quarrelling.

"I am sorry your dinner is not ready, father, but it won't be long now.

I'll cut the bacon."

"I met Ned on the road," said her father. "He has gone to fetch Mary.

He is going to take her to the lecture on poultry-keeping at the

school-house."

"Ah, he has been to the priest, has he?" said Kate, and her mother

asked her why she said that, and the wrangle began again.

Ned was the peacemaker; there was generally quiet in the cabin when he

was there. He came in with Mary, a small, fair girl, and a good girl,

who would keep his cabin tidy. His mother and sisters were

broad-shouldered women with blue-black hair and red cheeks, and it was

said that he had said he would like to bring a little fair hair into

the family.

"We've just come in for a minute," said Mary. "Ned said that perhaps

you'd be coming with us."

"All the boys in the village will be there to-night," said Ned. "You

had better come with us." And pretending he wanted to get a coal of

fire to light his pipe, Ned whispered to Kate as he passed her, "Pat

Connex will be there."

She looked at the striped sunshade she has brought back from the

dressmaker's--she had once been apprenticed to a dressmaker--but Ned

said that a storm was blowing and she had better leave the sunshade

behind.

The rain beat in their faces and the wind came sweeping down the

mountain and made them stagger. Sometimes the road went straight on,

sometimes it turned suddenly and went up-hill. After walking for a mile

they came to the school-house. A number of men were waiting outside,

and one of the boys told them that the priest had said they were to

keep a look out for the lecturer, and Ned said that he had better stay

with them, that his lantern would be useful to show her the way. They

went into a long, smoky room. The women had collected into one corner,

and the priest was walking up and down, his hands thrust into the

pockets of his overcoat. Now he stopped in his walk to scold two

children who were trying to light a peat fire in a tumbled down grate.

"Don't be tired, go on blowing," he said. "You are the laziest child I

have seen this long while."

Ned came in and blew out his lantern, but the lady he had mistaken for

the lecturer was a lady who had come to live in the neighbourhood

lately, and the priest said:--

"You must be very much interested in poultry, ma'am, to come out on

such a night as this."

The lady stood shaking her waterproof.

"Now, then, Lizzie, run to your mother and get the lady a chair."

And when the child came back with the chair, and the lady was seated by

the fire, he said:--

"I'm thinking there will be no lecturer here to-night, and that it

would be kind of you if you were to give the lecture yourself. You have

read some books about poultry, I am sure?"

"Well, a little--but--"

"Oh, that doesn't matter," said the priest. "I'm sure the book you have

read is full of instruction."

He walked up the room towards a group of men and told them they must

cease talking, and coming back to the young woman, he said:--

"We shall be much obliged if you will say a few words about poultry.

Just say what you have in your mind about the different breeds."

The young woman again protested, but the priest said:--

"You will do it very nicely." And he spoke like one who is not

accustomed to being disobeyed. "We will give the lecturer five minutes

more."

"Is there no farmer's wife who could speak," the young lady said in a

fluttering voice. "She would know much more than I. I see Biddy M'Hale

there. She has done very well with her poultry."

"I daresay she has," said the priest, "but the people would pay no

attention to her. She is one of themselves. It would be no amusement to

them to hear her."

The young lady asked if she might have five minutes to scribble a few

notes. The priest said he would wait a few minutes, but it did not

matter much what she said.

"But couldn't some one dance or sing," said the young lady.

"Dancing and singing!" said the priest. "No!"

And the young lady hurriedly scribbled a few notes about fowls for

laying, fowls for fattening, regular feeding, warm houses, and

something about a percentage of mineral matter. She had not half

finished when the priest said:--

"Now will you stand over there near the harmonium. Whom shall I

announce?"

The young woman told him her name, and he led her to the harmonium and

left her talking, addressing most of her instruction to Biddy M'Hale, a

long, thin, pale-faced woman, with wistful eyes.

"This won't do," said the priest, interrupting the lecturer,--"I'm not

speaking to you, miss, but to my people. I don't see one of you taking

notes, not even you, Biddy M'Hale, though you have made a fortune out

of your hins. Didn't I tell you from the pulpit that you were to bring

pencil and paper and write down all you heard. If you had known years

ago all this young lady is going to tell you you would be rolling in

your carriages to-day."

Then the priest asked the lecturer to go on, and the lady explained

that to get hens to lay about Christmas time, when eggs fetched the

best price, you must bring on your pullets early.

"You must," she said, "set your eggs in January."

"You hear that," said the priest. "Is there anyone who has got anything

to say about that? Why is it that you don't set your eggs in January?"

No one answered, and the lecturer went on to tell of the advantages

that would come to the poultry-keeper whose eggs were hatched in

December.

As she said this, the priest's eyes fell upon Biddy M'Hale, and, seeing

that she was smiling, he asked her if there was any reason why eggs

could not be hatched in the beginning of January.

"Now, Biddy, you must know all about this, and I insist on your telling

us. We are here to learn."

Biddy did not answer.

"Then what were you smiling at?"

"I wasn't smiling, your reverence."

"Yes; I saw you smiling. Is it because you think there isn't a brooding

hin in January?"

It had not occurred to the lecturer that hens might not be brooding so

early in the year, and she waited anxiously. At last Biddy said:--

"Well, your reverence, it isn't because there are no hins brooding.

You'll get brooding hins at every time in the year; but, you see, you

can't rear chickens earlier than March. The end of February is the

earliest I have ever seen. But, of course, if you could rear them in

January, all that the young lady said would be quite right. I have

nothing to say agin it. I have no fault to find with anything she says,

your reverence."

"Only that it can't be done." said the priest. "Well, you ought to

know, Biddy."

The villagers were laughing.

"That will do," said the priest. "I don't mind your having a bit of

amusement, but you're here to learn."

And as he looked round the room, quieting the villagers into silence,

his eyes fell on Kate. "That's all right," he thought, and he looked

for the others, and spied Pat Connex and Peter M'Shane near the door.

"They're here, too," he thought. "When the lecture is over I will see

them and bring them all together. Kate Kavanagh won't go home until she

promises to marry Peter. I have had enough of her goings on in my

parish."

But Kate had caught sight of Peter. She would get no walk home with Pat

that night, and she suspected her brother of having done this for a

purpose. She got up to go.

"I don't want anyone to leave this room," said the priest. "Kate

Kavanagh, why are you going? Sit down till the lecture is over."

And as Kate had not strength to defy the priest she sat down, and the

lecturer continued for a little while longer. The priest could see that

the lecturer had said nearly all she had to say, and he had begun to

wonder how the evening's amusement was to be prolonged. It would not do

to let the people go home until Michael Dunne had closed his

public-house, and the priest looked round the audience thinking which

one he might call upon to say a few words on the subject of

poultry-keeping.

From one of the back rows a voice was heard:--

"What about the pump, your reverence?"

"Well, indeed, you may ask," said the priest.

And immediately he began to speak of the wrong they had suffered by not

having a pump in the village. The fact that Almighty God had endowed

Kilmore with a hundred mountain streams did not release the authorities

from the obligation of supplying the village with a pump. Had not the

authorities put up one in the neighbouring village?

"You should come out," he said, "and fight for your rights. You should

take off your coats like men, and if you do I'll see that you get your

rights," and he looked round for someone to speak.

There was a landlord among the audience, and as he was a Catholic the

priest called upon him to speak. He said that he agreed with the priest

in the main. They should have their pump, if they wanted a pump; if

they didn't, he would suggest that they asked for something else.

Farmer Byrne said he did not want a pump, and then everyone spoke his

mind, and things got mixed. The Catholic landlord regretted that Father

Maguire was against allowing a poultry-yard to the patients in the

lunatic asylum. If, instead of supplying a pump, the Government would

sell them eggs for hatching at a low price, something might be gained.

If the Government would not do this, the Government might be induced to

supply books on poultry free of charge. It took the Catholic landlord

half an hour to express his ideas regarding the asylum, the pump, and

the duties of the Government, and in this way the priest succeeded in

delaying the departure of the audience till after closing time.

"However fast they walk," he said to himself, "they won't get to

Michael Dunne's public-house in ten minutes, and he will be shut by

then." It devolved upon him to bring the evening's amusement to a close

with a few remarks, and he said:--

"Now, the last words I have to say to you I'll address to the women.

Now listen to me. If you pay more attention to your poultry you'll

never be short of half a sovereign to lend your husbands, your sons, or

your brothers."

These last words produced an approving shuffling of feet in one corner

of the room, and seeing that nothing more was going to happen, the

villagers got up and they went out very slowly, the women curtseying

and the men lifting their caps to the priest as they passed him.

He had signed to Ned and Mary that he wished to speak to them, and

after he had spoken to Ned he called Kate and reminded her that he had

not seen her at confession lately.

"Pat Connex and Peter M'Shane, now don't you be going. I will have a

word with you presently." And while Kate tried to find an excuse to

account for her absence from confession, the priest called to Ned and

Mary, who were talking at a little distance. He told them he would be

waiting for them in church tomorrow, and he said he had never made a

marriage that gave him more pleasure. He alluded to the fact that they

had come to him. He was responsible for this match, and he accepted the

responsibility gladly. His uncle, the Vicar-General, had delegated all

the work of the parish to him.

"Father Stafford," he said abruptly, "will be very glad to hear of your

marriage, Kate Kavanagh."

"My marriage," said Kate .... "I don't think I shall ever be married."

"Now, why do you say that?" said the priest. Kate did not know why she

had said that she would never be married. However, she had to give some

reason, and she said:--

"I don't think, your reverence, anyone would have me."

"You are not speaking your mind," said the priest, a little sternly.

"It is said that you don't want to be married, that you like courting

better."

"I'd like to be married well enough," said Kate.

"Those who wish to make safe, reliable marriages consult their parents

and they consult the priest. I have made your brother's marriage for

him. Why don't you come to me and ask me to make up a marriage for you?"

"I think a girl should make her own marriage, your reverence."

"And what way do you go about making up a marriage? Walking about the

roads in the evening, and going into public-houses, and leaving your

situations. It seems to me, Kate Kavanagh, you have been a long time

making up this marriage."

"Now, Pat Connex, I've got a word with you. You're a good boy, and I

know you don't mean any harm by it; but I have been hearing tales about

you. You've been up to Dublin with Kate Kavanagh. Your mother came up

to speak to me about this matter yesterday, and she said: 'Not a penny

of my money will he ever get if he marries her,' meaning the girl

before you. Your mother said; 'I've got nothing to say against her, but

I've got a right to choose my own daughter-in-law.' These are your

mother's very words, Pat, so you had better listen to reason. Do you

hear me, Kate?"

"I hear your reverence."

"And if you hear me, what have you got to say to that?"

"He's free to go after the girl he chooses, your reverence," said Kate.

"There's been courting enough," the priest said. "If you aren't going

to be married you must give up keeping company. I see Paddy Boyle

outside the door. Go home with him. Do you hear what I'm saying, Pat?

Go straight home, and no stopping about the roads. Just do as I bid

you; go straight home to your mother."

Pat did not move at the bidding of the priest. He stood watching Kate

as if he were waiting for a sign from her, but Kate did not look at him.

"Do you hear what I'm saying to you?" said the priest.

"Yes, I hear," said Pat.

"And aren't you going?" said the priest.

Everyone was afraid Pat would raise his hand against the priest, and

they looked such strong men, both of them, that everyone wondered which

would get the better of the other.

"You won't go home when I tell you to do so. We will see if I can't put

you out of the door then."

"If you weren't a priest," said Pat, "the devil a bit of you would put

me out of the door."

"If I weren't a priest I would break every bone in your body for

talking to me like that. Now out you go," he said, taking him by the

collar, and he put him out.

"And now, Kate Kavanagh," said the priest, coming back from the door,

"you said you didn't marry because no man would have you. Peter has

been waiting for you ever since you were a girl of sixteen years old,

and I may say it for him, since he doesn't say much himself, that you

have nearly broken his heart."

"I'm sure I never meant it. I like Peter."

"You acted out of recklessness without knowing what you were doing."

A continual smile floated round Peter's moustache, and he looked like a

man to whom rebuffs made no difference. His eyes were patient and

docile; and whether it was the presence of this great and true love by

her side, or whether it was the presence of the priest, Kate did not

know, but a great change came over her, and she said:--

"I know that Peter has been very good, that he has cared for me this

long while .... If he wishes to make me his wife--"

When Kate gave him her hand there was a mist in his eyes, and he stood

trembling before her.

III

Next morning, as Father Maguire was leaving the house, his servant

handed him a letter. It was from an architect who had been down to

examine the walls of the church. The envelope that Father Maguire was

tearing open contained his report, and Father Maguire read that it

would require two hundred pounds to make the walls secure. Father

Maguire was going round to the church to marry Mary Byrne and Ned

Kavanagh, and he continued to read the report until he arrived at the

church. The wedding party was waiting, but the architect's report was

much more important than a wedding, and he wandered round the old walls

examining the cracks as he went. He could see they were crumbling, and

he believed the architect was right, and that it would be better to

build a new church. But to build a new church three or four thousand

pounds would be required, and the architect might as well suggest that

he should collect three or four millions.

And Ned and Mary noticed the dark look between the priest's eyes as he

came out of the sacristy, and Ned regretted that his reverence should

be out of his humour that morning, for he had spent three out of the

five pounds he had saved to pay the priest for marrying him. He had

cherished hopes that the priest would understand that he had had to buy

some new clothes, but the priest looked so cross that it was with

difficulty he summoned courage to tell him that he had only two pounds

left.

"I want two hundred pounds to make the walls of the church safe. Where

is the money to come from? All the money in Kilmore goes into drink,"

he added bitterly, "into blue trousers. No, I won't marry you for two

pounds. I won't marry you for less than five. I will marry you for

nothing or I will marry you for five pounds," he added, and Ned looked

round the wedding guests; he knew that none had five shillings in his

pocket, and he did not dare to take the priest at his word and let him

marry him for nothing.

Father Maguire felt that his temper had got the better of him, but it

was too late to go back on what he said. Marry them for two pounds with

the architect's letter in the pocket of his cassock! And if he were to

accept two pounds, who would pay five to be married? If he did not

stand out for his dues the marriage fee would be reduced from five

pounds to one pound ... And if he accepted Ned's two pounds his

authority would be weakened; he would not be able to get them to

subscribe to have the church made safe. On the whole he thought he had

done right, and his servant was of the same opinion.

"They'd have the cassock off your back, your reverence, if they could

get it."

"And the architect writing to me that the walls can't be made safe

under two hundred pounds, and the whole lot of them not earning less

than thirty shillings a week, and they can't pay the priest five pounds

for marrying them."

In the course of the day he went to Dublin to see the architect; and

next morning it occurred to him that he might have to go to America to

get the money to build a new church, and as he sat thinking the door

was opened and the servant said that Biddy M'Hale wanted to see his

reverence.

She came in curtseying, and before saying a word she took ten

sovereigns out of her pocket and put them upon the table. The priest

thought she had heard of the architect's report, and he said:--

"Now, Biddy, I am glad to see you. I suppose you have brought me this

for my church. You have heard of the money it will cost to make the

walls safe."

"No, your reverence, I did not hear any more than that there were

cracks in the walls."

"But you have brought me this money to have the cracks mended?"

"Well, no, your reverence. I have been thinking a long time of doing

something for the church, and I thought I should like to have a window

put up in the church with coloured glass in it."

Father Maguire was touched by Biddy's desire to do something for the

church, and he thought he would have no difficulty in persuading her.

He could get this money for the repairs, and he told her that her name

would be put on the top of the subscription list.

"A subscription from Miss M'Hale--L10. A subscription from Miss M'Hale."

Biddy did not answer, and the priest could see that it would give her

no pleasure whatever to subscribe to mending the walls of his church,

and it annoyed him to see her sitting in his own chair stretching out

her hands to take the money back. He could see that her wish to benefit

the church was merely a pretext for the glorification of herself, and

the priest began to argue with the old woman. But he might have spared

himself the trouble of explaining that it was necessary to have a new

church before you could have a window. She understood well enough it

was useless to put a window up in a church that was going to fall down.

But her idea still was St. Joseph in a red cloak and the Virgin in blue

with a crown of gold on her head, and forgetful of everything else, she

asked him whether her window in the new church should be put over the

high altar, or if it should be a window lighting a side altar.

"But, my good woman, ten pounds will not pay for a window. You couldn't

get anything to speak of in the way of a window for less than fifty

pounds."

He had expected to astonish Biddy, but she did not seem astonished. She

said that although fifty pounds was a great deal of money she would not

mind spending all that money if she were to have her window all to

herself. She had thought at first of only putting in part of the

window, a round piece at the top of the window, and she had thought

that that could be bought for ten pounds. The priest could see that she

had been thinking a good deal of this window, and she seemed to know

more about it than he expected. "It is extraordinary," he said to

himself, "how a desire of immortality persecutes these second-class

souls. A desire of temporal immortality," he said, fearing he had been

guilty of a heresy.

"If I could have the whole window to myself, I would give you fifty

pounds, your reverence."

The priest had no idea she had saved as much money as that.

"The hins have been very good to me, your reverence, and I would like

to put up the window in the new church better than in the old church."

"But I've got no money, my good woman, to build the church."

"Ah, won't your reverence go to America and get the money. Aren't our

own kith and kin over there, and aren't they always willing to give us

money for our churches."

The priest spoke to her about statues, and suggested that perhaps a

statue would be a more permanent gift, but the old woman knew that

stained glass was more permanent, and that it could be secured from

breakage by means of wire netting.

"Do you know, Biddy, it will require three or four thousand pounds to

build a new church. If I go to America and do my best to get the money,

how much will you help me with?"

"Does your reverence mean for the window?"

"No, Biddy, I was thinking of the church itself."

And Biddy said that she would give him five pounds to help to build the

church and fifty pounds for her window, and, she added, "If the best

gilding and paint costs a little more I would be sorry to see the

church short."

"Well, you say, Biddy, you will give five pounds towards the church.

Now, let us think how much money I could get in this parish."

He had a taste for gossip, and he liked to hear everyone's domestic

details. She began by telling him she had met Kate Kavanagh on the

road, and Kate had told her that there had been great dancing last

night.

"But there was no wedding," said the priest.

"I only know, your reverence, what Kate Kavanagh told me. There had

been great dancing last night. The supper was ordered at Michael

Dunne's, and the cars were ordered, and they went to Enniskerry and

back."

"But Michael Dunne would not dare to serve supper to people who were

not married," said the priest.

"The supper had been ordered, and they would have to pay for it whether

they ate it or not. There was a pig's head, and the cake cost eighteen

shillings, and it was iced."

"Never mind the food," said the priest, "tell me what happened."

"Kate said that after coming back from Enniskerry, Michael Dunne said:

'Is this the wedding party?' and that Ned jumped off the car, and said:

'To be sure. Amn't I the wedded man.' And they had half a barrel of

porter."

"Never mind the drink," said the priest, "what then?"

"There was dancing first and fighting after. Pat Connex and Peter

M'Shane were both there. You know Pat plays the melodion, and he asked

Peter to sing, and Peter can't sing a bit, and he was laughed at. So he

grabbed a bit of stick and hit Pat on the head, and hit him badly, too.

I hear the doctor had to be sent for."

"That is always the end of their dancing and drinking," said the

priest. "And what happened then, what happened? After that they went

home?"

"Yes, your reverence, they went home."

"Mary Byrne went home with her own people, I suppose, and Ned went back

to his home."

"I don't know, your reverence, what they did."

"Well, what else did Kate Kavanagh tell you?"

"She had just left her brother and Mary, and they were going towards

the Peak. That is what Kate told me when I met her on the road."

"Mary Byrne would not go to live with a man to whom she was not

married. But you told me that Kate said she had just left Mary Byrne

and her brother."

"Yes, they were just coming out of the cabin," said Biddy. "She passed

them on the road."

"Out of whose cabin?" said the priest.

"Out of Ned's cabin. I know it must have been out of Ned's cabin,

because she said she met them at the cross roads."

He questioned the old woman, but she grew less and less explicit.

"I don't like to think this of Mary Byrne, but after so much dancing

and drinking, it is impossible to say what might not have happened."

"I suppose they forgot your reverence didn't marry them."

"Forgot!" said the priest. "A sin has been committed, and through my

fault."

"They will come to your reverence to-morrow when they are feeling a

little better."

The priest did not answer, and Biddy said:--

"Am I to take away my money, or will your reverence keep it for the

stained glass window."

"The church is tumbling down, and before it is built up you want me to

put up statues."

"I'd like a window as well or better."

"I've got other things to think of now."

"Your reverence is very busy. If I had known it I would not have come

disturbing you. But I'll take my money with me."

"Yes, take your money," he said. "Go home quietly, and say nothing

about what you have told me. I must think over what is best to be done."

Biddy hurried away gathering her shawl about her, and this great strong

man who had taken Pat Connex by the collar and could have thrown him

out of the school-room, fell on his knees and prayed that God might

forgive him the avarice and anger that had caused him to refuse to

marry Ned Kavanagh and Mary Byrne.

"Oh! my God, oh! my God," he said, "Thou knowest that it was not for

myself that I wanted the money, it was to build up Thine Own House."

He remembered that his uncle had warned him again and again aginst the

sin of anger. He had thought lightly of his uncle's counsels, and he

had not practised the virtue of humility, which, as St. Teresa said,

was the surest virtue to seek in this treacherous world.

"Oh, my God, give me strength to conquer anger."

The servant opened the door, but seeing the priest upon his knees, she

closed it quietly, and the priest prayed that if sin had been committed

he might bear the punishment.

And on rising from his knees he felt that his duty was to seek out the

sinful couple. But how to speak to them of their sins? The sin was not

their's. He was the original wrong-doer. If Ned Kavanagh and Mary Byrne

were to die and lose their immortal souls, how could the man who had

been the cause of the loss of two immortal souls, save his own, and the

consequences of his refusal to marry Ned Kavanagh and Mary Byrne seemed

to reach to the very ends of Eternity.

He walked to his uncle's with great swift steps, hardly seeing his

parishioners as he passed them on the road.

"Is Father Stafford in?"

"Yes, your reverence."

"Uncle John, I have come to consult you."

The priest sat huddled in his arm-chair over the fire, and Father

Maguire noticed that his cassock was covered with snuff, and he noticed

the fringe of reddish hair about the great bald head, and he noticed

the fat inert hands. And he noticed these things more explicitly than

he had ever noticed them before, and he wondered why he noticed them so

explicitly, for his mind was intent on a matter of great spiritual

importance.

"I have come to ask you," Father Tom said, "regarding the blame

attaching to a priest who refuses to marry a young man and a young

woman, there being no impediment of consanguinity or other."

"But have you refused to marry anyone because they couldn't pay you

your dues?"

"Listen, the church is falling."

"My dear Tom, you should not have refused to marry them," he said, as

soon as his soul-stricken curate had laid the matter before him.

"Nothing can justify my action in refusing to marry them," said Father

Tom, "nothing. Uncle John, I know that you can extenuate, that you are

kind, but I do not see it is possible to look at it from any other

side."

"My dear Tom, you are not sure they remained together; the only

knowledge you have of the circumstances you obtained from that old

woman, Biddy M'Hale, who cannot tell a story properly. An old gossip,

who manufactures stories out of the slightest materials ... but who

sells excellent eggs; her eggs are always fresh. I had two this

morning."

"Uncle John, I did not come here to be laughed at."

"I am not laughing at you, my dear Tom; but really you know very little

about this matter."

"I know well enough that they remained together last night. I examined

the old woman carefully, and she had just met Kate Kavanagh on the

road. There can be no doubt about it," he said.

"But," said Father John, "they intended to be married; the intention

was there."

"Yes, but the intention is no use. We are not living in a country where

the edicts of the Council of Trent have not been promulgated."

"That's true," said Father John. "But how can I help you? What am I to

do?"

"Are you feeling well enough for a walk this morning? Could you come up

to Kilmore?"

"But it is two miles--I really--"

"The walk will do you good. If you do this for me, Uncle John--"

"My dear Tom, I am, as you say, not feeling very well this morning,

but--"

He looked at his nephew, and seeing that he was suffering, he said:--

"I know what these scruples of conscience are; they are worse than

physical suffering."

But before he decided to go with his nephew to seek the sinners out, he

could not help reading him a little lecture.

"I don't feel as sure as you do that a sin has been committed, but

admitting that a sin has been committed, I think you ought to admit

that you set your face against the pleasure of these poor people too

resolutely."

"Pleasure," said Father Tom. "Drinking and dancing, hugging and kissing

each other about the lanes."

"You said dancing--now, I can see no harm in it."

"There is no harm in dancing, but it leads to harm. If they only went

back with their parents after the dance, but they linger in the lanes."

"It was raining the other night, and I felt sorry, and I said, 'Well,

the boys and girls will have to stop at home to-night, there will be no

courting to-night.' If you do not let them walk about the lanes and

make their own marriages, they marry for money. These walks at eventide

represent all the aspiration that may come into their lives. After they

get married, the work of the world grinds all the poetry out of them."

"Walking under the moon," said Father Tom, "with their arms round each

other's waists, sitting for hours saying stupid things to each

other--that isn't my idea of poetry. The Irish find poetry in other

things except sex."

"Mankind," said Father John, "is the same all the world over. The Irish

are not different from other races; do not think it. Woman represents

all the poetry that the ordinary man is capable of appreciating."

"And what about ourselves?"

"We are different. We have put this interest aside. I have never

regretted it, and you have not regretted it either."

"Celibacy has never been a trouble to me."

"But, Tom, your own temperament should not prevent you from sympathy

with others. You are not the whole of human nature; you should try to

get a little outside yourself."

"Can one ever do this?" said Father Tom.

"Well, you see what a difficulty your narrow-mindedness has brought you

into."

"I know all that," said Father Tom. "It is no use insisting upon it.

Now will you come with me? They must be married this morning. Will you

come with me? I want you to talk to them. You are kinder than I am. You

sympathise with them more than I do, and it wasn't you who refused to

marry them."

Father John got out of his arm-chair and staggered about the room on

his short fat legs, trying to find his hat. Father Tom said:--

"Here it is. You don't want your umbrella. There's no sign of rain."

"No," said his uncle, "but it will be very hot presently. My dear Tom,

I can't walk fast."

"I am sorry, I didn't know I was walking fast."

"You are walking at the rate of four miles an hour at the least."

"I am sorry, I will walk slower."

At the cross rods inquiry was made, and the priests were told that the

cabin Ned Kavanagh had taken was the last one.

"That's just another half-mile," remarked Father John.

"If we don't hasten we shall be late."

"We might rest here," said Father John, "for a moment," and he leaned

against a gate. "My dear Tom, it seems to me you're agitating yourself

a little unnecessarily about Ned Kavanagh and his wife--I mean the girl

he is going to marry."

"I am quite sure. Ned Kavanagh brought Mary back to his cabin. There

can be no doubt."

"Even so," said Father John. "He may have thought he was married."

"How could he have thought he was married unless he was drunk, and that

cannot be put forward as an excuse. No, my dear uncle, you are inclined

for subtleties this morning."

"He may have thought he was married. Moreover, he intended to be

married, and if through forgetfulness--"

"Forgetfulness!" cried Father Maguire. "A pretty large measure of

forgetfulness!"

"I shouldn't say that a mortal sin has been committed; a venial one

.... If he intended to be married--"

"Oh, my dear uncle, we shall be late, we shall be late!"

Father Stafford repressed the smile that gathered in the corner of his

lips, and he remembered how Father Tom had kept him out of bed till two

o'clock in the morning, talking to him about St. Thomas Aquinas.

"If they're to be married to-day we must be getting on." And Father

Maguire's stride grew more impatient. "I'll walk on in front."

At last he spied a woman in a field, and she told him that the married

couple had gone towards the Peak. Most of them had gone for a walk, but

Pat Connex was in bed, and the doctor had to be sent for.

"I've heard," said Father Tom, "of last night's drunkenness. Half a

barrel of porter; there's what remains," he said, pointing to some

stains on the roadway. "They were too drunk to turn off the tap."

"I heard your reverence wouldn't marry them," the woman said.

"I am going to bring them down to the church at once."

"Well, if you do," said the woman, "you won't be a penny the poorer;

you will have your money at the end of the week. And how do you do,

your reverence." The woman dropped a curtsey to Father Stafford. "It's

seldom we see you up here."

"They have gone towards the Peak," said Father Tom, for he saw his

uncle would take advantage of the occasion to gossip. "We shall catch

them up there."

"I am afraid I am not equal to it, Tom. I'd like to do this for you,

but I am afraid I am not equal to another half-mile up-hill."

Father Maguire strove to hypnotize his parish priest.

"Uncle John, you are called upon to make this effort. I cannot speak to

these people as I should like to."

"If you spoke to them as you would like to, you would only make matters

worse," said Father John.

"Very likely, I'm not in a humour to contest these things with you. But

I beseech you to come with me. Come," he said, "take my arm."

They went a few hundred yards up the road, then there was another

stoppage, and Father Maguire had again to exercise his power of will,

and he was so successful that the last half-mile of the road was

accomplished almost without a stop.

At Michael Dunne's, the priests learned that the wedding party had been

there, and Father Stafford called for a lemonade.

"Don't fail me now, Uncle John. They are within a few hundred yards of

us. I couldn't meet them without you. Think of it. If they were to tell

me that I had refused to marry them for two pounds, my authority would

be gone for ever. I should have to leave the parish."

"My dear Tom, I would do it if I could, but I am completely exhausted."

At that moment sounds of voices were heard.

"Listen to them, Uncle John." And the curate took the glass from Father

John. "They are not as far as I thought, they are sitting under these

trees. Come," he said.

They walked some twenty yards, till they reached a spot where the light

came pouring through the young leaves, and all the brown leaves of last

year were spotted with light. There were light shadows amid the rocks

and pleasant mosses, and the sounds of leaves and water, and from the

top of a rock Kate listened while Peter told her they would rebuild his

house.

"The priests are after us," she said.

And she gave a low whistle, and the men and boys looked round, and

seeing the priests coming, they dispersed, taking several paths, and

none but Ned and Mary were left behind. Ned was dozing, Mary was

sitting beside him fanning herself with her hat; they had not heard

Kate's whistle, and they did not see the priests until they were by

them.

"Now, Tom, don't lose your head, be quiet with them."

"Will you speak to them, or shall I?" said Father Tom.

In the excitement of the moment he forgot his own imperfections and

desired to admonish them.

"I think you had better let me speak to them," said Father John. "You

are Ned Kavanagh," he said, "and you are Mary Byrne, I believe. Now, I

don't know you all, for I am getting an old man, and I don't often come

up this way. But notwithstanding my age, and the heat of the day, I

have come up, for I have heard that you have not acted as good

Catholics should. I don't doubt for a moment that you intended to get

married, but you have, I fear, been guilty of a great sin, and you've

set a bad example."

"We were on our way to your reverence now," said Mary. "I mean to his

reverence."

"Well," said Father Tom, "you are certainly taking your time over it,

lying here half asleep under the trees."

"We hadn't the money," said Mary, "it wasn't our fault."

"Didn't I say I'd marry you for nothing?"

"But sure, your reverence, that's only a way of speaking."

"There's no use lingering here," said Father Tom. "Ned, you took the

pledge the day before yesterday, and yesterday you were tipsy."

"I may have had a drop of drink in me, your reverence. Pat Connex

passed me the mug of porter and I forgot myself."

"And once," said the priest, "you tasted the porter you thought you

could go on taking it."

Ned did not answer, and the priests whispered together.

"We are half way now," said Father Tom, "we can get there before twelve

o'clock."

"I don't think I'm equal to it," said Father John. "I really don't

think--"

The sounds of wheels were heard, and a peasant driving a donkey cart

came up the road.

"You see it is all up-hill," said Father John. "See how the road

ascends. I never could manage it."

"The road is pretty flat at the top of the hill once you get to the top

of the hill, and the cart will take you to the top."

It seemed undignified to get into the donkey cart, but his nephew's

conscience was at stake, and the Vicar-General got in, and Father Tom

said to the unmarried couple:--

"Now walk on in front of us, and step out as quickly as you can."

And on the way to the church Father Tom remembered that he had caught

sight of Kate standing at the top of the rock talking to Peter M'Shane.

In a few days they would come to him to be married, and he hoped that

Peter and Kate's marriage would make amends for this miserable

patchwork, for Ned Kavanagh and Mary Byrne's marriage was no better

than patchwork.

IV

Mrs. Connex promised the priest to keep Pat at home out of Kate's way,

and the neighbours knew it was the priest's wish that they should do

all they could to help him to bring about this marriage, and everywhere

Kate went she heard nothing talked of but her marriage.

The dress that Kate was to be married in was a nice grey silk. It had

been bought at a rummage sale, and she was told that it suited her. But

Kate had begun to feel that she was being driven into a trap. In the

week before her marriage she tried to escape. She went to Dublin to

look for a situation; but she did not find one. She had not seen Pat

since the poultry lecture, and his neglect angered her. She did not

care what became of her.

On the morning of her wedding she turned round and asked her sister if

she thought she ought to marry Peter, and Julia said it would be a pity

if she didn't. Six cars had been engaged, and, feeling she was done

for, she went to the church, hoping it would fall down on her. Well,

the priest had his way, and Kate felt she hated him and Mrs. M'Shane,

who stood on the edge of the road. The fat were distributed alongside

of the lean, and the bridal party drove away, and there was a great

waving of hands, and Mrs. M'Shane waited until the last car was out of

sight.

Her husband had been dead many years, and she lived with her son in a

two-roomed cabin. She was one of those simple, kindly natures that

everyone likes and that everyone despises, and she returned home like a

lonely goose, waddling slowly, a little overcome by the thought of the

happiness that awaited her son. There would be no more lonely evenings

in the cabin; Kate would be with him now, and later on there would be

some children, and she waddled home thinking of the cradle and the joy

it would be to her to take her grandchildren upon her knee. When she

returned to the cottage she sat down, so that she might dream over her

happiness a little longer. But she had not been sitting long when she

remembered there was a great deal of work to be done. The cabin would

have to be cleaned from end to end, there was the supper to be cooked,

and she did not pause in her work until everything was ready. At five

the pig's head was on the table, and the sheep's tongues; the bread was

baked; the barrel of porter had come, and she was expecting the piper

every minute. As she stood with her arms akimbo looking at the table,

thinking of the great evening it would be, she thought how her old

friend, Annie Connex, had refused to come to Peter's wedding. Wasn't

all the village saying that Kate would not have married Peter if she

had not been driven to it by the priest and by her mother.

"Poor boy," she thought, "his heart is so set upon her that he has no

ears for any word against her."

She could not understand why people should talk ill of a girl on her

wedding day. "Why shouldn't a girl be given a chance?" she asked

herself. "Why should Annie Connex prevent her son from coming to the

dance? If she were to go to her now and ask her if she would come? and

if she would not come herself, if she would let Pat come round for an

hour? If Annie would do this all the gossips would have their tongues

tied. Anyhow she could try to persuade her." And she locked her door

and walked up the road and knocked at Mrs. Connex's.

Prosperity in the shapes of pig styes and stables had collected round

Annie's door, and Mrs. M'Shane was proud to be a visitor in such a

house.

"I came round, Annie, to tell you they're married."

"Well, come in, Mary," she said, "if you have the time."

The first part of the sentence was prompted by the news that Kate was

safely married and out of Pat's way; and the second half of the

sentence, "if you have the time," was prompted by a wish that Mary

should see that she need not come again for some time at least.

To Annie Connex the Kavanagh family was abomination. The father got

eighteen shillings a week for doing a bit of gardening. Ned had been a

quarryman, now he was out of work and did odd jobs. The Kavanaghs took

in a baby, and they got five or six shillings a week for that. Mrs.

Kavanagh sold geraniums at more than their value, and she got more than

the market value for her chickens--she sold them to charitable folk who

were anxious to encourage poultry farming; and now Julia, the second

daughter, had gone in for lace making, and she made a lace that looked

as if it were cut out of paper, and sold it for three times its market

value.

And to sell above market value was abominable to Annie Connex. Her idea

of life was order and administration, and the village she lived in was

thriftless and idle. The Kavanaghs received out-door relief; they got

two shillings a week off the rates, though every Saturday evening they

bought a quarter barrel of porter, and Annie Connex could not believe

in the future of a country that would tolerate such a thing. If her son

had married a Kavanagh her life would have come to an end, and the

twenty years she had worked for him would have been wasted years. Thank

God, Kate was out of her son's way, and on seeing Mary she resolved

that Pat should never cross the M'Shane's threshold.

Mrs. M'Shane looked round the comfortable kitchen, with sides of bacon,

and home-cured hams hanging from the rafters. She had not got on in

life as well as Mrs. Connex, and she knew she would never have a

beautiful closed range, but an open hearth till the end of her days.

She could never have a nice dresser with a pretty carved top. The

dresser in her kitchen was deal, and had no nice shining brass knobs on

it. She would never have a parlour, and this parlour had in it a

mahogany table and a grandfather's clock that would show you the moon

on it just the same as it was in the sky, and there was a glass over

the fireplace. This was Annie Connex's own parlour. The parlour on the

other side of the house was even better furnished, for in the summer

months Mrs. Connex bedded and boarded her lodgers for one pound or one

pound five shillings a week.

"So she was married to-day, and Father Maguire married her after all. I

never thought he would have brought her to it. Well, I'm glad she's

married." It rose to Mary's lips to say, "you are glad she didn't marry

your son," but she put back the words. "It comes upon me as a bit of

surprise, for sure and all I could never see her settling down in the

parish."

"Them that are the wildest before marriage are often the best after,

and I think it will be like that with Kate."

"I hope so," said Annie. "And there is reason why it should be like

that. She must have liked Peter better than we thought; you will never

get me to believe that it was the priest's will or anybody's will that

brought Kate to do what she did."

"I hope she'll make my boy a good wife."

"I hope so, too," said Annie, and the women sat over the fire thinking

it out.

Annie Connex wore an apron, and a black straw hat; and her eyes were

young, and kind, and laughing, but Mrs. M'Shane, who had known her for

twenty years, often wondered what Annie would have been like if she had

not got a kind husband, and if good luck had not attended her all

through life.

"We never had anyone like her before in the parish. I hear she turned

round to her sister Julia, who was dressing her, and said, 'Now am I to

marry him, or shall I go to America?' And she was putting on her grey

dress at the time."

"She looked well in that grey dress; there was lace on the front of it,

and everyone said that a handsomer girl hasn't been married in the

parish for years. There isn't a man in the parish that would not be in

Peter's place to-day if he only dared."

"I don't catch your meaning, Mary."

"Well, perhaps I oughtn't to have said it now that she's my own

daughter, but I think many would have been a bit afraid of her after

what she said to the priest three days ago."

"She did have her tongue on him. People are telling all ends of

stories."

"Tis said that Father Maguire was up at the Kavanagh's three days ago,

and I heard that she hunted him. She called him a policeman, and a tax

collector, and a landlord, and if she said this she said more to a

priest than anyone ever said before. 'There are plenty of people in the

parish,' she said, 'who believe he could turn them into rabbits if he

liked.' As for the rabbits she isn't far from the truth, though I don't

take it on myself to say if it be a truth or a lie. But I know for a

fact that Patsy Rogan was going to vote for the Unionist to please his

landlord, but the priest had been to see his wife, who was going to be

confined, and didn't he tell her that if Patsy voted for the wrong man

there would be horns on the new baby, and Mrs. Rogan was so frightened

that she wouldn't let her husband go when he came in that night till he

had promised to vote as the priest wished."

"Patsy Rogan is an ignorant man," said Annie, "there are many like him

even here."

"Ah, sure there will be always some like him. Don't we like to believe

the priest can do all things."

"But Kate doesn't believe the priest can do these things. Anyhow she's

married, and there will be an end to all the work that has been going

on."

"That's true for you, Annie, and that's just what I came to talk to you

about. I think now she's married we ought to give her a chance. Every

girl ought to get her chance, and the way to put an end to all this

talk about her will be for you to come round to the dance to-night."

"I don't know that I can do that. I am not friends with the Kavanaghs,

though I always bid them the time of day when I meet them on the road."

"If you come in for a few minutes, or if Pat were to come in for a few

minutes. If Peter and Pat aren't friends they'll be enemies."

"Maybe they'd be worse enemies if I don't keep Pat out of Kate's way.

She's married Peter; but her mind is not settled yet."

"Yes, Annie, I've thought of all that; but they'll be meeting on the

road, and, if they aren't friends, there will be quarrelling, and some

bad deed may be done."

Annie did not answer, and, thinking to convince her, Mary said:--

"You wouldn't like to see a corpse right over your window."

"It ill becomes you, Mary, to speak of corpses after the blow that

Peter gave Pat with his stick at Ned Kavanagh's wedding. No; I must

stand by my son, and I must keep him out of the low Irish, and he won't

be safe until I get him a good wife."

"The low Irish! indeed, Annie, it ill becomes you to talk that way of

your neighbours. Is it because none of us have brass knockers on our

doors? I have seen this pride growing up in you, Annie Connex, this

long while. There isn't one in the village now that you've any respect

for except the grocer, that black Protestant, who sits behind his

counter and makes money, and knows no enjoyment in life at all."

"That's your way of looking at it; but it isn't mine. I set my face

against my son marrying Kate Kavanagh, and you should have done the

same."

"Something will happen to you for the cruel words you have spoken to me

this day."

"Mary, you came to ask me to your son's wedding, and I had to tell

you--"

"Yes, and you've told me that you won't come, and that you hate the

Kavanaghs, and you've said all you could against them. I should not

have listened to all you said; if I did, it is because we have known

each other these twenty years. Don't I remember well the rags you had

on your back when you came to this village. It ill becomes--"

Mrs. M'Shane got up and went out and Annie followed her to the gate.

The sounds of wheels and hoofs were heard, and the wedding party passed

by, and on the first car whom should they see but Kate sitting between

Pat and Peter.

"Good-bye, Annie. I see that Pat's coming to our dance after all. I

must hurry down the road to open the door to him."

And she laughed as she waddled down the road, and she could not speak

for want of breath when she got to the door. They were all there, Pat

and the piper and Kate and Peter and all their friends; and she could

not speak? and hadn't the strength to find the key. She could only

think of the black look that had come over Annie's face when she saw

Pat sitting by Kate on the car. She had told Annie that she would be

punished, and Mrs. M'Shane laughed as she searched for the key,

thinking how quickly her punishment had come.

She searched for the key, and all the while they were telling her how

they had met Pat at Michael Dunne's.

"When he saw us he tried to sneak into the yard; but I went after him.

And don't you think I did right?" Kate said, as they went into the

house. And when they were all inside, she said: "Now I'll get the

biggest jug of porter, and one shall drink one half and the other the

other."

Peter was fond of jugs, and had large and small; some were white and

brown, and some were gilt, with pink flowers. At last she chose the

great brown one.

"Now, Peter, you'll say something nice."

"I'll say, then," said Peter, "this is the happiest day of my life, as

it should be, indeed; for haven't I got the girl that I wanted, and

hasn't Pat forgiven me for the blow I struck him? For he knows well I

wouldn't hurt a hair of his head. Weren't we boys together? But I had a

cross drop in me at the time, and that was how it was."

Catching sight of Kate's black hair and rosy cheeks, which were all the

world to him, he stopped speaking and stood looking at her, unheedful

of everything; and he looked so good and foolish at that time that more

than one woman thought it would be a weary thing to live with him.

"Now, Pat, you must make a speech, too," said Kate.

"I haven't any speech in me," he said. "I'm glad enough to be here; but

I'm sore afraid my mother saw me sitting on the car, and I think I had

better be going home and letting you finish this marriage."

"What's that you're saying?" said Kate. "You won't go out of this house

till you've danced a reel with me, and now sit down at the table next

to me; and, Peter, you sit on the other side of him, so that he won't

run away to his mother."

Her eyes were as bright as coals of fire, and she called to her father,

who was at the end of the table, to have another slice of pig's head,

and to the piper, who was having his supper in the window, to have a

bit more; and then she turned to Pat, who said never a word, and

laughed at him for having nothing to say.

It seemed to them as if there was no one in the room but Kate; and

afterwards they remembered things. Ned remembered that Kate had seemed

to put Pat out of her mind. She had stood talking to her husband, and

she had said that he must dance with her, though it was no amusement to

a girl to dance opposite Peter. And Mary, Ned's wife, remembered how

Kate, though she had danced with Peter in the first reel, had not been

able to keep her eyes from the corner where Pat sat sulking, and that,

sudden-like, she had grown weary of Peter. Mary remembered she had seen

a wild look pass in Kate's eyes, and that she had gone over to Pat and

pulled him out.

It was a pleasure for a girl to dance opposite to Pat, so cleverly did

his feet move to the tune. And everyone was admiring them when Pat

cried out:--

"I'm going home. I bid you all good-night; here finish this wedding as

you like."

And before anyone could stop him he had run out of the house.

"Peter, go after him," Kate said; "bring him back. It would be ill luck

on our wedding night for anyone to leave us like that."

Peter went out of the door, and was away some time; but he came back

without Pat.

"The night is that dark, I lost him," he said. Then Kate did not seem

to care what she said. Her black hair fell down, and she told Peter he

was a fool, and that he should have run faster. Her mother said it was

the porter that had been too much for her; but she said it was the

priest's blessing, and this frightened everyone. But, after saying all

this, she went to her husband, saying that he was very good to her, and

she had no fault to find with him. But no sooner were the words out of

her mouth than her mind seemed to wander, and everyone had expected her

to run out of the house. But she went into the other room instead, and

shut the door behind her. Everyone knew then there would be no more

dancing that night; and the piper packed up his pipes. And Peter sat by

the fire, and he seemed to be crying. They were all sorry to leave him

like this; and, so that he might not remember what had happened, Ned

drew a big jug of porter, and put it by him.

He drank a sup out of it, but seemed to forget everything, and the jug

fell out of his hand.

"Never mind the pieces, Peter," his mother said.

"You can't put them together; and it would be better for you not to

drink any more porter. Go to bed. There's been too much drinking this

night."

"Mother, I want to know why she said I didn't run fast enough after

Pat. And didn't she know that if I hit Pat so hard it was because there

were knobs on his stick; and didn't I pick up his stick by mistake of

my own."

"Sure, Peter, it wasn't your fault; we all know that and Kate knows it

too. Now let there be no more talking or drinking. No, Peter, you've

had enough porter for to-night."

He looked round the kitchen, and seeing that Kate was not there, he

said:--

"She's in the other room, I think; mother, you'll be wantin' to go to

bed."

And Peter got on his feet and stumbled against the wall, and his mother

had to help him towards the door.

"Is it drunk I am, mother? Will you open the door for me?"

But Mrs. M'Shane could not open the door, and she said:--

"I think she's put a bit of stick in it."

"A bit of stick in the door? And didn't she say that she didn't want to

marry me? Didn't she say something about the priest's blessing?"

And then Peter was sore afraid that he would not get sight of his wife

that night, and he said:--

"Won't she acquie-esh-sh?"

And Kate said:--

"No, I won't."

And then he said:--

"We were married in church-to-day, you acquie-eshed."

And she said:--

"I'll not open the door to you. You're drunk, Peter, and not fit to

enter a decent woman's room."

"It isn't because I've a drop too much in me that you should have

fastened the door on me; it is because you're thinking of the blow I've

gave Pat. But, Kate, it was because I loved you so much that I struck

him. Now will you open--the door?"

"No, I'll not open the door to-night," she said. "I'm tired and want to

go to sleep."

And when he said he would break open the door, she said:--

"You're too drunk, Peter, and sorra bit of good it will do you. I'll be

no wife to you to-night, and that's as true as God's in heaven."

"Peter," said his mother, "don't trouble her to-night. There has been

too much dancing and drinking."

"It's a hard thing ... shut out of his wife's room."

"Peter, don't vex her to-night. Don't hammer her door any more."

"Didn't she acquie-esh? Mother, you have always been agin me. Didn't

she acquie-esh?"

"Oh, Peter, why do you say I'm agin you?"

"Did you hear her say that I was drunk. If you tell me I'm drunk I'll

say no more. I'll acquie-esh."

"Peter, you must go to sleep."

"Yes, go to sleep. ... I want to go to sleep, but she won't open the

door."

"Peter, never mind her."

"It isn't that I mind; I'm getting sleepy, but what I want to know,

mother, before I go to bed, is if I'm drunk. Tell me I'm not drunk on

my wedding night, and, though Kate--and I'll acquie-esh in all that may

be put upon me."

He covered his face with his hands and his mother begged him not to

cry. He became helpless, she put a blanket under his head and covered

him with another blanket, and went up the ladder and lay down in the

hay. She asked herself what had she done to deserve this trouble? and

she cried a great deal; and the poor, hapless old woman was asleep in

the morning when Peter stumbled to his feet. And, after dipping his

head in a pail of water, he remembered that the horses were waiting for

him in the farm. He walked off to his work, staggering a little, and as

soon as he was gone Kate drew back the bolt of the door and came into

the kitchen.

"I'm going, mother," she called up to the loft.

"Wait a minute, Kate," said Mrs. M'Shane, and she was half way down the

ladder when Kate said:--

"I can't wait, I'm going."

She walked up the road to her mother's, and she hardly saw the fields

or the mountains, though she knew she would never look upon them again.

And her mother was sweeping out the house. She had the chairs out in

the pathway. She had heard that the rector was coming down that

afternoon, and she wanted to show him how beautifully clean she kept

the cabin.

"I've come, mother, to give you this," and she took the wedding ring

off her finger and threw it on the ground. "I don't want it; I shut the

door on him last night, and I'm going to America to-day. You see how

well the marriage that you and the priest made up together has turned

out."

"Going to America," said Mrs. Kavanagh, and it suddenly occurred to her

that Kate might be going to America with Pat Connex, but she did not

dare to say it.

She stood looking at the bushes that grew between their cottage and the

next one, and she remembered how she and her brother used to cut the

branches of the alder to make pop guns, for the alder branches are full

of sap, and when the sap is expelled there is a hole smooth as the

barrel of a gun. "I'm going," she said suddenly, "there's nothing more

to say. Good-bye."

She walked away quickly, and her mother said, "She's going with Pat

Connex." But she had no thought of going to America with him. It was

not until she met him a little further on, at the cross roads, that the

thought occurred to her that he might like to go to America with her.

She called him, and he came to her, and he looked a nice boy, but she

thought he was better in Ireland. And the country seemed far away,

though she was still in it, and the people too, though she was still

among them.

"I'm going to America, Pat."

"You were married yesterday."

"Yes, that was the priest's doing and mother's and I thought they knew

best. But I'm thinking one must go one's way, and there's no judging

for one's self here. That's why I'm going. You'll find some other girl,

Pat."

"There's not another girl like you in the village. We're a dead and

alive lot. You stood up to the priest."

"I didn't stand up to him enough. You're waiting for someone. Who are

you waiting for?"

"I don't like to tell you, Kate."

She pressed him to answer her, and he told her he was waiting for the

priest. His mother had said he must marry, and the priest was coming to

make up a marriage for him.

"Everything's mother's."

"That's true, Pat, and you'll give a message for me. Tell my

mother-in-law that I've gone."

"She'll be asking me questions and I'll be sore set for an answer."

She looked at him steadily, but she left him without speaking, and he

stood thinking.

He had had good times with her, and all such times were ended for him

for ever. He was going to be married and he did not know to whom.

Suddenly he remembered he had a message to deliver, and he went down to

the M'Shanes' cabin.

"Ah, Mrs. M'Shane," he said, "it was a bad day for me when she married

Peter. But this is a worse one, for we've both lost her."

"My poor boy will feel it sorely."

When Peter came in for his dinner his mother said: "Peter, she's gone,

she's gone to America, and you're well rid of her."

"Don't say that, mother, I am not well rid of her, for there's no other

woman in the world for me except her that's gone. Has she gone with Pat

Connex?"

"No, he said nothing about that, and it was he who brought the message."

"I've no one, mother, to blame but myself. I was drunk last night, and

how could she let a drunken fellow like me into her room."

He went out to the backyard, and his mother heard him crying till it

was time for him to go back to work.

V

As he got up to go to work he caught sight of Biddy M'Hale coming up

the road; he rushed past her lest she should ask him what he was crying

about, and she stood looking after him for a moment, and went into the

cabin to inquire what had happened.

"Sure she wouldn't let her husband sleep with her last night," said

Mrs. M'Shane, "and you'll be telling the priest that. It will be well

he should know it at once."

Biddy would have liked to have heard how the wedding party had met Pat

Connex on the road, and what had happened after, but the priest was

expecting her, and she did not dare to keep him waiting much longer.

But she was not sorry she had been delayed, for the priest only wanted

to get her money to mend the walls of the old church, and she thought

that her best plan would be to keep him talking about Kate and Peter.

He was going to America to-morrow or the day after, and if she could

keep her money till then it would be safe.

His front door was open, he was leaning over the green paling that

divided his strip of garden from the road, and he looked very cross

indeed.

She began at once:--

"Sure, your reverence, there's terrible work going on in the village,

and I had to stop to listen to Mrs M'Shane. Kate Kavanagh, that was,

has gone to America, and she shut her door on him last night, saying he

was drunk."

"What's this you're telling me?"

"If your reverence will listen to me--"

"I'm always listening to you, Biddy M'Hale. Go on with your story."

It was a long time before he fully understood what had happened, but at

last all the facts seemed clear, and he said:--

"I'm expecting Pat Connex."

Then his thoughts turned to the poor husband weeping in the backyard,

and he said:--

"I made up this marriage so that she might not go away with Pat Connex."

"Well, we've been saved that," said Biddy.

"Ned Kavanagh's marriage was bad enough, but this is worse. It is no

marriage at all."

"Ah, your reverence, you musn't be taking it to heart. If the marriage

did not turn out right it was the drink."

"Ah, the drink--the drink," said the priest, and he declared that the

brewer and the distiller were the ruin of Ireland.

"That's true for you; at the same time we musn't forget that they have

put up many a fine church."

"It would be impossible, I suppose, to prohibit the brewing of ale and

the distillation of spirit." The priest's brother was a publican and

had promised a large subscription. "And now, Biddy, what are you going

to give me to make the walls secure. I don't want you all to be killed

while I am away."

"There's no fear of that, your reverence; a church never fell down on

anyone."

"Even so, if it falls down when nobody's in it where are the people to

hear Mass?"

"Ah, won't they be going down to hear Mass at Father Stafford's?"

"If you don't wish to give anything say so."

"Your reverence, amn't I--?"

"We don't want to hear about that window."

Biddy began to fear she would have to give him a few pounds to quiet

him. But, fortunately, Pat Connex came up the road, and she thought she

might escape after all.

"I hear, Pat Connex, you were dancing with Kate Kavanagh, I should say

Kate M'Shane, and she went away to America this morning. Have you heard

that?"

"I have, your reverence. She passed me on the road this morning."

"And you weren't thinking you might stop her?"

"Stop her," said Pat. "Who could stop Kate from doing anything she

wanted to do?"

"And now your mother writes to me, Pat Connex, to ask if I will get

Lennon's daughter for you."

"I see your reverence has private business with Pat Connex. I'll be

going," said Biddy, and she was many yards down the road before he

could say a word.

"Now, Biddy M'Hale, don't you be going." But Biddy pretended not to

hear him.

"Will I be running after her," said Pat, "and bringing her back?"

"No, let her go. If she doesn't want to help to make the walls safe I'm

not going to go on my knees to her. ... You'll all have to walk to

Father Stafford's to hear Mass. Have you heard your mother say what

she's going to give towards the new church, Pat Connex?"

"I think she said, your reverence, she was going to send you ten

pounds."

"That's very good of her," and this proof that a public and religious

spirit was not yet dead in his parish softened the priest's temper,

and, thinking to please him and perhaps escape a scolding, Pat began to

calculate how much Biddy had saved.

"She must be worth, I'm thinking, close on one hundred pounds to-day."

As the priest did not answer, he said, "I wouldn't be surprised if she

was worth another fifty."

"Hardly as much as that," said the priest.

"Hadn't her aunt the house we're living in before mother came to

Kilmore, and they used to have the house full of lodgers all the

summer. It's true that her aunt didn't pay her any wages, but when she

died she left her a hundred pounds, and she has been making money ever

since."

This allusion to Biddy's poultry reminded the priest that he had once

asked Biddy what had put the idea of a poultry farm into her head, and

she had told him that when she was taking up the lodgers' meals at her

aunt's she used to have to stop and lean against the banisters, so

heavy were the trays.

"One day I slipped and hurt myself, and I was lying on my back for more

than two years, and all the time I could see the fowls pecking in the

yard, for my bed was by the window. I thought I would like to keep

fowls when I was older."

The priest remembered the old woman standing before him telling him of

her accident, and while listening he had watched her, undecided whether

she could be called a hunchback. Her shoulders were higher than

shoulders usually are, she was jerked forward from the waist, and she

had the long, thin arms, and the long, thin face, and the pathetic eyes

of the hunchback. Perhaps she guessed his thoughts. She said:--

"In those days we used to go blackberrying with the boys. We used to

run all over the hills."

He did not think she had said anything else, but she had said the words

in such a way that they suggested a great deal--they suggested that she

had once been very happy, and that she had suffered very soon the loss

of all her woman's hopes. A few weeks, a few months, between her

convalescence and her disappointment had been all her woman's life. The

thought that life is but a little thing passed across the priest's

mind, and then he looked at Pat Connex and wondered what was to be done

with him. His conduct at the wedding would have to be inquired into,

and the marriage that was being arranged would have to be broken off if

Kate's flight could be attributed to him.

"Now, Pat Connex, we will go to Mrs. M'Shane. I shall want to hear her

story."

"Sure what story can she tell of me? Didn't I run out of the house away

from Kate when I saw what she was thinking of? What more could I do?"

"If Mrs. M'Shane tells the same story as you do we'll go to your

mother's, and afterwards I'll go to see Lennon about his daughter."

Pat's dancing with Kate and Kate's flight to America had reached

Lennon's ears, and it did not seem at all likely that he would consent

to give his daughter to Pat Connex, unless, indeed, Pat Connex agreed

to take a much smaller dowry than his mother had asked for.

These new negotiations, his packing, a letter to the Bishop, and the

payment of bills fully occupied the last two days, and the priest did

not see Biddy again till he was on his way to the station. She was

walking up and down her poultry-yard, telling her beads, followed by

her poultry; and it was with difficulty that he resisted the impulse to

ask her for a subscription, but the driver said if they stopped they

would miss the train.

"Very well," said the priest, and he drove past her cabin without

speaking to her.

In the bar-rooms of New York, while trying to induce a recalcitrant

loafer to part with a dollar, he remembered that he had not met anyone

so stubborn as Biddy. She had given very little, and yet she seemed to

be curiously mixed up with the building of the church. She was the last

person he saw on his way out, and, a few months later, he was struck by

the fact that she was the first parishioner he saw on his return. As he

was driving home from the station in the early morning whom should he

see but Biddy, telling her beads, followed by her poultry. The scene

was the same except that morning was substituted for evening. This was

the first impression. On looking closer he noticed that she was not

followed by as many Plymouth Rocks as on the last occasion.

"She seems to be going in for Buff Orpingtons," he said to himself.

"It's a fine thing to see you again, and your reverence is looking

well. I hope you've been lucky in America?"

"I have brought home some money anyhow, and the church will be built,

and you will tell your beads under your window one of these days."

"Your reverence is very good to me, and God is very good."

And she stood looking after him, thinking how she had brought him round

to her way of thinking. She had always known that the Americans would

pay for the building, but no one else but herself would be thinking of

putting up a beautiful window that would do honour to God and Kilmore.

And it wasn't her fault if she didn't know a good window from a bad

one, as well as the best of them. And it wasn't she who was going to

hand over her money to the priest or his architect to put up what

window they liked. She had been inside every church within twenty miles

of Kilmore, and would see that she got full value for her money.

At the end of the week she called at the priest's house to tell him the

pictures she would like to see in the window, and the colours. But the

priest's servant was not certain whether Biddy could see his reverence.

"He has a gentleman with him."

"Isn't it the architect he has with him? Don't you know that it is I

who am putting up the window?"

"To be sure," said the priest; "show her in." And he drew forward a

chair for Miss M'Hale, and introduced her to the architect. The little

man laid his pencil aside, and this encouraged Biddy, and she began to

tell him of the kind of window she had been thinking of. But she had

not told him half the things she wished to have put into the window

when he interrupted her, and said there would be plenty of time to

consider what kind of window should be put in when the walls were

finished and the roof was upon them.

"Perhaps it is a little premature to discuss the window, but you shall

choose the subjects you would like to see represented in the window,

and as for the colours, the architect and designer will advise you. But

I am sorry to say, Biddy, that this gentleman says that the four

thousand pounds the Americans were good enough to give me will not do

much more than build the walls."

"They're waiting for me to offer them my money, but I won't say a

word," Biddy said to herself; and she sat fidgetting with her shawl,

coughing from time to time, until the priest lost his patience.

"Well, Biddy, we're very busy here, and I'm sure you want to get back

to your fowls. When the church is finished we'll see if we want your

window." The priest had hoped to frighten her, but she was not the

least frightened. Her faith in her money was abundant; she knew that as

long as she had her money the priest would come to her for it on one

pretext or another, sooner or later. And she was as well pleased that

nothing should be settled at present, for she was not quite decided

whether she would like to see Christ sitting in judgment, or Christ

crowning His Virgin Mother; and during the next six months she pondered

on the pictures and the colours, and gradually the design grew clearer.

And every morning, as soon as she had fed her chickens, she went up to

Kilmore to watch the workmen. She was there when the first spadeful of

earth was thrown up, and as soon as the walls showed above the ground

she began to ask the workmen how long it would take them to reach the

windows, and if a workman put down his trowel and wandered from his

work she would tell him it was God he was cheating; and later on, when

the priest's money began to come to an end he could not pay the workmen

full wages, she told them they were working for God's Own House, and

that He would reward them in the next world.

"Hold your tongue," said a mason. "If you want the church built why

don't you give the priest the money you're saving, and let him pay us?"

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Pat Murphy. It isn't for myself I am

keeping it back. Isn't it all going to be spent?"

The walls were now built, and amid the clatter of the slater's hammers

Biddy began to tell the plasterers of the beautiful pictures that would

be seen in her window; and she gabbled on, mixing up her memories of

the different windows she had seen, until at last her chatter grew

wearisome, and they threw bits of mortar, laughing at her for a crazy

old woman, or the priest would suddenly come upon them, and they would

scatter in all directions, leaving him with Biddy.

"What were they saying to you, Biddy?"

"They were saying, your reverence, that America is a great place."

"You spend a great deal of your time here, Biddy, and I suppose you are

beginning to see that it takes a long time to build a church. Now you

are not listening to what I am saying. You are thinking about your

window; but you must have a house before you can have a window."

"I know that very well, your reverence; but, you see, God has given us

the house."

"God's House consists of little more than walls and a roof."

"Indeed it does, your reverence; and amn't I saving up all my money for

the window?"

"But, my good Biddy, there is hardly any plastering done yet. The laths

have come in, and there isn't sufficient to fill that end of the

church, and I have no more money."

"Won't you reverence be getting the rest of the money in America? And I

am thinking a bazaar would be a good thing. Wouldn't we all be making

scapulars, and your reverence might get medals that the Pope had

blessed."

Eventually he drove her out of the church with his umbrella. But as his

anger cooled he began to think that perhaps Biddy was right--a bazaar

might be a good thing, and a distribution of medals and scapulars might

induce his workmen to do some overtime. He went to Dublin to talk over

this matter with some pious Catholics, and an old lady wrote a cheque

for fifty pounds, two or three others subscribed smaller sums, and the

plasterers were busy all next week. But these subscriptions did not go

nearly as far towards completing the work as he had expected. The

architect had led him astray, and he looked around the vast barn that

he had built and despaired. It seemed to him it would never be finished

in his lifetime. A few weeks after he was again running short of money,

and he was speaking to his workmen one Saturday afternoon, telling them

how they could obtain a plenary indulgence by subscribing so much

towards the building of the church, and by going to Confession and

Communion on the first Sunday of the month, and if they could not

afford the money they could give their work. He was telling them how

much could be done if every workman were to do each day an hour of

overtime, when Biddy suddenly appeared, and, standing in front of the

men, she raised up her hands and said they should not pass her until

they had pledged themselves to come to work on Monday.

"But haven't we got our wives and little ones, and haven't we to think

of them?" said a workman.

"Ah, one can live on very little when one is doing the work of God,"

said Biddy.

The man called her a vain old woman, who was starving herself so that

she might put up a window, and they pushed her aside and went away,

saying they had to think of their wives and children.

The priest turned upon her angrily and asked her what she meant by

interfering between him and his workmen.

"Now, don't be angry with me, your reverence. I will say a prayer, and

you will say a word or two in your sermon to-morrow."

And he spoke in his sermon of the disgrace it would be to Kilmore if

the church remained unfinished. The news would go over to America, and

what priest would be ever able to get money there again to build a

church?

"Do you think a priest likes to go about the barrooms asking for

dollars and half-dollars? Would you make his task more unpleasant? If I

have to go to America again, what answer shall I make if they say to

me: 'Well, didn't your workmen leave you at Kilmore? They don't want

churches at Kilmore. Why should we give you money for a church?'"

There was a great deal of talking that night in Michael Dunne's, and

they were all of one mind, that it would be a disgrace to Kilmore if

the church were not finished; but no one could see that he could work

for less wages than he was in the habit of getting. As the evening wore

on the question of indulgences was raised, and Ned Kavanagh said:--

"The devil a bit of use going against the priest, and the indulgences

will do us no harm."

"The devil a bit, but maybe a great deal of good," said Peter M'Shane,

and an hour later they were staggering down the road swearing they

would stand by the priest till the death.

But on Monday morning nearly all were in their beds; only half a dozen

came to the work, and the priest sent them away, except one plasterer.

There was one plasterer who, he thought, could stand on the scaffold.

"If I were to fall I'd go straight to Heaven," the plasterer said, and

he stood so near the edge, and his knees seemed so weak under him, that

Biddy thought he was going to fall.

"It would be better for you to finish what you are doing; the Holy

Virgin will be more thankful to you."

"Aye, maybe she would," he said, and he continued his work mechanically.

He was working at the clustered columns about the window Biddy had

chosen for her stained glass, and she did not take her eyes off him.

The priest returned a little before twelve o'clock, as the plasterer

was going to his dinner, and he asked him if he were feeling better.

"I'm all right, your reverence, and it won't occur again."

"I hope he won't go down to Michael Dunne's during his dinner hour," he

said to Biddy. "If you see any further sign of drink upon him when he

comes back you must tell me."

"He is safe enough, your reverence. Wasn't he telling me while your

reverence was having your breakfast that if he fell down he would go

straight to Heaven, and he opened his shirt and showed me he was

wearing the scapular of the Holy Virgin."

And Biddy began to advocate a sale of scapulars.

"A sale of scapulars will not finish my church. You're all a miserly

lot here, you want everything done for you."

"Weren't you telling me, your reverence, that a pious lady in Dublin--"

"The work is at a stand-still. If I were to go to America to-morrow it

would be no use unless I could tell them it was progressing."

"Sure they don't ask any questions in America, they just give their

money."

"If they do, that's more than you're doing at home. I want to know,

Biddy, what you are going to do for this church. You're always talking

about it; you're always here and you have given less than any one else."

"Didn't I offer your reverence a sovereign once since I gave you the

five pounds?"

"You don't seem to understand, Biddy, that you can't put up your window

until the plastering is finished."

"I think I understand that well enough, but the church will be

finished."

"How will it be finished? When will it be finished?"

She did not answer, and nothing was heard in the still church but her

irritating little cough.

"You're very obstinate. Well, tell me where you would like to have your

window."

"It is there I shall be kneeling, and if you will let me put my window

there I shall see it when I look up from my beads. I should like to see

the Virgin and I should like to see St. John with her. And don't you

think, your reverence, we might have St. Joseph as well. Our Lord would

have to be in the Virgin's arms, and I think, your reverence, I would

like Our Lord coming down to judge us, and I should like to have Him on

His throne on the day of Judgment up at the top of the window."

"I can see you've been thinking a good deal about this window," the

priest said.

She began again and the priest heard the names of the different saints

she would like to see in stained glass, and he let her prattle on. But

his temper boiled up suddenly and he said:--

"You'd go on like this till midnight if I let you. Now, Biddy M'Hale,

you've been here all the morning delaying my workmen. Go home to your

fowls."

And she ran away shrinking like a dog, and the priest walked up and

down the unfinished church. "She tries my temper more than anyone I

ever met," he said to himself. At that moment he heard some loose

boards clanking, and thinking it was the old woman coming back he

looked round, his eyes flaming. But the intruder was a short and

square-set man, of the type that one sees in Germany, and he introduced

himself as an agent of a firm of stained glass manufacturers. He told

Father Maguire they had heard in Germany of the beautiful church he was

building. "I met an old woman on the road, and she told me that I would

find you in the church considering the best place for the window she

was going to put up. She looks very poor."

"She's not as poor as she looks; she's been saving money all her life

for this window. Her window is her one idea, and, like people of one

idea, she's apt to become a little tiresome."

"I don't quite understand."

He began telling the story, and seeing that the German was interested

in the old woman he began to acquire an interest in her himself, an

unpremeditated interest; he had not suspected that Biddy was so

interesting. The German said she reminded him of the quaint sculpture

of Nuremburg, and her character reminded him of one of the German

saints, and talking of Biddy and medievalism and Gothic art and stained

glass the priest and the agent for the manufacture of stained glass in

Munich walked up and down the unfinished church until the return of the

plasterer reminded the priest of his embarrassments, and he took the

German into his confidence.

"These embarrassments always occur," said the agent, "but there is no

such thing as an unfinished church in Ireland; if you were to let her

put up the window subscriptions would pour in."

"How's that?"

"A paragraph in the newspaper describing the window, the gift of a

local saint. I think you told me her name was M'Hale, and that she

lives in the village."

"Yes, you pass her house on the way to the station."

The German took his leave abruptly, and when he was half-way down the

hill he asked some children to direct him.

"Is it Biddy M'Hale, that has all the hins, and is going to put up a

window in the church, that you're wanting?"

The German said that that was the woman he wanted, and the eldest child

said:--

"You will see her feeding her chickens, and you must call to her over

the hedge."

And he did as he was bidden.

"Madam ... the priest has sent me to show you some designs for a

stained glass window."

No one had ever addressed Biddy as Madam before. She hastened to let

him into the house, and wiped the table clean so that he could spread

the designs upon it. The first designs he showed here were the four

Evangelists, but he would like a woman's present to her church to be in

a somewhat lighter style, and he showed her a picture of St. Cecilia

that fascinated her for a time; and then he suggested that a group of

figures would look handsomer than a single figure. But she could not

put aside the idea of the window that had grown up in her mind, and

after some attempts to persuade her to accept a design they had in

stock he had to give way and listen.

At the top of the picture, where the window narrowed to a point, Our

Lord sat dressed in white on a throne, placing a golden crown on the

head of the Virgin kneeling before him. About him were the women who

had loved him, and the old woman said she was sorry she was not a nun,

and hoped that Christ would not think less of her. As far as mortal sin

was concerned she could say she had never committed one. At the bottom

of the window there were suffering souls. The cauldrons that Biddy

wished to see them in, the agent said, would be difficult to

introduce--the suffering of the souls could be artistically indicated

by flames.

"I shall have great joy," she said, "seeing the blessed women standing

about our Divine Lord, singing hymns in His praise, and the sight of

sinners broiling will make me be sorrowful."

She insisted on telling the German of the different churches she had

visited, and the windows she had seen, and she did not notice that he

was turning over his designs and referring to his note book while she

was talking. Suddenly he said:--

"Excuse me, but I think we have got the greater part of the window you

wish for in stock, and the rest can be easily made up. Now the only

question that remains is the question of the colours you care about."

"I have always thought there's no colour like blue. I'd like the Virgin

to wear a blue cloak."

She did not know why she had chosen that colour, but the agent told her

that she was quite right; blue signified chastity; and when the German

had gone she sat thinking of the Virgin and her cloak. The Minorcas,

and Buff Orpingtons, and Plymouth Rocks came through the door cackling,

and while feeding them she sat, her eyes fixed on the beautiful evening

sky, wondering if the blue in the picture would be as pale, or if it

would be a deeper blue.

She remembered suddenly that she used to wear a blue ribbon when she

went blackberrying among the hills; she found it in an old box and tied

it round her neck. The moment she put it on her memory was as if

lighted up with the memories of the saints and the miracles they had

performed, and she went to Father Maguire to tell him of the miracle.

That the agent should have in stock the very window she had imagined

seemed a miracle, and she was encouraged to think some miraculous thing

had happened when the priest asked her to tell him exactly what her

window was like. She had often told him before but he had never

listened to her. But now he recognised her window as an adaptation of

Fra Angelico's picture, and he told her how the saint had wandered from

monastery to monastery painting pictures on the walls. More he could

not tell her, but he promised to procure a small biography of the

saint. She received the book a few days after, and as she turned over

the leaves she heard the children coming home from school, and she took

the book out to them, for her sight was failing, and they read bits of

it aloud, and she frightened them by dropping on her knees and crying

out that God had been very good to her.

She wandered over the country visiting churches, returning to Kilmore

suddenly. She was seen as usual at sunrise and at sunset feeding her

poultry, and then she went away again, and the next time she was heard

of was in a church near Dublin celebrated for its stained glass. A few

days after Ned Kavanagh met her hurrying up the road from the station,

and she told him she had just received a letter from the Munich agent

saying he had forwarded her window. It was to arrive to-morrow.

It was expected some time about mid-day, but Biddy's patience was

exhausted long before, and she walked a great part of the way to Dublin

to meet the dray. She returned with it, walking with the draymen, but

within three miles of Kilmore she was so tired that they had to put her

on the top of the boxes, and a cheer went up from the villagers when

she was lifted down. She called to the workmen to be careful in

unpacking the glass; and when they were putting it up she went down on

her knees and prayed that no accident might happen.

At sunset the church had to be closed, and it was with difficulty that

she was persuaded to leave it. Next morning at sunrise she was knocking

at the door of the woman who was charged with the cleaning of the

church, asking for the key.

And from that day she was hardly ever out of the church; the charwoman

began to complain that she could not get on with her work, and she was

telling the priest that Biddy was always at her elbow, asking her to

come to her window, saying she would show her things she had not seen

before, when their conversation was interrupted by Biddy. She seemed a

little astray, a little exalted, and Father Maguire watched her as she

knelt with uplifted face, telling her beads. He noticed that her

fingers very soon ceased to move; and that she held the same bead a

long time between her fingers. Minutes passed, but her lips did not

move; her eyes were fixed on the panes and her look was so enraptured

that he began to wonder if Paradise were being revealed to her.

And while the priest wondered, Biddy listened to music inconceivably

tender. She had been awakened from her prayers by the sound of a harp

string touched very gently; and the note had floated down like a

flower, and all the vibrations were not dead when the same note floated

down the aisles once more. Biddy listened, anxious to hear it a third

time. Once more she heard it, and the third time she saw the saint's

fingers moving over the strings; and she played a little tune of six

notes. And it was at the end of the second playing of the tune that the

priest touched Biddy on the shoulder. She looked up and it was a long

while before she saw him, and she was greatly grieved that she had been

awakened from her dream. She said it was a dream because her happiness

had been so great; and she stood looking at the priest, fain, but

unable, to tell how she had been borne beyond her usual life, that her

whole being had answered to the music the saint played, and looking at

him, she wondered what would have happened if he had not awakened her.

Next day was Sunday, and she was in the church at sunrise listening for

the music. But she heard and saw nothing until the priest had reached

the middle of the Mass. The acolyte had rung the bell to prepare the

people for the Elevation, and it was then that she heard a faint low

sound that the light wire emitted when the saint touched her harp, and

she noticed that it was the same saint that had played yesterday, the

tall saint with the long fair hair who stood apart from the others,

looking more intently at Our Blessed Lord than the others. She touched

her harp again and the note vibrated for a long while, and when the

last vibrations died she touched the string again. The note was sweet

and languid and intense, and it pierced to the very core of Biddy. The

saint's hand passed over the strings, producing faint exquisite sounds,

so faint that Biddy felt no surprise they were not heard by anyone

else; it was only by listening intently that she could hear them.

Yesterday's little tune appeared again, a little tune of six notes, and

it seemed to Biddy even more exquisite than it had seemed when she

first heard it. The only difference between to-day and yesterday was,

that to-day all the saints struck their harps, and after playing for

some time the music grew white like snow and remote as star-fire, and

yet Biddy heard it more clearly than she had heard anything before, and

she saw Our Lord more clearly than she had ever seen anybody else. She

saw Him look up when He had placed the crown on His Mother's head; she

heard Him sing a few notes, and then the saints began to sing. The

window filled up with song and colour, and all along the window there

was a continual transmutation of colour and song. The figures grew

taller, and they breathed extraordinary life. It sang like a song

within them, and it flowed about them and out of them in a sort of

pearl-coloured mist. The vision clove the church along and across, and

through it she could see the priest saying his Mass, and when he raised

the Host above his head, Biddy saw Our Lord look at her, and His eyes

brightened as if with love of her. He seemed to have forgotten the

saints that sang His praises so beautifully, and when He bent towards

her and she felt His presence about her, she cried out:--

"He is coming to take me in His arms!"

And it was then that Biddy fell out of her place and lay at length on

the floor of the church, pale as a dead woman. The clerk went to her,

but he could not carry her out; she lay rigid as one who had been dead

a long while and she muttered, "He is coming to put the gold crown on

my head." The clerk moved away, and she swooned again.

Her return to her ordinary perceptions was slow and painful. The people

had left long ago, and she tottered out of the empty church and

followed the road to her cabin without seeing it or the people whom she

met on the road. At last a woman took her by the arm and led her into

her cabin, and spoke to her. She could not answer at first, but she

awoke gradually, and she began to remember that she had heard music in

the window and that Our Lord had sung to her. The neighbour left her

babbling. She began to feed her chickens, and was glad when she had fed

them. She wanted to think of the great and wonderful sights she had

seen. She could not particularise, preferring to remember her vision as

a whole, unwilling to separate the music from the colour, or the colour

and the music from the adoration of the saints.

As the days went by her life seemed to pass more and more out of the

life of the ordinary day. She seemed to live, as it were, on the last

verge of human life; the mortal and the immortal mingled; she felt she

had been always conscious of the immortal, and that nothing had

happened except the withdrawing of a veil. The memory of her vision was

still intense in her, but she wished to renew it; and waited next

Sunday breathless with anticipation. The vision began at the same

moment, the signal was the same as before; the note from the harp

string floated down the aisles and when it had been repeated three

times the saintly fingers moved over the strings, and she heard the

beautiful little tune.

Every eye was upon her, and forgetful of the fact that the priest was

celebrating Mass, they said, "Look, she hears the saints singing about

her. She sees Christ coming." The priest heard Biddy cry out "Christ is

coming," and she fell prone and none dared to raise her up, and she lay

there till the Mass was finished. When the priest left the altar she

was still lying at length, and the people were about her; and knowing

how much she would feel the slightest reproof, he did not say a word

that would throw doubt on her statement. He did not like to impugn a

popular belief, but he felt obliged to exercise clerical control.

"Now, Biddy, I know you are a very pious woman, but I cannot allow you

to interrupt the Mass."

"If the Lord comes to me am I not to receive Him, your reverence?"

"In the first place I object to your dress; you are not properly

dressed."

She wore a bright blue cloak, she seemed to wear hardly anything else,

and tresses of dirty hair hung over her shoulders.

"The Lord has not said anything to me about my dress, your reverence,

and He put His gold crown on my head to-day."

"Biddy, is all this true?"

"As true as you're standing there."

"I am not asking you if your visions are true. I have my opinion about

that. I am asking if they are true to you."

"True to me, your reverence? I don't rightly understand."

"I want to know if you think Our Lord put a gold crown on your head

to-day."

"To be sure He did, your reverence."

"If He did, where is it?"

"Where is it, your reverence? It is with Him, to be sure. He wouldn't

be leaving it on my head and me walking about the parish--that would

not be reasonable at all, I am thinking. He doesn't want me to be

robbed."

"There is no one in the parish who would rob you."

"Maybe some one would come out of another parish, if I was walking

about with a gold crown on my head. And such a crown as He put upon

it!--I am sorry you did not see it, but your reverence was saying the

holy Mass at the time."

And she fell on her knees and clung to his cassock.

"And you saw the crown, Biddy?"

"I had it on my head, your reverence."

"And you heard the saints singing?"

"Yes, and I will tell you what they were singing," and she began

crooning. "Something like that, your reverence. You don't believe me,

but we have only our ears and our eyes to guide us."

"I don't say I don't believe you, Biddy, but you may be deceived."

"Sorra deceiving, your reverence, or I've been deceived all my life.

And now, your reverence, if you have no more business with me I will

go, for they are waiting in the chapel yard to hear me tell them about

the crown that was put upon my head."

"Well, Biddy, I want you to understand that I cannot have you

interrupting the Mass. I cannot permit it. The visions may be true, or

not true, but you must not interrupt the Mass. Do you hear me?"

The acolyte had opened the door of the sacristy, she slipped through

it, and the priest took off his cassock. As he did so, he noticed that

the acolytes were anxious to get out; they were at the window watching,

and when the priest looked out of the window he saw the people gathered

about Biddy, and could see she had obtained an extraordinary hold on

the popular imagination; no one noticed him when he came out of the

sacristy; they were listening to Biddy, and he stood unnoticed amid the

crowd for a few minutes.

"She's out of her mind," he said. "She's as good as mad. What did she

tell me--that Our Lord put a crown on her head."

It was difficult to know what to do. News of her piety had reached

Dublin. People had been down to Kilmore to see her and had given

subscriptions, and he understood that Biddy had enabled him to furnish

his church with varnished pews and holy pictures. A pious Catholic lady

had sent him two fine statues of Our Lady and St. Joseph. St. Joseph

was in a purple cloak and Our Lady wore a blue cloak, and there were

gold stars upon it. He had placed these two statues on the two side

altars. But there were many things he wanted for his church, and he

could only get them through Biddy. It was, therefore, his interest to

let her remain in Kilmore, only she could not be allowed to interrupt

the Mass, and he felt that he must be allowed to pass in and out of his

church without having to put up with extravagant salutations.

He was going home to his breakfast and a young man extremely interested

in ecclesiastical art was coming to breakfast with him. The young man

had a great deal to say about Walter Pater and Chartres Cathedral, and

Father Maguire feared he was cutting but a very poor figure in the eyes

of this young man, for he could not keep his thoughts on what the young

man was saying, he was thinking of Biddy; he hardly thought of anything

else but her now; she was absorbing the mind of his entire parish, she

interrupted the Mass, he could not go into his church without being

accosted by this absurd old woman, and this young man, a highly

cultivated young man, who had just come from Italy, and who took the

highest interest in architecture, would not be able to see his church

in peace. As soon as they entered it they would be accosted by this old

woman; she would follow them about asking them to look at her window,

telling them her visions, which might or might not be true. She had a

knack of hiding herself--he often came upon her suddenly behind the

pillars, and sometimes he found her in the confessional. As soon as he

crossed the threshold he began to look for her, and not finding her in

any likely place, his fears subsided, and he called the young man's

attention to the altar that had been specially designed for his church.

And the young man had begun to tell the priest of the altars he had

seen that Spring in Italy, when suddenly he uttered a cry, he had

suddenly felt a hand upon his shoulder.

"Your honour will be well rewarded if you will come to my window. Now

why should I tell you a lie, your reverence?"

She threw herself at the priest's feet and besought him to believe that

the saints had been with her, and that every word she was speaking was

the truth.

"Biddy, if you don't go away at once I will not allow you inside the

church to-morrow."

The young man looked at the priest, surprised at his sternness, and the

priest said:--

"She has become a great trial to us at Kilmore. Come aside and I will

tell you about her."

And when the priest had told the young man about the window the young

man asked if Biddy would have to be sent away.

"I hope not, for if she were separated from her window she would

certainly die. It came out of her savings, out of the money she made

out of chickens."

"And what has become of the chickens?"

"She has forgotten all about them; they wandered away or died. She has

been evicted, and she lives now in an out-house. She lives on the bits

of bread and the potatoes the neighbours give her. The things of this

world are no longer realities to her. Her realities are what she sees

and hears in that window. She told me last night the saints were

singing about her. I don't like to encourage her to talk, but if you

would like to hear her--Biddy, come here!"

The old woman came back as a dog comes to its master, joyful, and with

brightening eyes.

"Tell us what you saw last night."

"Well, your reverence, I was asleep, and there suddenly came a knocking

at the door, and I got up, and then I head a voice say, 'Open the

door.' There was a beautiful young man outside, his hair was yellow and

curly, and he was dressed in white. He came into the room first, and he

was followed by other saints, and they had harps in their hands, and

they sang for a long while; they sang beautiful music. Come to the

window and you will hear it for yourselves. Someone is always singing

it in the window, not always as clearly as they did last night."

"We'll go to see your window presently."

The old woman crept back to her place, and the priest and the young man

began to talk about the possibilities of miracles in modern times, and

they talked on until the sudden sight of Biddy gave them pause.

"Look at her," said the young man, "can you doubt that she sees Heaven,

quite plainly, and that the saints visited her just as she told us?"

"No doubt, no doubt. But she's a great trial to us at Mass .... The

Mass must not be interrupted."

"I suppose even miracles are inconvenient at times, Father Maguire. Be

patient with her, let her enjoy her happiness."

And the two men stood looking at her, trying vainly to imagine what her

happiness might be.