Hyacinth Part 25

'Oh,' said Marion, 'it sometimes rains, you know.'

'Ah! and then these sweet spots get boggy, I suppose, and you have to wear thick, clumping boots.'

Her own were very neat and small, and she knew that they must obtrude themselves on the eye while she lay p.r.o.ne. Elsie, whose shoes were patched as well as thick-soled, made an ineffectual attempt to cover them with her skirt.

'Now,' said Hyacinth, 'tell us what you are doing down here. They haven't made you an inspectress of boarded-out workhouse children, have they? or sent you down to improve the breed of hens?'

'No,' said Miss O'Dwyer; 'I have spent the afternoon helping to govern Ireland.'

Marion and Elsie gazed at her in wonder. A lady who smoked cigarettes and bore the cares of State upon her shoulders was a novelty to them.

'I have sat in the seats of the mighty,' she said; 'I have breathed the same air as Mr. Chesney and two members of the C.D.B. Think of that!

Moreover, I might, if I liked, have drunk tea with a d.u.c.h.ess.'

'Oh,' said Hyacinth, 'you were at the convent function, I suppose. I wonder I didn't see you.'

'What on earth were _you_ doing there? I thought you hated the nuns and all their ways.'

'Go on about yourself,' said Hyacinth. 'You are not employed by the Government to inspect infant industries, are you?'

'Oh no; I was one of the representatives of the press. I have notes here of all the beautiful clothes worn by the wives and daughters of the West British aristocracy. Listen to this: "Lady Geoghegan was gowned in an important creation of saffron tweed, the product of the convent looms.

We are much mistaken if this fabric in just this shade is not destined to play a part in robing the _elegantes_ who will shed a l.u.s.tre on our house-parties during the autumn." And this--you must just listen to this.'

'I won't,' said Hyacinth; 'you can if you like, Marion. I'll shut my ears.'

'Very well,' said Miss O'Dwyer; 'I'll talk seriously. When are you coming up to Dublin? You know my brother has taken over the editorship of the _Croppy_. We are going to make it a great power in the country.

We are coming out with a policy which will sweep the old set of political talkers out of existence, and dear the country of Mr. Chesney and the likes of him.' She waved her hand towards the convent. 'Oh, it is going to be great. It is great already. Why don't you come and help us?'

Hyacinth looked at her. She had half risen and leaned upon her elbow.

Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. There was no doubt about the genuineness of her enthusiasm. The words of her poem, long since, he supposed, blotted from his memory, suddenly returned to him:

'O, desolate mother, O, Erin, When shall the pulse of thy life which but flutters in Connacht Throb through thy meadows and boglands and mountains and cities?'

Had it come at last, this revival of the nation's vitality? Had it come just too late for him to share it?

'I shall not help you,' he said sadly; 'I do not suppose that I ever could have helped you much, but now I shall not even try.'

She looked at him quickly with a startled expression in her eyes. Then she turned to Marion.

'Are you preventing him?' she said.

'No,' said Hyacinth; 'it is not Marion. But I am going away--going to England. I am going to be ordained, to become an English curate. Do you understand? I came here to-day to see the man who is to be my Rector, and to make final arrangements with him.'

'Oh, Hyacinth!'

For some minutes she said no more. He saw in her face a wondering sorrow, a pathetic submissive-ness to an unexpected disappointment, like the look in the face of a dog struck suddenly by the hand of a friend.

He felt that he could have borne her anger better. No doubt if he had made his confession to Augusta Goold he would have been overwhelmed with pa.s.sionate wrath or withered by a superb contemptuous stare. Then he could have worked himself to anger in return. But this!

'You will never speak to any of us again,' she went on. You will be ashamed even to read the _Croppy_. You will wear a long black coat and gray gloves. You will learn to talk about the "Irish Problem" and the inestimable advantages of belonging to a world-wide Empire, and about the great heart of the English people. I see it all--all that will happen to you. Your hair will get quite smooth and sleek. Then you will become a Vicar of a parish. You will live in a beautiful house, with Virginia creeper growing over it and plum-trees in the garden. You will have a nice clean village for a parish, with old women who drop curtsies to you, and men--such men! stupid as bullocks! I know it all. And you will be ashamed to call yourself an Irishman. Oh, Hyacinth!'

Miss O'Dwyer's catalogue of catastrophes was curiously mixed. Perhaps the comedy in it tended to obscure the utter degradation of the ruin she described. But the freakish incongruity of the speech did not strike Hyacinth. He found in it only two notes--pity that such a fate awaited him, and contempt for the man who submitted to it.

'I cannot help myself. Will you not make an effort to understand? I am trying to; do what is right.'

She shook her head.

'No,' he said, 'I know it is no use. You could not understand even if I told you all I felt.'

Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. He heard her sob. Then she turned without a word and left them. He stood watching her till she reached the road and started on her walk to the railway-station. Then he took Marion's two hands in his, and held them fast.

'Will _you_ understand?' he asked her.

She looked up at him. Her face was all tenderness. Love shone on him--trusting, unquestioning, adoring love, love that would be loyal to the uttermost; but her eyes were full of a dumb wonder.

CHAPTER XXV

One morning near the end of September the _Irish Times_ published a list of Irish graduates ordained in England on the previous Sunday. Among other names appeared:

'Hyacinth Conneally, B.A., T.C.D., deacon, by the Bishop of Ripon, for the curacy of Kirby-Stowell.'

Shortly afterwards the _Croppy_ printed the following verses, signed 'M.O'D.':

'EIRE TO H. C.

'Bight across the low, flat curragh from the sea, Drifting, driving sweeps the rain, Where the bogborn, bent, brown rushes grow for me, Barren gra.s.s instead of grain.

'Out across the sad, soaked curragh towards the sea, Striding, striving go the men, With their spades and forks and barrows toil for me That my corn may grow again

'Ah I but safe from blast of wind and bitter sea, You who loved me---Tusa fein-- Live and feel and work for others, not for me, Never coming back again.

'Yes, while all across the curragh from the West Drifts the sea-rain off the sea, You have chosen. Have you chosen what is best For yourself, O son, and me?'

Hyacinth read the verses, cut them out of the _Croppy_, and locked them in the box in which he stored the few papers of interest he possessed.

The sorrowful judgment p.r.o.nounced on his conduct affected him, but only in a dull way, like an additional blow upon a limb already bruised to numbness. He accepted his new duties and performed them without any feeling of enthusiasm, and after a little while without any definite hope of doing any good. He got no further in understanding the people he had to deal with, and he was aware that even those of them who came most frequently into contact with him regarded him as a stranger. A young doctor whose wife took a fancy to Marion tried to make friends with him.

The result was unsatisfactory, owing to Hyacinth's irresponsiveness. He could not, without yawning piteously, spend an evening discussing the performances of the local cricket club; nor did his conduct improve when the two ladies suspended their talk and sacrificed an hour to playing four-handed halma with their husbands. An unmarried solicitor, attracted by Marion's beauty and friendliness, adopted the habit of calling at Hyacinth's little house about nine or ten o'clock in the evening. He was a man full of anecdote and simple mirth, and he often stayed, quite happily, till midnight. Every week he brought an ill.u.s.trated paper as an offering to Marion, and recommended the short stories in it; to her notice. He often asked Hyacinth's advice and help in solving the conundrums set by the prize editor. He took a mild interest in politics, and retailed gossip picked up at the Conservative Club. After a while he gave up coming to the house. Hyacinth blamed himself for being cold and unfriendly to the man.

Mr. Austin treated Hyacinth with kindness and some consideration, much as a wise master treats an upper servant. He was anxious that his curate should perform many and complicated ceremonies in church, was seriously intent on the wearing of correctly-coloured stoles, and 'ran,' as he expressed it himself, a very large number of different organizations, of each of which the objective appeared to be a tea-party in the parochial hall. Hyacinth accepted his tuition, bowed low at the times when Mr.

Austin liked to bow, watched for the seasons when stoles bloomed white and gold, changed to green, or faded down to violet. He tried to make himself agreeable to the 'united mothers' and the rest when they a.s.sembled for tea-drinking. Mr. Austin a.s.serted that these were the methods by which the English people were being taught the Catholic faith. Hyacinth did not doubt it, nor did he permit himself to wonder whether it was worth while teaching them.

To Marion the new life was full of many delights. The surpliced choir-boys gratified her aesthetic sense, and she entered herself as one of a band of volunteers who scrubbed the chancel tiles and polished a bra.s.s cross. She smiled, kissed, and petted Hyacinth out of the fits of depression which came on him, managed his small income with wonderful skill, and wrote immensely long letters home to Ballymoy.

CHAPTER XXVI