by George Moore
A few days after he caught sight of her handwriting on his breakfast-table, and he sat reading the letter, to Catherine’s annoyance, who said the rashers were getting cold.
From Miss Nora Glynn to Father Oliver Gogarty.
‘BEECHWOOD HALL, BERKSHIRE,
‘July 20, 19 — .
‘DEAR FATHER GOGARTY,
‘One is not always in a mood to give credit to others for good intentions, especially when one returns home at the close of day disappointed, and I wrote a hard, perhaps a cruel, letter; but I’m feeling differently now. The truth is that your letter arrived at an unfortunate moment when things were going badly with me.’
‘I’m forgiven,’ Father Oliver cried— ‘I’m forgiven;’ and his joy was so great that the rest of the letter seemed unnecessary, but he continued to read:
‘Father O’Grady has no doubt told you that I have given up my post of organist in his church, Mr. Poole having engaged me to teach his daughter music and to act as his secretary. In a little letter which I received about a fortnight ago from him he told me he had written to you, and it appears that you have recovered from your scruples of conscience, and have forgotten the wrong you did me; but if I know you at all, you are deceiving yourself. You will never forget the wrong you did me. But I shall forget. I am not sure that it has not already passed out of my mind. This will seem contradictory, for didn’t I say that I couldn’t forget your cruelty in my first letter? I wonder if I meant it when I wrote, “Put the whole thing and me out of your mind....” I suppose I did at the time, and yet I doubt it. Does anyone want to be forgotten utterly?
‘I should have written to you before, but we have been busy. Mr. Poole’s book has been promised by the end of the year. It’s all in type, but he is never satisfied. To-day he has gone to London to seek information about the altars of the early Israelites. It’s a wonderful book, but I cannot write about it to-day; the sun is shining, the country is looking lovely, and my pupil is begging me to finish my letter and go out with her.
‘Very sincerely yours,
‘NORA GLYNN.’
‘So forgiveness has come at last,’ he said; and as he walked along the shore he fell to thinking that very soon all her life in Garranard would be forgotten. ‘She seems interested in her work,’ he muttered; and his mind wandered over the past, trying to arrive at a conclusion, if there was or was not a fundamental seriousness in her character, inclining on the whole to think there was, for if she was not serious fundamentally, she would not have been chosen by Mr. Poole for his secretary. ‘My little schoolmistress, the secretary of a great scholar! How very extraordinary! But why is it extraordinary? When will she write again?’ And every night he wished for the dawn, and every morning he asked if there were any letters for him. ‘No, your reverence, no letters this morning;’ and when Catherine handed him some envelopes they only contained bills or uninteresting letters from the parishioners or letters from the Board of Works about the bridge in which he could no longer feel any interest whatever.
At last he began to think he had said something to offend her, and to find out if this were so he would have to write to Father O’Grady telling him that Miss Glynn had written saying she had forgiven him. Her forgiveness had brought great relief; but Miss Glynn said in her letter that she was alone in Berkshire, Mr. Poole having gone to London to seek information regarding the altars of the early Israelites.
From Father O’Grady to Father Oliver Gogarty.
‘August 1, 19 — .
‘DEAR FATHER GOGARTY,
‘I am sorry I cannot give you the information you require regarding the nature of Mr. Poole’s writings, and if I may venture to advise you, I will say that I do not think any good will come to her by your inquiry into the matter. She is one of those women who resent all control; and, if I may judge from a letter she wrote to me the other day, she is bent now on educating herself regardless of the conclusions to which her studies may lead her. I shall pray for her, and that God may watch over and guide her is my hope. I am sure it is yours too. She is in God’s hands, and we can do nothing to help her. I am convinced of that, and it would be well for you to put her utterly out of your mind.
‘I am, very truly yours,
‘MICHAEL O’GRADY.’
‘Put her utterly out of my mind,’ Father Oliver cried aloud; ‘now what does he mean by that?’ And he asked himself if this piece of advice was Father O’Grady’s attempt to get even with him for having told him that he should have informed himself regarding Mr. Poole’s theological opinions before permitting her to go down to Berkshire.
It did not seem to him that Father O’Grady would stoop to such meanness, but there seemed to be no other explanation, and he fell to thinking of what manner of man was Father O’Grady — an old man he knew him to be, and from the tone of his letters he had judged him a clever man, experienced in the human weakness and conscience. But this last letter! In what light was he to read it? Did O’Grady fail to understand that there is no more intimate association than that of an author and his secretary. If we are to believe at all in spiritual influences — and who denies them? — can we minimize these? On his way to the writing-table he stopped. Mr. Poole’s age — what was it? He imagined him about sixty. ‘It is at that age,’ he said, ‘that men begin to think about the altars of the early Israelites,’ and praying at intervals that he might be seventy, he wrote a short note thanking Father O’Grady for his advice and promising to bear it in mind. He did not expect to get an answer, nor did he wish for an answer; for he had begun to feel that he and Father O’Grady had drifted apart, and had no further need one for the other.
‘Are there no letters this morning?’ he asked Catherine.
‘None, sir. You haven’t had one from London for a long time.’
He turned away. ‘An intolerable woman — intolerable! I shall be obliged to make a change soon,’ he said, turning away so that Catherine should not see the annoyance that he felt on his face.
From Father Oliver Gogarty to Miss Nora Glynn.
‘GARRANARD, BOHOLA,
‘August 6, 19 — .
‘DEAR MISS GLYNN,
‘You said in your very kind letter, which I received a fortnight ago, and which I answered hastily, that on some future occasion you would perhaps tell me about the book Mr. Poole is writing. I wonder if this occasion will ever arise, and, if so, if it be near or far — near, I hope, for interested as I naturally am in your welfare, I have begun to feel some anxiety regarding this book. On the day that—’
‘Father O’Grady, your reverence.’ Father Oliver laid his letter aside, and then hid it in the blotter, regretting his haste and his fumbling hands, which perhaps had put the thought into O’Grady’s mind that the letter was to Nora. And so he came forward faintly embarrassed to meet a small pale man, whom he judged to be seventy or thereabouts, coming forward nimbly, bent a little, with a long, thin arm and bony hand extended in a formal languor of welcome. A little disappointing was the first moment, but it passed away quickly, and when his visitor was seated Father Oliver noticed a large nose rising out of the pallor and on either side of it dim blue eyes and some long white locks.
‘You’re surprised to see me,’ Father O’Grady said in a low, winning voice. ‘Of course you’re surprised — how could it be otherwise? but I hope you’re glad.’
‘Very glad,’ Father Oliver answered. ‘Glad, very glad,’ he repeated; and begged his visitor to allow him to help him off with his overcoat.
‘How pleasant,’ Father O’Grady said, as soon as he was back in the armchair, as if he felt that the duty fell upon him to find a conversation that would help them across the first five minutes— ‘how pleasant it is to see a turf fire again! The turf burns gently, mildly, a much pleasanter fire than coal; the two races express themselves in their fires.’
‘Oh, we’re fiery enough over here,’ Father Oliver returned; and the priests laughed.
‘I did not feel that I was really in Ireland,’ Father O
’Grady continued, ‘till I saw the turf blazing and falling into white ash. You see I haven’t been in Ireland for many years.’
Father Oliver threw some more sods of turf into the grate, saying: ‘I’m glad, Father O’Grady, that you enjoy the fire, and I’m indeed glad to see you. I was just thinking—’
‘Of me?’ Father O’Grady asked, raising his Catholic eyes.
The interruption was a happy one, for Father Oliver would have found himself embarrassed to finish the sentence he had begun. For he would not have liked to have admitted that he had just begun a letter to Nora Glynn, to say, ‘There it is on the table.’ Father O’Grady’s interruption gave him time to revise his sentence.
‘Yes, I was thinking of you, Father O’Grady. Wondering if I might dare to write to you again.’
‘But why should you be in doubt?’ Father O’Grady asked; and then, remembering a certain asperity in Father Oliver’s last letter, he thought it prudent to change the conversation. ‘Well, here I am and unexpected, but, apparently, welcome.’
‘Very welcome,’ Father Oliver murmured.
‘I’m glad of that,’ the old man answered; ‘and now to my story.’ And he told how a variety of little incidents had come about, enabling him to spend his vacation in Ireland. ‘A holiday is necessary for every man. And, after all, it is as easy to go from London to Ireland as it is to go to Margate, and much more agreeable. But I believe you are unacquainted with London, and Margate is doubtless unknown to you. Well, I don’t know that you’ve missed much;’ and he began to tell of the month he had spent wandering in the old country, and how full of memories he had found it — all sorts of ideas and associations new and old. ‘Maybe it was you that beguiled me to Ireland; if so, I ought to thank you for a very pleasant month’s holiday. Now I’m on my way home, and finding that I could fit in the railway journey I went to Tinnick, and I couldn’t go to Tinnick without driving over to Garranard.’
‘I should think not, indeed,’ Father Oliver answered quickly. ‘It was very good of you to think of me, to undertake the journey to Tinnick and the long drive from Tinnick over here.’
‘One should never be praised for doing what is agreeable to one to do. I liked you from your letters; you’re like your letters, Father Oliver — at least I think you are.’
‘I’m certain you’re like yours,’ Father Oliver returned, ‘only I imagined you to speak slower.’
‘A mumbling old man,’ Father O’Grady interjected.
‘You know I don’t mean that,’ Father Oliver replied, and there was a trace of emotion in his voice.
‘It was really very good of you to drive over from Tinnick. You say that you only undertook the journey because it pleased you to do so. If that philosophy were accepted, there would be no difference between a good and an evil action; all would be attributed to selfishness.’ He was about to add: ‘This visit is a kindness that I did not expect, and one which I certainly did not deserve;’ but to speak these words would necessitate an apology for the rudeness he felt he was guilty of in his last letter, and the fact that he knew that Father O’Grady had come to talk to him about Nora increased his nervousness. But their talk continued in commonplace and it seemed impossible to lift it out of the rut. Father O’Grady complimented Father Oliver on his house and Oliver answered that it was Peter Conway that built it, and while praising its comfort, he enlarged on the improvements that had been made in the houses occupied by priests.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Father O’Grady answered, ‘the average Irish priest lived in my time in a cottage not far removed from those the peasants lived in. All the same, there was many a fine scholar among them. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Catullus, Cicero in the bookcases. Do you ever turn to these books? Do you like reading Latin?’
And Father Oliver replied that sometimes he took down his Virgil. ‘I look into them all sometimes,’ he added.
‘And you still read Latin, classical Latin, easily?’ Father O’Grady inquired.
‘Fairly,’ Father Oliver replied; ‘I read without turning to the dictionary, though I often come to words I have never seen or have forgotten the meaning of. I read on. The Latin poets are more useful than the English to me.’
‘More useful?’ Father O’Grady repeated.
‘More useful,’ Father Oliver rejoined, ‘if your object is a new point of view, and one wants that sometimes, living alone in the silent country. One sometimes feels frightened sitting by the fire all alone listening to the wind. I said just now that I was thinking of you. I often think of you, Father O’Grady, and envy you your busy parish. If I ever find myself in London I shall go for long tram drives, and however sordid the district I shall view the dim congregation of houses with pleasure and rejoice in the hub of the streets.’
‘You would soon weary of London, I promise you that, Father Oliver.’
‘A promise for which it would be an affectation to thank you,’ Father Oliver answered. And Father O’Grady spoke of the miles and miles of docks.
‘The great murky Thames,’ he said, ‘wearies, but it is very wonderful. Ah, Landor’s “Hellenics” in the original Latin: how did that book come here?’
‘A question I’ve often asked myself,’ Father Oliver returned. ‘A most intellectual volume it is to find in the house of an Irish priest. Books travel, and my predecessor, Father Peter, is the last man in the world who would have cared to spend an hour on anything so literary as Landor. He used to read the newspaper — all the newspapers he could get hold of.’
Father Peter’s personality did not detain them long, and feeling somewhat ashamed of their inability to talk naturally, without thinking of what they were to say next, Father O’Grady ventured to doubt if Horace would approve of Landor’s Latin and of the works written in comparatively modern times. Buchanan, for instance. At last the conversation became so trite and wearisome that Father O’Grady began to feel unable to continue it any longer.
‘You’ve a nice garden, Father Oliver.’
‘You’d like to see my garden?’ Father Oliver asked, very much relieved at having escaped from Buchanan so easily. And the two priests went out, each hoping that the other would break the ice; and to encourage Father Oliver to break it, Father O’Grady mentioned that he was going back that evening to Tinnick — a remark that was intended to remind Father Oliver that the time was passing by. Father Oliver knew that the time for speaking of her was passing by, but he could not bring himself to speak, and instead he tried to persuade Father O’Grady to stay to dinner, but he could not be persuaded; and they walked to and fro, talking about their different parishes, Father O’Grady asking Father Oliver questions about his school and his church. And when Father O’Grady had contributed a great deal of unnecessary information, he questioned Father O’Grady about his parish, and gained much information regarding the difficulties that a Catholic priest met with in London, till religion became as wearisome as the Latin language. At last it suddenly struck Father Oliver that if he allowed the talk to continue regarding the difficulties of the Catholic priest in London, Father O’Grady might speak of girls that had been driven out of Ireland by the priests, to become prostitutes in London. A talk on this subject would be too painful, and to escape from it he spoke of the beauty of the trees about the garden and the flowers in the garden, calling Father O’Grady’s attention to the chrysanthemums, and, not willing to be outdone in horticulture, the London priest began to talk about the Japanese mallow in his garden, Father Oliver listening indifferently, saying, when it came to him to make a remark, that the time had come to put in the bulbs.
‘Miss Glynn was very fond of flowers,’ he said Suddenly, ‘and she helped me with my garden; it was she who told me to plant roses in that corner, and to cover the wall with rambling robin. Was it not a very pretty idea to cover that end of the garden with rambling roses?’
‘It was indeed. She is a woman of great taste in music and in many other things. She must have regretted your garden.’
‘Why do you think she regr
etted my garden?’ Father Oliver asked.
‘Because she always regretted that mine wasn’t larger. She helped me with my garden;’ and feeling that they had at last got into a conversation that was full of interest for them both, Father Oliver said:
‘Shall we go into the house? We shall be able to talk more agreeably by the fireside.’
‘I should like to get back to that turf fire; for it is the last that I shall probably see. Let us get back to it.’
‘I’m quite agreeable to return to the fire. Catherine will bring in the tea presently.’
And as soon as they were back in the parlour, Father Oliver said:
‘Father O’Grady, that is your chair. It was very good of you to take the trouble to drive over.’
