by George Moore
“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.
