by George Moore
The bullocks trotted in front of them. They were seven miles from home, and fifteen miles are hard on fat animals, and he could truly say he was at a loss of three pounds that day if he took into account the animals’ keep.
Father and son walked on, and not a word passed between them till they came to Michael Quinn’s public-house. “Did you get three pounds apiece for the pigs, father?”
“I did, and three pounds five.”
“We might have a drink out of that.”
It seemed to Peter that the men inside were laughing at him or at the lemonade he was drinking, and, seeing among them one who had been interfering with him all day, he told him he would put him out of the house, and he would have done it if Mrs. Quinn had not told him that no one put a man out of her house without her leave.
“Do you hear that, Peter Phelan?”
“If you can’t best them at the fair,” said his father, “it will be little good for you to put them out of the public-house afterwards.”
And on that Peter swore he would never go to a fair again, and they walked on until they came to the priest’s house.
“It was bad for me when I listened to you and James. If I hadn’t I might have been in Maynooth now.”
“Now, didn’t you come home talking of the polis?”
“Wasn’t that after?”
They could not agree as to when his idea of life had changed from the priesthood to the police, nor when it had changed back from the police to the priesthood, and Peter talked on, telling of the authors he had read with Father Tom — Caesar, Virgil, even Quintillian. The priest had said that Quintillian was too difficult for him, and Pat Phelan was in doubt whether the difficulty of Quintillian was a sufficient reason for preferring the police to the priesthood.
“Any way it isn’t a girl that’s troubling him,” he said to himself, and he looked at Peter, and wondered how it was that Peter did not want to be married. Peter was a great big fellow, over six feet high, that many a girl would take a fancy to, and Pat Phelan had long had his eye on a girl who would marry him. And his failure to sell the bullocks brought all the advantages of this marriage to Pat Phelan’s mind, and he began to talk to his son. Peter listened, and seemed to take an interest in all that was said, expressing now and then a doubt if the girl would marry him; the possibility that she might seemed to turn his thoughts again towards the priesthood.
The bullocks had stopped to graze, and Peter’s indecisions threw Pat Phelan fairly out of his humour.
“Well, Peter, I am tired listening to you. If it’s a priest you want to be, go in there, and Father Tom will tell you what you must do, and I’ll drive the bullocks home myself.” And on that Pat laid his hand on the priest’s green gate, and Peter walked through.
II
There were trees about the priest’s house, and there were two rooms on the right and left of the front door. The parlour was on the left, and when Peter came in the priest was sitting reading in his mahogany arm-chair. Peter wondered if it were this very mahogany chair that had put the idea of being a priest into his head. Just now, while walking with his father, he had been thinking that they had not even a wooden arm-chair in their house, though it was the best house in the village — only some stools and some plain wooden chairs.
The priest could see that Peter had come to him for a purpose. But Peter did not speak; he sat raising his pale, perplexed eyes, looking at the priest from time to time, thinking that if he told Father Tom of his failure at the fair, Father Tom might think he only wished to become a priest because he had no taste for farming.
“You said, Father Tom, if I worked hard I should be able to read Quintillian in six months.”
The priest’s face always lighted up at the name of a classical author, and Peter said he was sorry he had been taken away from his studies. But he had been thinking the matter over, and his mind was quite made up, and he was sure he would sooner be a priest than anything else.
“My boy, I knew you would never put on the policeman’s belt. The Bishop will hold an examination for the places that are vacant in Maynooth.” Peter promised to work hard and he already saw himself sitting in an arm-chair, in a mahogany arm-chair, reading classics, and winning admiration for his learning.
He walked home, thinking that everything was at last decided, when suddenly, without warning, when he was thinking of something else, his heart misgave him. It was as if he heard a voice saying: “My boy, I don’t think you will ever put on the cassock. You will never walk with the biretta on your head.” The priest had said that he did not believe he would ever buckle on the policeman’s belt. He was surprised to hear the priest say this, though he had often heard himself thinking the same thing. What surprised and frightened him now was that he heard himself saying he would never put on the cassock and the biretta. It is frightening to hear yourself saying you are not going to do the thing you have just made up your mind you will do.
He had often thought he would like to put the money he would get out of the farm into a shop, but when it came to the point of deciding he had not been able to make up his mind. He had always had a great difficulty in knowing what was the right thing to do. His uncle William had never thought of anything but the priesthood. James never thought of anything but the farm. A certain friend of his had never thought of doing anything but going to America. Suddenly he heard some one call him.
It was Catherine, and Peter wondered if she were thinking to tell him she was going to marry James. For she always knew what she wanted. Many said that James was not the one she wanted, but Peter did not believe that, and he looked at Catherine and admired her face, and thought what a credit she would be to the family. No one wore such beautifully knitted stockings as Catherine, and no one’s boots were so prettily laced.
But not knowing exactly what to say, he asked her if she had come from their house, and he went on talking, telling her that she would find nobody in the parish like James. James was the best farmer in the parish, none such a judge of cattle; and he said all this and a great deal more, until he saw that Catherine did not care to talk about James at all.
“I daresay all you say is right, Peter; but you see he’s your brother.”
And then, fearing she had said something hurtful, she told him that she liked James as much as a girl could like a man who was not going to be her husband.
“And you are sure, Catherine, that James is not going to be your husband?”
“Yes,” she said, “quite sure.”
Their talk had taken them as far as Catherine’s door, and Peter went away wondering why he had not told her he was going to Maynooth; for no one would have been able to advise him as well as Catherine, she had such good sense.
III
There was a quarter of a mile between the two houses, and while Peter was talking to Catherine, Pat Phelan was listening to his son James, who was telling his father that Catherine had said she would not marry him.
Pat was over sixty, but he did not give one the impression of an old man. The hair was not grey, there was still a little red in the whiskers. James, who sat opposite to him, holding his hands to the blaze, was not as good-looking a man as his father, the nose was not as fine, nor were the eyes as keen. There was more of the father in Peter than in James.
When Peter opened the half-door, awaking the dozen hens that roosted on the beam, he glanced from one to the other, for he suspected that his father was telling James how he had failed to sell the bullocks. But the tone of his father’s voice when he asked him what had detained him on the road told him he was mistaken; and then he remembered that Catherine had said she would not marry James, and he began to pity his brother.
“I met Catherine on the road, and I could do no less than walk as far as her door with her.”
“You could do no less than that, Peter,” said James.
“And what do you mean by that, James?”
“Only this, that it is always the crooked way, Peter; for if it had been you that had as
ked her she would have had you and jumping.”
“She would have had me!”
“And now don’t you think you had better run after her, Peter, and ask her if she’ll have you?”
“I’ll never do that; and it is hurtful, James, that you should think such a thing of me, that I would go behind your back and try to get a girl from you.”
“I did not mean that, Peter; but if she won’t have me, you had better try if you can get her.”
And suddenly Peter felt a resolve come into his heart, and his manner grew exultant.
“I’ve seen Father Tom, and he said I can pass the examination. I’m going to be a priest.”
And when they were lying down side by side Peter said, “James, it will be all right.” Knowing there was a great heart-sickness on his brother, he put out his hand. “As sure as I lie here she will be lying next you before this day twelvemonths. Yes, James, in this very bed, lying here where I am lying now.”
“I don’t believe it, Peter.”
Peter loved his brother, and to bring the marriage about he took some money from his father and went to live at Father Tom’s, and he worked so hard during the next two months that he passed the Bishop’s examination. And it was late one night when he went to bid them good-bye at home.
“What makes you so late, Peter?”
“Well, James, I didn’t want to meet Catherine on the road.”
“You are a good boy, Peter,” said the father, “and God will reward you for the love you bear your brother. I don’t think there are two better men in the world. God has been good to me to give me two such sons.”
And then the three sat round the fire, and Pat Phelan began to talk family history.
“Well, Peter, you see, there has always been a priest in the family, and it would be a pity if there’s not one in this generation. In ‘48 your grand-uncles joined the rebels, and they had to leave the country. You have an uncle a priest, and you are just like your uncle William.”
And then James talked, but he did not seem to know very well what he was saying, and his father told him to stop — that Peter was going where God had called him.
“And you will tell her,” Peter said, getting up, “that I have gone.”
“I haven’t the heart for telling her such a thing. She will be finding it out soon enough.”
Outside the house — for he was sleeping at Father Tom’s that night — Peter thought there was little luck in James’s eyes; inside the house Pat Phelan and James thought that Peter was settled for life.
“He will be a fine man standing on an altar,” James said, “and perhaps he will be a bishop some day.”
“And you’ll see her when you’re done reaping, and you won’t forget what Peter told you,” said Pat Phelan.
And, after reaping, James put on his coat and walked up the hillside, where he thought he would find Catherine.
“I hear Peter has left you,” she said, as he opened the gate to let the cows through.
“He came last night to bid us good-bye.”
And they followed the cows under the tall hedges.
“I shall be reaping to-morrow,” he said. “I will see you at the same time.”
And henceforth he was always at hand to help her to drive her cows home; and every night, as he sat with his father by the fire, Pat Phelan expected James to tell him about Catherine. One evening he came back overcome, looking so wretched that his father could see that Catherine had told him she would not marry him.
“She won’t have me,” he said.
“A man can always get a girl if he tries long enough,” his father said, hoping to encourage him.
“That would be true enough for another. Catherine knows she will never get Peter. Another man might get her, but I’m always reminding her of Peter.”
She told him the truth one day, that if she did not marry Peter she would marry no one, and James felt like dying. He grew pale and could not speak.
At last he said, “How is that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know, James. But you mustn’t talk to me about marriage again.”
And he had to promise her not to speak of marriage again, and he kept his word. At the end of the year she asked him if he had any news of Peter.
“The last news we had of him was about a month ago, and he said he hoped to be admitted into the minor orders.”
And a few days afterwards he heard that Catherine had decided to go into a convent.
“So this is the way it has ended,” he thought. And he seemed no longer fit for work on the farm. He was seen about the road smoking, and sometimes he went down to the ball-alley, and sat watching the games in the evening. It was thought that he would take to drink, but he took to fishing instead, and was out all day in his little boat on the lake, however hard the wind might blow. The fisherman said he had seen him in the part of the lake where the wind blew the hardest, and that he could hardly pull against the waves.
“His mind is away. I don’t think he’ll do any good in this country,” his father said.
And the old man was very sad, for when James was gone he would have no one, and he did not feel he would be able to work the farm for many years longer. He and James used to sit smoking on either side of the fireplace, and Pat Phelan knew that James was thinking of America all the while. One evening, as they were sitting like this, the door was opened suddenly.
“Peter!” said James. And he jumped up from the fire to welcome his brother.
“It is good for sore eyes to see the sight of you again,” said Pat Phelan. “Well, tell us the news. If we had known you were coming we would have sent the cart to meet you.”
As Peter did not answer, they began to think that something must have happened. Perhaps Peter was not going to become a priest after all, and would stay at home with his father to learn to work the farm.
“You see, I did not know myself until yesterday. It was only yesterday that—”
“So you are not going to be a priest? We are glad to hear that, Peter.”
“How is that?”
He had thought over what he should say, and without waiting to hear why they were glad, he told them the professor, who overlooked his essays, had refused to recognize their merits — he had condemned the best things in them; and Peter said it was extraordinary that such a man should be appointed to such a place. Then he told that the Church afforded little chances for the talents of young men unless they had a great deal of influence.
And they sat listening to him, hearing how the college might be reformed. He had a gentle, winning way of talking, and his father and brother forgot their own misfortunes thinking how they might help him.
“Well, Peter, you have come back none too soon.”
“And how is that? What have you been doing since I went away? You all wanted to hear about Maynooth.”
“Of course we did, my boy. Tell him, James.”
“Oh! it is nothing particular,” said James. “It is only this, Peter — I am going to America.”
“And who will work the farm?”
“Well, Peter, we were thinking that you might work it yourself.”
“I work the farm! Going to America, James! But what about Catherine?”
“That’s what I’m coming to, Peter. She has gone into a convent. And that’s what’s happened since you went away. I can’t stop here, Peter — I will never do a hand’s turn in Ireland — and father is getting too old to go to the fairs. That’s what we were thinking when you came in.”
There was a faint tremble in his voice, and Peter saw how heart-sick his brother was.
“I will do my best, James.”
“I knew you would.”
“Yes, I will,” said Peter; and he sat down by the fire.
And his father said: —
“You are not smoking, Peter.”
“No,” he said; “I’ve given up smoking.”
“Will you drink something?” said James. “We have got a drain of whiskey in the hous
e.”
“No, I have had to give up spirits. It doesn’t agree with me. And I don’t take tea in the morning. Have you got any cocoa in the house?”
It was not the cocoa he liked, but he said he would be able to manage.
IV
And when the old man came through the doorway in the morning buttoning his braces, he saw Peter stirring his cocoa. There was something absurd as well as something attractive in Peter, and his father had to laugh when he said he couldn’t eat American bacon.
“My stomach wouldn’t retain it. I require very little, but that little must be the best.”
And when James took him into the farmyard, he noticed that Peter crossed the yard like one who had never been in a farmyard before; he looked less like a farmer than ever, and when he looked at the cows, James wondered if he could be taught to see the difference between an Alderney and a Durham.
“There’s Kate,” he said; “she’s a good cow; as good a cow as we have, and we can’t get any price for her because of that hump on her back.”
They went to the styes; there were three pigs there and a great sow with twelve little bonhams, and the little ones were white with silky hair, and Peter asked how old they were, and when they would be fit for killing. And James told Peter there were seven acres in the Big field.
“Last year we had oats in the Holly field; next year you’ll sow potatoes there.” And he explained the rotation of crops. “And, now,” he said, “we will go down to Crow’s Oak. You have never done any ploughing, Peter; I will show you.”
It was extraordinary how little Peter knew. He could not put the harness on the horse, and he reminded James that he had gone into the post-office when he left school. James gave in to him that the old red horse was hard to drive, but James could drive him better than Peter could lead him; and Peter marvelled at the skill with which James raised his hand from the shaft of the plough and struck the horse with the rein whilst he kept the plough steady with the other hand.
