by George Moore
“The saints, of course, have had visions. We believe in the visions of the saints.”
“But after all, mother, there are many duties besides religious duties.”
“I suppose, Catherine, you feel it to be your duty to look after this young man?”
“Yes, I think that is it. I must go now, mother, and see Sister Angela, and write out for her all I know about the farm, and what she is to do, for if one is not very careful with a farm one loses a great deal of money. There is no such thing as making two ends meet. One either makes money or loses money.”
And then Catherine again seemed to be engulfed in some deep joy, out of which she roused herself with difficulty.
VI
When her postulant left the room, the Reverend Mother wrote to Pat Phelan, asking him to come next morning with his cart to fetch Catherine. And next morning, when the lay-sister told Catherine that he was waiting for her, the Reverend Mother said: —
“We shall be able to manage, Catherine. You have told Sister Angela everything, and you will not forget to come to see us, I hope.”
“Mr. Phelan,” said the lay-sister, “told me to tell you that one of his sons is going to America to-day. Sister Catherine will have to go at once if she wishes to see him.”
“I must see James. I must see him before he leaves for America. Oh,” she said, turning to the Reverend Mother, “do you remember that I told you I had seen the ship? Everything has come true. You can’t believe any longer that it is not a call.”
Her box was in the cart, and as Pat turned the mare round he said: “I hope we won’t miss James at the station. That’s the reason I came for you so early. I thought you would like to see him.”
“Why did you not come earlier?” she cried. “All my happiness will be spoilt if I don’t see James.”
The convent was already behind her, and her thoughts were now upon poor James, whose heart she had broken. She knew that Peter would never love her as well as James, but this could not be helped. Her vision in the garden consoled her, for she could no longer doubt that she was doing right in going to Peter, that her destiny was with him.
She knew the road well, she knew all the fields, every house and every gap in the walls. Sign after sign went by; at last they were within sight of the station. The signal was still up, and the train had not gone yet; at the end of the platform she saw James and Peter. She let Pat Phelan drive the cart round; she could get to them quicker by running down the steps and crossing the line. The signal went down.
“Peter,” she said, “we shall have time to talk presently. I want to speak to James now.”
And they walked up to the platform, leaving Peter to talk to his father.
“Paddy Maguire is outside,” Pat said; “I asked him to stand at the mare’s head.”
“James,” said Catherine, “it is very sad you are going away. We may never see you again, and there is no time to talk, and I’ve much to say to you.”
“I am going away, Catherine, but maybe I will be coming back some day. I was going to say maybe you would be coming over after me; but the land is good land, and you’ll be able to make a living out of it.”
And then they spoke of Peter. James said he was too great a scholar for a farmer, and it was a pity he could not find out what he was fit for — for surely he was fit for something great after all.
And Catherine said: —
“I shall be able to make something out of Peter.”
His emotion almost overcame him, and Catherine looked aside so that she should not see his tears.
“This is no time for talking of Peter,” she said. “You are going away, James, but you will come back. You will find another woman better than I am in America, James. I don’t know what to say to you. The train will be here in a minute. I am distracted. But one day you will be coming back, and we shall be very proud of you when you come back. I shall rebuild the house, and we shall be all happy then. Oh! here’s the train. Good-bye; you have been very good to me. Oh, James! shall I ever see you again?”
Then the crowd swept them along, and James had to take his father’s hand and his brother’s hand. There were a great many people in the station — hundreds were going away in the same ship that James was going in. The train was followed by wailing relatives. They ran alongside of the train, waving their hands until they could no longer keep up with the train. James waved a red handkerchief until the train was out of sight. It disappeared in a cutting, and a moment after Catherine and Peter remembered they were standing side by side. They were going to be married in a few days! They started a little, hearing a step beside them. It was old Phelan.
“I think,” he said, “it is time to be getting home.”
HOME SICKNESS
HE TOLD THE doctor he was due in the bar-room at eight o’clock in the morning; the bar-room was in a slum in the Bowery; and he had only been able to keep himself in health by getting up at five o’clock and going for long walks in the Central Park.
“A sea voyage is what you want,” said the doctor. “Why not go to Ireland for two or three months? You will come back a new man.”
“I’d like to see Ireland again.”
And then he began to wonder how the people at home were getting on. The doctor was right. He thanked him, and three weeks afterwards he landed in Cork.
As he sat in the railway carriage he recalled his native village — he could see it and its lake, and then the fields one by one, and the roads. He could see a large piece of rocky land — some three or four hundred acres of headland stretching out into the winding lake. Upon this headland the peasantry had been given permission to build their cabins by former owners of the Georgian house standing on the pleasant green hill. The present owners considered the village a disgrace, but the villagers paid high rents for their plots of ground, and all the manual labour that the Big House required came from the village: the gardeners, the stable helpers, the house and the kitchen maids.
He had been thirteen years in America, and when the train stopped at his station, he looked round to sec if there were any changes in it. It was just the same blue limestone station-house as it was thirteen years ago. The platform and the sheds were the same, and there were five miles of road from the station to Duncannon. The sea voyage had done him good, but five miles were too far for him to-day; the last time he had walked the road, he had walked it in an hour and a half, carrying a heavy bundle on a stick.
He was sorry he did not feel strong enough for the walk; the evening was fine, and he would meet many people coming home from the fair, some of whom he had known in his youth, and they would tell him where he could get a clean lodging. But the carman would be able to tell him that; he called the car that was waiting at the station, and soon he was answering questions about America. But Bryden wanted to hear of those who were still living in the old country, and after hearing the stories of many people he had forgotten, he heard that Mike Scully, who had been away in a situation for many years as a coachman in the King’s County, had come back and built a fine house with a concrete floor. Now there was a good loft in Mike Scully’s house, and Mike would be pleased to take in a lodger.
Bryden remembered that Mike had been in a situation at the Big House; he had intended to be a jockey, but had suddenly shot up into a fine tall man, and had had to become a coachman instead. Bryden tried to recall the face, but he could only remember a straight nose, and a somewhat dusky complexion. Mike was one of the heroes of his childhood, and his youth floated before him, and he caught glimpses of himself, something that was more than a phantom and less than a reality. Suddenly his reverie was broken: the carman pointed with his whip, and Bryden saw a tall, finely-built, middle-aged man coming through the gates, and the driver said: —
“There’s Mike Scully.”
Mike had forgotten Bryden even more completely than Bryden had forgotten him, and many aunts and uncles were mentioned before he began to understand.
“You’ve grown into a fine man, James
,” he said, looking at Bryden’s great width of chest. “But you are thin in the cheeks, and you’re sallow in the cheeks too.”
“I haven’t been very well lately — that is one of the reasons I have come back; but I want to see you all again.”
Bryden paid the carman, wished him “God-speed,” and he and Mike divided the luggage between them, Mike carrying the bag and Bryden the bundle, and they walked round the lake, for the townland was at the back of the demesne; and while they walked, James proposed to pay Mike ten shillings a week for his board and lodging.
He remembered the woods thick and well-forested; now they were windworn, the drains were choked, and the bridge leading across the lake inlet was falling away. Their way led between long fields where herds of cattle were grazing; the road was broken — Bryden wondered how the villagers drove their carts over it, and Mike told him that the landlord could not keep it in repair, and he would not allow it to be kept in repair out of the rates, for then it would be a public road, and he did not think there should be a public road through his property.
At the end of many fields they came to the village, and it looked a desolate place, even on this fine evening, and Bryden remarked that the county did not seem to be as much lived in as it used to be. It was at once strange and familiar to see the chickens in the kitchen; and, wishing to re-knit himself to the old habits, he begged of Mrs. Scully not to drive them out, saying he did not mind them. Mike told his wife that Bryden was born in Duncannon, and when he mentioned Bryden’s name she gave him her hand, after wiping it in her apron, saying he was heartily welcome, only she was afraid he would not care to sleep in a loft.
“Why wouldn’t I sleep in a loft, a dry loft! You’re thinking a good deal of America over here,” said he, “but I reckon it isn’t all you think it. Here you work when you like and you sit down when you like; but when you have had a touch of blood-poisoning as I had, and when you have seen young people walking with a stick, you think that there is something to be said for old Ireland.”
“Now won’t you be taking a sup of milk? You’ll be wanting a drink after travelling,” said Mrs. Scully.
And when he had drunk the milk Mike asked him if he would like to go inside or if he would like to go for a walk.
“Maybe it is sitting down you would like to be.”
And they went into the cabin, and started to talk about the wages a man could get in America, and the long hours of work.
And after Bryden had told Mike everything about America that he thought would interest him, he asked Mike about Ireland. But Mike did not seem to be able to tell him much that was of interest. They were all very poor — poorer, perhaps, than when he left them.
“I don’t think anyone except myself has a five pound note to his name.”
Bryden hoped he felt sufficiently sorry for Mike. But after all Mike’s life and prospects mattered little to him. He had come back in search of health; and he felt better already; the milk had done him good, and the bacon and cabbage in the pot sent forth a savoury odour. The Scullys were very kind, they pressed him to make a good meal; a few weeks of country air and food, they said, would give him back the health he had lost in the Bowery; and when Bryden said he was longing for a smoke, Mike said there was no better sign than that. During his long illness he had never wanted to smoke, and he was a confirmed smoker.
It was comfortable to sit by the mild peat fire watching the smoke of their pipes drifting up the chimney, and all Bryden wanted was to be let alone; he did not want to hear of anyone’s misfortunes, but about nine o’clock a number of villagers came in, and their appearance was depressing. Bryden remembered one or two of them — he used to know them very well when he was a boy; their talk was as depressing as their appearance, and he could feel no interest whatever in them. He was not moved when he heard that Higgins the stone-mason was dead; he was not affected when he heard that Mary Kelly, who used to go to do the laundry at the Big House, had married; he was only interested when he heard she had gone to America. No, he had not met her there, America is a big place. Then one of the peasants asked him if he remembered Patsy Carabine, who used to do the gardening at the Big House. Yes, he remembered Patsy well. Patsy was in the poor-house. He had not been able to do any work on account of his arm; his house had fallen in; he had given up his holding and gone into the poor-house. All this was very sad, and to avoid hearing any further unpleasantness, Bryden began to tell them about America. And they sat round listening to him; but all the talking was on his side; he wearied of it; and looking round the group he recognised a ragged hunchback with grey hair; twenty years ago he was a young hunchback, and, turning to him, Bryden asked him if he were doing well with his five acres.
“Ah, not much. This has been a bad season. The potatoes failed; they were watery — there is no diet in them.”
These peasants were all agreed that they could make nothing out of their farms. Their regret was that they had not gone to America when they were young; and after striving to take an interest in the fact that O’Connor had lost a mare and foal worth forty pounds Bryden began to wish himself back in the slum. And when they left the house he wondered if every evening would be like the present one. Mike piled fresh sods on the fire, and he hoped it would show enough light in the loft for Bryden to undress himself by.
The cackling of some geese in the road kept him awake, and the loneliness of the country seemed to penetrate to his bones, and to freeze the marrow in them. There was a bat in the loft — a dog howled in the distance — and then he drew the clothes over his head. Never had he been so unhappy, and the sound of Mike breathing by his wife’s side in the kitchen added to his nervous terror. Then he dozed a little; and lying on his back he dreamed he was awake, and the men he had seen sitting round the fireside that evening seemed to him like spectres come out of some unknown region of morass and reedy tarn. He stretched out his hands for his clothes, determined to fly from this house, but remembering the lonely road that led to the station he fell back on his pillow. The geese still cackled, but he was too tired to be kept awake any longer. He seemed to have been asleep only a few minutes when he heard Mike calling him. Mike had come half way up the ladder and was telling him that breakfast was ready. “What kind of breakfast will he give me?” Bryden asked himself as he pulled on his clothes. There were tea and hot griddle cakes for breakfast, and there were fresh eggs; there was sunlight in the kitchen and he liked to hear Mike tell of the work he was going to do in the fields. Mike rented a farm of about fifteen acres, at least ten of it was grass; he grew an acre of potatoes and some corn, and some turnips for his sheep. He had a nice bit of meadow, and he took down his scythe, and as he put the whetstone in his belt Bryden noticed a second scythe, and he asked Mike if he should go down with him and help him to finish the field.
“You haven’t done any mowing this many a year; I don’t think you’d be of much help. You’d better go for a walk by the lake, but you may come in the afternoon if you like and help to turn the grass over.”
Bryden was afraid he would find the lake shore very lonely, but the magic of returning health is the sufficient distraction for the convalescent, and the morning passed agreeably. The weather was still and sunny. He could hear the ducks in the reeds. The hours dreamed themselves away, and it became his habit to go to the lake every morning. One morning he met the landlord, and they walked together, talking of the country, of what it had been, and the ruin it was slipping into. James Bryden told him that ill health had brought him back to Ireland; and the landlord lent him his boat, and Bryden rowed about the islands, and resting upon his oars he looked at the old castles, and remembered the pre-historic raiders that the landlord had told him about. He came across the stones to which the lake dwellers had tied their boats, and these signs of ancient Ireland were pleasing to Bryden in his present mood.
As well as the great lake there was a smaller lake in the bog where the villagers cut their turf. This lake was famous for its pike, and the landlord allowed Bryde
n to fish there, and one evening when he was looking for a frog with which to bait his line he met Margaret Dirken driving home the cows for the milking. Margaret was the herdsman’s daughter, and she lived in a cottage near the Big House; but she came up to the village whenever there was a dance, and Bryden had found himself opposite to her in the reels. But until this evening he had had little opportunity of speaking to her, and he was glad to speak to someone, for the evening was lonely, and they stood talking together.
“You’re getting your health again,” she said. “You’ll soon be leaving us.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“You’re grand people over there; I hear a man is paid four dollars a day for his work.”
“And how much,” said James, “has he to pay for his food and for his clothes?”
Her cheeks were bright and her teeth small, white and beautifully even; and a woman’s soul looked at Bryden out of her soft Irish eyes. He was troubled and turned aside, and catching sight of a frog looking at him out of a tuft of grass he said: —
“I have been looking for a frog to put upon my pike line.”
The frog jumped right and left, and nearly escaped in some bushes, but he caught it and returned with it in his hand.
“It is just the kind of frog a pike will like,” he said. “Look at its great white belly and its bright yellow back.”
And without more ado he pushed the wire to which the hook was fastened through the frog’s fresh body, and dragging it through the mouth he passed the hooks through the hind legs and tied the line to the end of the wire.
“I think,” said Margaret, “I must be looking after my cows; it’s time I got them home.”
“Won’t you come down to the lake while I set my line?”
She thought for a moment and said: —
“No, I’ll see you from here.”
