There was a dead silence. All the air in the room pressed upon Dermot’s face, pricking him with a thousand needles. Blood pumped in his ears.
Uncle Ben laughed.
“Ah, sure, Ernest,” he said, “he was just codding you. You wouldn’t call that a lie. He was just codding you.”
And that line the entire household at once adopted. It was useless for the half-mollified Ernest to explain afterwards, “You see, Ben, it’s the principle I’m anxious about”: he was not taken seriously, and suffered the further humiliation of being told how good a boy Dermot was: “as if I didn’t know my own son,” he complained, when he and Margaret walked to the tram afterwards.
Dermot lay that night with a fierce conflict inside him. He felt by turns ashamed, for having sought allies against his parents: by turns elated, for having rebelled and won. Ah, dear understanding people of this house! Yet, in so many ways, they were strange to him, much as he loved them. Some day, some day, the choice would have to be made. It did not enter his head that he might choose neither.
But he was fortified in spirit. When, after he went back to Walmer Villa, his Father reproved him for trying to let his parents down in front of the Delgany folk, he had his answer ready.
“If you were in the right, how could it hurt you for me to tell the facts.”
Mr. Gray tried to explain the scene away.
“You made it very awkward for them. Of course Uncle Ben had to make light of it.”
“He told me himself, the next day, that it wasn’t what he would call a lie.”
“He wouldn’t have said that, if it had been one of his own children.”
“Oh, yes,” said Dermot bitterly, “I suppose we are the only honest people in the world”: and, with unheard of boldness, he got up, and went out of the room.
Chapter XXVII
Even when he was not staying there, the influence of Delgany went deep. It was Delgany, through Con, that suggested a deliverance from the Sunday morning ordeal of St. Patrick’s. Con did not greatly care for the church where his parents worshipped, and had found another, up at the back of Killiney Hill, which he liked better. He got leave to take Dermot there one morning, and the mischief was done. Dermot was then twelve, and he did not receive the rapturous attentions of Miss O’Killikelly and her like with too good a grace. He stood frowning, biting his lip, and kicking the gravel with the toe of his shiny brown boot, making short replies.
“Dermot, darling.”
A sweet smile would come his way from his Mother or Granny, a public smile, ending with a glance at the boot. Sometimes even, there would be a laughing, deprecating apology on his behalf.
“He’s shy. The school age,” his Granny would murmur: and all the ladies, with their nodding bonnets, their black, their lilac, and their mauve, their beads that glittered shrilly in the sun, would draw delightedly together, looking at him as if he were some rare and precious animal, and exclaim:
“Aaah, he’s shy. That’s what it is. Sure, you could see it in a minute. It’s shy he is, the poor boy.”
“He’ll be going away to his public school in a year,” said his Mother, in a kind of dream.
“His public school. D’ye tell me that now. And only the other day, he was just so high.”
“When I was that high,” said Dermot on one occasion, merely meaning to join humorously in the discussion, “I shouldn’t have thought I could stand upright at all”
The remark was received with laughter and flutterings, but Dermot was afterwards told he had been rude.
No. St. Patrick’s had lost its hold. He loved, privately, to get just one sight of the window with Jesus walking upon the waters, on the first Sunday of the new holiday, so that he could gaze upon it (it seemed he had only left it the Sunday before) and thank God for having brought him safe again. He liked, also, to say goodbye to it at the end, as he did to Killiney Bay. When you walked to Delgany, just before you reached the house, you came clear of a belt of trees, and the whole panorama opened in its perfect finality before you. That, of all moments in the year, was the moment to stand and thank God for bringing you back again. In the same way, when the glorious weeks were over, on the last day, coming up mournfully to Delgany to bid them all goodbye, he crept off by himself to Con’s room, which looked out over the bay, kneeled up in the window, and prayed that he might be brought back to see the view again. Soon, the view took the place of the stained-glass window. So Dermot fought hard to go with Con on the motor-bike to the church on the hill, and rush afterwards through the villages of the Vale of Shanganagh—Ballybrack, Cabinteely, Loughlinstown and Little Bray—and back by Cobawn Lane and the sea, past the stooks of yellow corn, with Con, moved always to the same memory of his schooldays at St. Columba’s, bawling his part in the anthem: “The valleys stand so thick with corn, that THEY laugh and sing, that THEY laugh and sing”—ending in an enormous laugh of excitement and happiness. First, Dermot’s parents let him once or twice desert St. Patrick’s. Next year, he demanded to go always with Con. There were recriminations at the top of the garden.
“Your poor Granny is so sad. She loves to have you with her——”
“And show me off to a lot of beastly old women.”
“Your Granny does everything she can to make your time here happy.” (It was so true. Dermot felt the barb.) “I think you might at least do this to please her.”
“I thought,” he muttered sulkily, “one went to church to please God, not one’s Granny.”
“Now you’re being impertinent,” said Margaret coldly, drawing herself up. She went away, leaving Dermot angry and miserable. As he approached his cub years, and was rude to her, he could see all the time that she, the beautiful lady his mother, should never suffer rudeness. It was impossible, in her true character. He resented darkly the soilure and wickedness of the world which brought it about. He could not feel all in the wrong. She, left to herself, was not wrong either. It was only when circumstances drove her. Circumstances, and Daddy.
Finally, it was settled that he should go definitely once a summer to St. Patrick’s, and that, for the rest of the time, he might worship where he pleased. This was a large and rather surprising concession, and the strongest factor in it, curiously, was Dermot’s father. From being embittered by association with a long succession of clergymen, he was finally moved, through a dispute with the vicar at home, to forsake churchgoing altogether. In this new mood of large mindedness he startled Margaret by declaring that he wished Dermot left free to choose for himself: adding that to sit under such a fool as the present vicar could do no one any good. Dermot jumped at the chance, and spent his Sunday mornings at home in long walks with his father, upon which the pair got on very well indeed. But the mind of a boy grows strangely. Since he was six or seven, Dermot had feared rather than loved his father. Now, the new companionship, the delightful conspiracy against churchgoing, while it banished a deal of the fear, banished a deal of respect with it. This decay did not manifest itself till later: the real point was that religion for Dermot became divorced from his home and parents, and associated altogether with Delgany. So deep an impression did those simple spirits make upon him, that when the development of his intelligence and his education offered him difficulties which for them did not exist: when he perceived that there were problems and crises in the contemporary world to which their declaration could not in its simplicity be adjusted: he felt all the time, not that he was trying to make the necessary new adjustment of faith to intellect, but that he was degenerating from the simplicity of a golden world.
Mr. Gray, perceiving this, and disliking the Delgany philosophy, gave Dermot, as he grew older, the full weight of his mind. All the doubts and problems which had been stirring so long beneath his churchwarden exterior were imparted, logically and persuasively, to the boy. Dermot seized upon them. He was just at the logical age, and to disprove the faith of his mother and his Granny was a fascinating game. He caused much trouble to the more conscientious and orthodox of his sch
ool friends, who were unable to answer him, except with Uncle Ben’s argument that there were some things with which the human intellect was never intended to cope. This argument, in the pleasure of using his intellect, Dermot pushed on one side: but he could never profess agnosticism at Delgany. That was the one place which made him feel uneasy. He would conveniently forget it there, or, after tentative discussion, almost agree with Con that the temptation for a clever man was to use his intellect upon questions of religion. But we are getting ahead of our tale, which at the moment is lodged somewhere about the end of Dermot’s last holiday as a preparatory schoolboy.
At this point Anne sprang a surprise upon her family. She had always been the conventional one, insisting upon a good education, a finishing school in England, and the piano: and her behaviour had shown the influence of these additions. She was quieter than Eileen, more devout, more talented. Alone of the family, she liked going away from home, paying long visits to friends in England. She spoke French, and stayed two months in Paris, with a family of unimpeachable respectability, to perfect it. She took herself altogether more seriously than the others, but no one could resent this, because she was sweet-natured, and not at all conceited. A deep humility, rather, led her to better her abilities. Dermot made little of her. He liked her, for she was always kind to him: but she was more and more away from Delgany, more deeply busied with her own concerns—which included “social work” in Dublin—and he soon ceased to include her in the Delgany scheme.
Then she went for a holiday to Switzerland, with a girl friend, and returned, engaged to a Swiss! The parents of the girl friend were much concerned. They wrote to Aunt Patricia in a tone of mingled apology and glee, for the Swiss was very well off. He was, they declared, a gentleman, in every sense of the word: polite, kind-hearted, very religious: in fact, “a great dear.” Anne was transfigured. To her parents’ remonstrances and queries she presented a sort of radiant obstinacy.
“What do ye call the fella?” asked Uncle Ben again, wrinkling his brows.
“Torje,” said Anne defiantly. “That’s his nickname. That’s what he’s called at home.”
“TOPSY! “cried the scandalised mariner.
Anne laughed happily.
“No, Daddy darling, Tope.”
“Topyee.” Uncle Ben made a face. “That’s a queer sort of a name, for a man. That has a Dutch sound, to me.”
“I can’t help it, Daddy.”
“Are you sure, now, he’s not a Dutchman?”
“Quite sure, Daddy. He’s a Swiss, and he lives in Bern.”
“Well.” Uncle Ben looked round the room. “It’s the funniest sort of a do I ever heard.”
“Oh, Daddy.” She sat herself beside him on the floor, and put her arm on his knees. “Do be nice about him.”
“Faith, pet,” he looked down at her in amused perplexity. “I want to be nice. But—but—you’ve taken the wind clean out of me sails. All of us. I mean, pet, it’s a bit of a surprise, d’ye see.”
“I know it is, Daddy. It’s rather a surprise to me. But wait till you’ve seen Tope. You’ll like him: you’ll all like him. He’s an absolute darling. Do write and ask him to come, Mother darling?”
“Oh, faith,” Ben answered for her. “We’ll ask him to come, all right. We must have a look at your Topyee, anyway.”
So Tope was invited, and replied in beautiful archaic English, disclosing a mind of great simplicity. Even Aunt Patricia had to admit it was a very nice letter. Privately, she was very downcast at the idea of “a foreigner,” the term implying for her all manner of laxity and license.
“Still, I’d rather it were a Swiss than a Frenchman,” she confided to Dermot ; for she knew nothing against the Swiss: nothing at all about them, indeed, except that they made watches.
Everyone was curious to see Tope, and in due time he arrived. He was a success from the first.
“Ah, you couldn’t help liking him,” Granny said, after he had visited Walmer Villa. Tope did not seem to mind how many people he had to meet. He smiled amiably, and was nice to them all. He was, certainly, not much to look at. Short, fair, nearly bald, about thirty-four or five, holding himself stiffly ; with a fresh colour, an innocent expression, and rather unusual blue eyes, he was no match for the quite beautiful Anne. Yet everyone liked him at sight. The simplicity of his character, his child-like good nature, was apparent at once: and there was something in the eyes that suggested strength behind the simplicity. For all his innocence, Tope did not miss much. Delgany soon admitted he was no fool.
Con and he got on famously. To Con, he was like a new toy, to be exploited and played with in every conceivable fashion. He pulled Tope’s leg right royally.
“Please?” Torje would say, smiling amiably, as roars of laughter exploded round him. “Please?” And Con would put a great paw on his shoulder, trying to explain between his guffaws: whereupon Tope would beam, and pat Con on the back, with the greatest good humour. Anne was at first cross and apprehensive, and Aunt Patricia joined her.
“He’ll think you’re laughing at him. You’ll hurt his feelings. He won’t understand.”
But Tope understood all right. Nothing disconcerted him. The horseplay and practical jokes which formed the staple part of initiation to the Delgany household he received with every appearance of pleasure. Finally, after he had been in the house a week, he retaliated upon Con with a practical joke of such ingenuity and efficiency that Con was completely won, and ready to embrace him as a brother-in-law.
“Please,” said Tope one morning after breakfast, “we can get married now, yes?”
Aunt Patricia gasped. She had hoped next year, at the soonest. … But Anne and Tope laid siege to her, and, before an hour was passed, she had given in. Uncle Ben raised no objection either, when he came home.
“But your trousseau,” protested Aunt Patricia feebly. “How will you——”
Tope turned to her.
“We have honeymoon in Anne’s country, like we say this morning. Then, after honeymoon, we make our shoppings, and go home.”
“Aaah,” said Aunt Patricia, sadly. “I never expected to lose you so soon.”
“Not lose,” said Tope, patting her hand. “Not lose. Every year, you come and see us: we come and see you.”
He was now master of the situation, and had taken charge of the whole family. They sat back, half in a dream, while Tope arranged everything. He even interviewed the Vicar, who called afterwards, simply spluttering with his praises.
“Upon me soul,” said Uncle Ben one evening, when the two had gone out together: “Upon me soul, I’m beginning to admire that fella. He’s got a head on his shoulders.”
“Anne’s done uncommon well for herself, if you ask me,” said Con.
“Indeed, he’s very nice,” conceded Aunt Patricia mournfully. Now that the banns were up, and the affair out of her hands, she had fallen back on resignation. “All the same,” she would protest, to her friends, “it’s not what I looked for, for her, at all”
“Ah, but he’s so nice,” they all comforted her. “He adores her. Sure, ye can see it. He’ll make her a splendid husband.”
Yes, Aunt Patricia admitted, there were comforts, certainly. And, there was no denying, Tope was very well off: very well off indeed.
The wedding took place at half-past eight on a wet September morning. Anne, now that the day had come, looked pale and miserable ; Tope, resolute and concerned. The church was chilly and damp: the Vicar had a cold in his nose. Everyone looked as if they had just been roused from sleep, and, by an unwilling and desperate effort, reached the church in time. Con and Dermot were the only people in form. While the register was being signed, they turned their attention to the bridal car. Con, guffawing, tied an assortment of old boots to the back axle, while Dermot plastered the wet shiny surface of the car with confetti, which stuck grimly everywhere. Before the pair started, Granny hurried to the driver, spoke to him in a low voice, and pressed something into his hand. Then, to the accompa
niment of feeble cheering, the pair drove off, the boots hopping and dangling behind, at which spectacle Con slapped his knees and bawled with laughter.
When the car had gone a quarter of a mile, it stopped, and the driver, following Granny’s instructions, got out and cut off the boots. Con and Dermot, returning home, were indignant to discover them lying in the gutter. Despite Aunt Patricia’s protests, they retrieved them, and brought them home.
“For ye never know,” proclaimed Con, leering at Eileen, “how soon they’d be wanted again.”
“Well, if they are,” retorted his sister, “it won’t be at half-past eight on a wet morning, I can promise you that. I’m not going to the altar blue with the cold, and a red nose on me, for any man.”
“Ah, me poor little Anne,” said Uncle Ben. “She was hardly her best.”
“Hardly her best! Sure, I never saw her look worse in me life.”
“Ah, Eileen, pet, no. That’s an unkind thing to say.”
“Well, God defend me from looking that way, when I’m married, that’s all”
“Ta’ care,” said Con, “you ever are married. Don’t be too sure.”
“If I’m not, you won’t want the boots. Unless it’s for yourself.”
“Or Dermot here. Will you look at him. Musha, Dermot, I tell you, when the girls get hold of that mouth of yours——”
“Shut up.”
“Yes,” said Eileen, “shut up. We’ve had enough of you, for one morning. Weddings are bad enough anyway, without you hee-hawing all over the place.”
“Ta’ care, or I won’t honour yours with me presence.”
“Indeed, and I devoutly hope you won’t.”
“Now then,” admonished Uncle Ben. “Order there, me hearties! Order there !”
Chapter XXVIII
Autumn had set its promise early on the country. Gales blew in the first week of September, and a couple of days sufficed to turn lazy, full-fed summer into something wilder, more aware. The gales passed, and kindlier days followed them, but there was a new smell in the air, a new spirit, alert and passionate, upon the mountains, the thickets, and the bracken-covered slopes of the hills.
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