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 THE UNTILLED FIELD
 
 WORKS BY GEORGE MOORE 
 
 A MODERN LOVER. 
 A MUMMER'S WIFE. 
 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 ESTHER WATERS. 
 ESTHER WATERS (PLAY). 
 CELIBATES. 
 EVELYN INNES. 
 SISTER TERESA. 
 MODERN PAINTING. 
 IMPRESSIONS AND OPINIONS. 
 
 THE LAKE. 
 
 THE STRIKE AT ARLINGFORD. 
 MEMOIRS OF MY DEAD LIFE. 
 HAIL AND FAREWELL: 
 
 i ii in 
 
 AVE. SALVE. VALE.
 
 THE 
 
 UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MOORE 
 
 LONDON 
 WILLIAM HEINEMANN
 
 PR- 
 
 First Published 1903. 
 
 New Edition, October, 1914. 
 
 New Impression, January, 1915
 
 PREFACE 
 
 [ T must have been somewhere at the end 
 of the nineties, not unlikely in ninety- 
 nine, that dear Edward said to me in 
 the Temple : ' I should like to write 
 my plays in Irish.' And it was not 
 long afterwards, in the beginning of 1 900, that Yeats 
 persuaded him to come to Ireland to found a literary 
 theatre. In search of a third person, they called on 
 me in Victoria Street, and it is related in Ave how 
 we packed our bags and went away to do something. 
 We all did something, but none did what he set out 
 to do. Yeats founded a realistic theatre, Edward 
 emptied two churches he and Palestrina between 
 them and I wrote The Untilled Field, a book written 
 in the beginning out of no desire of self-expression, 
 but in the hope of furnishing the young Irish of the 
 future with models. Yeats said that I had learned 
 the art of presentation in Paris, and in 1900 we 
 believed that the Irish language could be revived. 
 ' You see, it is necessary,' I observed to Edward, 
 ' that Ireland's future writers should have models, and 
 the stories will be published in a Jesuit magazine.' 
 ' If the Jesuits assume all responsibility,' he muttered, 
 and fell to pondering over his pipe, but he raised no
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 further objection and invested with full authority I 
 wrote The Wedding Gown, Almsgiving, The Clerk's 
 Quest, and So On He Fares, in English rather than in 
 Anglo-Irish, for of what help would that pretty idiom, 
 in which we catch the last accents of the original 
 language, be to Tiagh Donoghue, my translator? 
 As soon as his translations were finished, my manu- 
 scripts were to be burnt ; but these first stories begot 
 a desire to paint the portrait of my country, and this 
 could only be done in a Catholic atmosphere, and 
 as I had just come out of Evelyn Lines and Sister 
 Teresa, The Exile rose up in my mind quickly, and 
 before putting the finishing hand to it I began Home 
 Sickness. The village of Duncannon in the story set 
 me thinking of the villages round Dublin, and I 
 wrote Some Parishioners, Patchwork, The Wedding 
 Feast, and The Window. The somewhat harsh rule 
 of Father Maguire set me thinking of a gentler type 
 of priest, and the pathetic figure of Father MacTurnan 
 tempted me. I wrote A Letter to Rome and A Play- 
 house in the Waste ; and as fast as these stories were 
 written they were translated into Irish and published 
 in a very pretty book of which nobody took any notice, 
 and that the Gaelic League could not be persuaded 
 to put in its window ; and one evening a disheartened 
 man was driven to the bitter extremity of collecting his 
 manuscripts for a London publisher. The cheque they 
 brought back on account of royalties did not soothe 
 me ; in 1903 England was hateful on account of 
 the Boer War, and the sale of one hundred copies 
 of the book that I could not read would have pleased 
 me more than ten thousand of the book that I could. 
 In a word, I was hipped with my book, and willingly
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 forgot it in the excitement of The Lake, a thing an 
 author should never do, for to forget a book or to 
 speak contemptuously of it brings bad luck. And 
 so Synge was raised up against me in Ireland, and 
 for the last ten years we have been thinking and 
 talking of him as the one man who saw Irish life 
 truly and wrote it candidly. 
 
 It was just as if' on purpose to make an omadaun 
 of me that Yeats brought him over from Paris in 
 the year 1903, though he had no English on him 
 at the time, only the like that's heard in the National 
 Schools, and if you don't believe me, will you be 
 throwing your eye over the things he wrote in them days 
 for the weekly papers, and faith you'll see the editors 
 were right to Jire them out. Wasn't he dreaming, too, 
 he could be writing like a French fellow of the name 
 of Loti, that knew the trick with a couple of twists oj 
 the pen of turning every country in the wide world into 
 a sweet-shop ? But 'tis little of the taste of sugar-candy 
 he got into his articles, and his book about the Aran 
 Islands has more of the tang of old leather, like as if 
 he'd be chewing the big brogues he did be always 
 wearing on his feet. And, morebetoken, his language in 
 the same book is as bald as the coat of a mangy dog, and 
 trapsed along over a page of print like the clatter of a 
 horse that was gone in the legs. It's many a heart scald 
 this same must have given to my bold Yeats, for it's the 
 grand judge entirely he is of the shape and the colour 
 and the sound of words. So one day he up and said to 
 Synge : ' Give up your schoolmaster words that have no 
 guts left in them, and leave off thinking of Loti and his 
 barley-sugar, and go down into the County Wicklow and 
 listen to what the people do be saying to 'other when
 
 viii PREFACE 
 
 they're at their ease without any notion of an ear cocked 
 to carry off" what they say. I hear tell that they speak 
 a language that isn't worn out yet, and that has some 
 of the youth of the world in it. I'd like to write in it 
 myself, but I'd be ajeared of muddying the clear English 
 well that I'm used to dabbling in. Besides, if you pick 
 it up anyway decent you might yet prove to the world 
 that it wasn't a mare's nest I found when I discovered 
 you,' he said. And if Synge didn't pack up his few duds 
 and tramp off that very minute, and if he hadn't the luck 
 of the old boy himself in finding a lodging in a house in 
 the hills of Wicklow that was like as if it was made on 
 purpose for him a room over the kitchen with an old 
 broken boarded floor to it, the way he could see and hear 
 all that was going on below, and nobody a penny the 
 wiser but himself. Lying flat on his belly, with an ear 
 or an eye to the slits, he took in all that was said and 
 done, and put it down in a bookeen with the stump oj 
 a pencil and made a play out of it. 
 
 There is the pretty idiom of the Irish peasants as 
 they chatter it along the roads, about their firesides, 
 in the market-places, reported truthfully without 
 exaggeration or refinements. But Synge put polish 
 upon it and enlivened it with bright colours, and drew 
 out of it the poetry of the country with which it is 
 saturated as with dew. We listened delighted to The 
 Shadow of the Glen, admitting to ourselves as we sat in 
 our seats and to our friends as we left the hall that we 
 preferred the cooing of Synge's dialogue to grey 
 thoughts. We told him so in the street, and he 
 went away to the Aran Islands for the summer-time^ 
 hoping to return in the autumn with another play, 
 written in the same idiom, of course, but enriched by
 
 PREFACE ix 
 
 direct translation from the Irish. Why good English 
 can be discovered by translating word for word from 
 the Irish is one of the many great mysteries that 
 beset our lives ; but it is so. And when the news 
 was passed round that Synge had brought back a play 
 from Aran, we assembled in the Molesworth Hall, 
 and it seemed to us that he had raised a tombstone 
 over the intellectual drama. Dear Edward was the 
 only dissident; he averred, and stood stiffly to it, 
 that he hated peasant language. Yeats cried : 
 'Sophocles!' and then revising his judgment, said: 
 'No, Eschylus.' John Eglinton, IE, and myself 
 looked upon these two plays as two remarkable 
 exercises in language. We were interested ; we 
 approved the plays, and on tiptoe Dublin waited 
 for Synge's new play, which came two years after, 
 The Well of the Saints, another remarkable exercise 
 in language, hardly more ; for the play is but an 
 adaptation of Clemenceau's Voile du Bonheur, with an 
 Irish couple substituted for the Chinese couple and 
 country idiom for Clemenceau's Parisian speech. 
 But Synge's indebtedness did not trouble us ; why 
 should it ? we asked. Is not a plagiarist one who 
 spoils the original text, and an original writer one 
 who improves upon his predecessor ? And satisfied 
 with this definition, we waited, and whenever a 
 circle of men and women drew round a fire, the 
 subject of the Playboy was discussed. Yeats had 
 communicated it so that we might be prepared to 
 accept a parricide as a hero, and a Mayo village as 
 nothing loth to do the same. At first sight the 
 subject seemed wildly improbable, having no roots 
 in human nature, but it was defended on the ground
 
 x PREFACE 
 
 that brigands have always been popular heroes. And 
 when the play was produced, our little group dis- 
 covered extenuating circumstances for Christy Mahon. 
 Into an extremely ingenious paradoxical story, Synge 
 had brought real men and women, and amazed we 
 asked each other how it was that Synge, who had 
 never before shown any sense of form, should sud- 
 denly become possessed of an exquisite construction. 
 We fell to wondering how the miracle had come 
 about, and we continued wondering, and myself was 
 still head-scratching in Vale, asking how Synge had 
 sprung at once out of pure board-school English into 
 a beautiful style, finding it in an idiom that had 
 hitherto been used only as a means of comic relief. 
 Tricks of speech a parrot can learn, but it is impos- 
 sible to learn through a crack how character acts 
 and reacts upon character. Never before did anyone 
 hear that the intelligence may be lifted through 
 eavesdropping on to a higher plane. Yeats told us 
 that Synge read only Racine and Clement Marot ; 
 but we turned up our noses at these herrings, and 
 the history of The Playboy was wrapped in unsearch- 
 able mystery until I began to read The Untilled Field 
 for this new edition, and found myself thinking that 
 if perchance any of my writings should survive me 
 for a few years, as likely as not it would be these 
 stories. And as this little vanity dispersed, I became 
 more and more interested, for it seemed to me that 
 I had come upon the source of Synge's inspiration. 
 The Untilled Field was a landmark in Anglo-Irish 
 literature, a new departure, and Synge could not 
 have passed it by without looking into it. It was 
 not Racine nor Clement Marot. I would not, how-
 
 PREFACE xi 
 
 ever, seem invidious to Synge's fame ; my hope is 
 not to pluck a leaf from the wreath that Yeats has 
 placed upon his brow. I would merely explain his 
 talent, and if that be impossible, I would explain 
 how he came by it ; to do this with becoming 
 modesty is surely commendable. And if my critics 
 think that I am exaggerating the importance of The 
 Untilled Field in Synge's literary life, they will have 
 to seek for another explanation, and for all I know 
 they may prefer to fall back on Yeats's terrible great 
 conjurations in the Nassau Hotel : Yeats standing 
 over an entranced Synge, his pearl pale, or is it his 
 ivory hand sweeping the strings of a harp of apple- 
 wood, rousing a masterpiece out of the abyss.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE EXILE - - 1 
 
 HOME SICKNESS - - 32 
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS - - 50 
 
 PATCHWORK - 68 
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST - - 86 
 
 THE WINDOW - 102 
 
 A LETTER TO ROME - - 131 
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE - 150 
 
 JULIA CAHILL'S CURSE - - 165 
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN - - 173 
 
 THE CLERK'S QUEST - - 187 
 
 ALMSGIVING - - 194 
 
 So ON HE FARES - - 201 
 
 THE WILD GOOSE ------ 217 
 
 xiii
 
 THE EXILE 
 
 I 
 
 > AT PHELAN'S pigs were ready for Castle- 
 bar market, but so were his bullocks, and 
 he was of a mind to send his son James 
 with the bullocks to Westpost fair where 
 they would fetch a higher price. But 
 James was set on staying at home to help Catherine 
 with the churning, and his son Peter was a bad hand at 
 a bargain. ' The divil a worse in the county of Mayo,' 
 he said to himself, as he smoked his pipe in front of 
 his two sons, and they sitting on the other side of the 
 fireplace facing him. ( Now, what's to be done ?' he 
 asked himself ; and as if Peter had guessed what was 
 passing in his father's mind, he knocked the ashes 
 out of his pipe and bade his father and brother, 
 < Good-night.' 
 
 As soon as the door was closed behind him, Pat 
 said : 
 
 ' Now, James, what do you be thinking ? Are we 
 safe to send Pether with the bullocks to the fair ?' 
 
 ' Do ye mane he won't be getting the full price 
 for them ?' 
 
 ' Well, I'm not sure, you see ; for myself would be 
 
 A
 
 2 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 getting as much as thirteen pound ten a head for 
 them, I'm thinking.' 
 
 ' You should, indeed !' 
 
 ' I was thinking, James, that they might be bating 
 him down, for his thoughts do be often away a bad 
 habit while buying or selling. . . . But wouldn't 
 you like to be going with him, James ?' 
 
 A cloud came into James's face, and he said : ' It's 
 time we were getting into our beds.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't be saying you were wrong, James. 
 Wisdom often comes to us in our beds, and unless a 
 dream is put upon me I think I must be letting the 
 bullocks go with Pether ; it'll be easier selling them 
 than the pigs. But now you won't wake him. At 
 three you'll just push him out of bed with your foot, 
 and there will be some breakfast for him on the table.' 
 
 It was while eating the fried eggs that Pat gave 
 Peter his orders. He would meet him about mid- 
 day at the cross-roads. And he was there waiting 
 for his son sure enough about eleven o'clock, 
 his pigs having gone from him sooner than he had 
 expected, the buyers being at him the moment they 
 had cast their eyes over the pigs. ' Just the kind of 
 pig we do be wanting for the Liverpool market.' He 
 had caught the words out of the mouth of one jobber 
 whispering in the ear of his mate. Michael was right ; 
 they were fine pigs. And, sitting on the stile wait- 
 ing, he had begun to turn it over in his mind that if 
 he had gotten five shillings more than he had ex- 
 pected for the pigs, it was reasonable to suppose that 
 Peter might be getting fourteen pounds a head for 
 the bullocks, they being better value than the pigs. 
 Well, if he did, it would be a great day for them all,
 
 THE EXILE 3 
 
 and if he got no more than thirteen pounds ten 
 shillings it would be a great day all the same. And 
 so did he go on dreaming till, looking up the road 
 suddenly, whom should he see coming down the 
 road but Peter and the bullocks in front of him. 
 
 ' Well, now, can a man believe his own eyes ?' he 
 said. ' For all I can see they're me own bullocks, 
 three of the finest I ever sent to a fair, and they 
 coming back from the fair unsold.' 
 
 It was a long story that Peter had to tell him 
 about the two men that had offered him eleven 
 pounds ten shillings, and who, when he wouldn't 
 sell them at that, had stood laughing at the bullocks, 
 doing their level best to keep off other buyers. Peter 
 was given to sulking when anybody found fault with 
 him, and so Pat let him go on talking without saying 
 a word, the bullocks trotting in front of them till 
 they were about five miles from home. 
 
 ' And fifteen miles is hard on fat animals,' Pat kept 
 saying to himself, ' and this day I am six pounds out 
 of pocket six pounds out of pocket, if I take into 
 account the price of their keep.' 
 
 And while Pat was thinking, Peter kept on talking 
 and telling his story again and again till they came 
 to Michael Quinn's public-house, and it was there he 
 asked his father 
 
 ' Well, father, how did the pigs do with you at the 
 fair ?' 
 
 Pat Phelan was too heart-sick to answer him, and he 
 had to say his words again and again. 
 
 ' Now, father, did you get three pounds apiece for 
 the pigs ? Will ye be telling me ?' 
 
 ' I did, and three pounds five.'
 
 4 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Wasn't that a fine price one that we might have 
 a drink out of ?' 
 
 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 inter- 
 fering 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 spoken up saying that no one 
 put a man out of her house without her leave. 
 
 ' Go out before me. Do you hear me talking to 
 you, Pether ? If you can't best them at the fair, it 
 will be little good it will be doing 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.' 
 
 ' How can you be saying that ? Didn't yourself 
 come home talking of the polis ?' 
 
 ' Wasn't that after ?' 
 
 'What do I be hearing you saying that I left 
 Maynooth for the police ?' And Peter talked on, 
 telling of the authors he had read with Father Tom 
 Caesar, Virgil, even Quintilian. The priest had said 
 Quintilian was too hard for him, and Pat Phelan was 
 in doubt whether the difficulty of Quintilian 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 won- 
 dered how it was that Peter did not want to be
 
 THE EXILE 5 
 
 married, for he was a great big fellow, over six 
 feet high, one that many a girl would take a fancy 
 to. Pat Phelan had long had his eye on a girl 
 for Peter, and Peter's failure to sell the bullocks 
 brought to mind all the advantages of this marriage, 
 and he began to talk to his son, who 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 not 
 turning his thoughts, so it seemed to his father, 
 once again towards the priesthood. 
 
 ' Well, Pether, is it the cassock or the belt you're 
 after ?' 
 
 The bullocks stopped to graze, and Peter's doubts 
 threw Pat Phelan fairly out of his humour. 
 
 ' 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 armchair. 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 armchair in their house, though it
 
 6 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 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 Quintilian 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 examina- 
 tion for the places that are vacant in Maynooth.' 
 Peter promised to work hard, and 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 sur- 
 prised and frightened him now was that he heard 
 himself saying he would never put on the cassock
 
 THE EXILE 7 
 
 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 anything but going to 
 America. It was strange to know from the begin- 
 ning. ... It was like an animal. He heard some- 
 body call him. ' Now, who can it be ?' he asked 
 himself. And who was it but Catherine, come to 
 tell him for sure that she was going to marry 
 James ? She was another that always knew her own 
 mind. He had heard tell that James wasn't 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, 
 for 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 she'd find nobody in the 
 parish like James ; that James was the best judge 
 of cattle in the parish ; and he said a great deal 
 more in James's favour, till he saw that Catherine did 
 not care to talk about James at all. 
 
 ' I dare say all you say is right, Pether ; but you see 
 he's your brother.'
 
 8 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 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 wasn't going to be her husband. 
 
 * And are you sure, Catherine, that James is not 
 going to be your husband ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' quite sure.' 
 
 ' Now, isn't it wonderful like to be sure like that, 
 for meself is never sure ; and I don't know that I'd 
 like to be if I could.' And Peter went away wonder- 
 ing why he hadn't told her he was going to May- 
 nooth ; for no one would have been able to advise 
 him as well as Catherine, she had such good sense. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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, all the same, old age seemed 
 a long way from him ; as a fine old oak, gnarled, 
 without a withered bough and full of sap, he seemed 
 to everybody ; his long, thin, and shapely nose and 
 his keen eyes drew attention to him. James was 
 like him, but without the picturesqueness and 
 without the streak of silliness that one liked in 
 Peter. James sat holding his hands to the blaze, 
 and 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 
 his father to be telling James how he had failed to
 
 THE EXILE 9 
 
 sell the bullocks. But the tone of his father's voice 
 when he asked him what had detained him on the 
 road put a doubt in his mind ; and he remembered 
 that Catherine had said she would not marry James. 
 
 ' 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, Pether,' said 
 James. 
 
 ' And what do you mean by that, James ?' 
 
 ' Only this, that it is always the crooked way, 
 Pether ; for if it had been you that had asked her she 
 would have had you and jumping.' 
 
 ' She'd have had me !' 
 
 ' And now, don't you think you had better run after 
 her, Pether, and ask her if she'll have you ?' 
 
 ' It's hurtful, James, you should think such a thing 
 of me. / to try to get a girl from you !' 
 
 ' I didn't mean that, Pether ; 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.' As 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, Pether.' 
 
 * I do, then.' 
 
 And not to stand in the way of his brother's 
 marriage he took some money from his father and
 
 10 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 went to live at Father Tom's. And it was late one 
 night when he went to bid them good-bye at home, 
 having passed the bishop's examination all right. 
 
 ' What makes you so late, Pether ?' 
 
 ' Well, James, I didn't want to meet Catherine on 
 the road.' 
 
 ' You're a good boy, Pether,' 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 
 all this world. God is good, and he giving me two 
 such sons.' 
 
 Then the three sat round the fire, and Pat Phelan 
 began to talk family history. 
 
 'Well, Pether, 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 W T illiam.' 
 
 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'll tell her,' Peter said, getting up, ' that 
 I've gone.' 
 
 ' I haven't the heart for telling her such a thing. 
 She'll 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'll be a fine man standing on an altar,' James 
 said, ( and perhaps he'll be a bishop some day.'
 
 THE EXILE 11 
 
 1 And you'll see her when you're done reaping, 
 and you won't forget what Pether 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 Pether 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 answered, hoping to encourage 
 him. 
 
 ' That would be true enough for another. Cath- 
 erine knows she'll never get Pether. Another man 
 might get her, but I'm always reminding her of 
 Pether.' 
 
 She had told him the truth ; he was sure of that 
 when she said that if she didn't marry Peter she 
 would marry no one, and James felt like dying. 
 
 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.'
 
 12 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 He had had to promise her not to speak of 
 marriage again : he kept his word, and 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.' 
 
 A few days afterwards he heard that Catherine 
 had decided to go into a convent. 
 
 He seemed no longer fit for work on the farm, and 
 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, saying nothing, Pat Phelan 
 knowing that James was thinking of America, until 
 one evening, as they were sitting like this, the door 
 was opened suddenly. 
 
 * Pether !' 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.
 
 THE EXILE IS 
 
 Had we known you were coming we'd have sent the 
 cart to fetch 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 didn't know myself until yesterday. 
 It was only yesterday that ' 
 
 ' So you are not going to be a priest ? We are 
 glad to hear that, Pether.' 
 
 ' 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 thejr merits he had con- 
 demned the best things in them ; and Peter said it 
 was extraordinary that such a man should be appointed 
 to such a place. And then he told them that the 
 Church afforded little chances for the talents ot 
 young men unless they had a great deal of in- 
 fluence. 
 
 And they sat listening to him, hearing how the 
 college might be reformed. He had a gentle, win- 
 ning way of talking, and his father and brother 
 forgot their own misfortunes thinking how they 
 might help him. 
 
 'Well, Pether, 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.'
 
 14 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Oh ! it is nothing particular/ said James. ' It is 
 only this, Pether I'm going to America.' 
 
 ' And who'll work the farm ?' 
 
 ' Well, Pether, 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, Pether. She has gone 
 into a convent. And that's what's happened since 
 you went away. I can't stop here, Pether I'll never 
 do a hand's turn in Ireland and father will be 
 getting too old to go to the fairs before long. 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.' 
 
 f Yes, I will,' said Peter ; and he sat down by the 
 fire. And his father said : 
 
 ' You are not smoking, Pether.' 
 
 ' No,' he said ; e I've given up smoking.' 
 
 ' Will you drink something ?' said James. ' We 
 have got a drain of whisky in the house.' 
 
 ' 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 any cocoa in the house ?' 
 
 It was not the kind of cocoa he liked, but he said 
 he would be able to manage.
 
 THE EXILE 15 
 
 IV 
 
 And when the old man canoe 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. 
 
 ( 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'll 
 go down to Crow's Oak. You have never done any 
 ploughing, Pether ; I'll 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
 
 16 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 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. 
 
 ' Now, Pether, you must try again.' 
 
 At the end of the headland where the plough 
 turned, Peter always wanted to stop and talk about 
 something ; but James said they would have to get 
 on with the work, and Peter walked after the 
 plough, straining after it for three hours, and then 
 he said : e James, let me drive the horse. I can do 
 no more.' 
 
 'You won't feel it so much when you are accus- 
 tomed to it,' said James. 
 
 Anything seemed to him better than a day's 
 ploughing : even getting up at three in the morning 
 to go to a fair. 
 
 He went to bed early, as he used to, and they 
 talked of him over the fire, as they used to. But 
 however much they talked, they never seemed to 
 find what they were seeking his vocation until 
 one evening an idea suddenly rose out of their talk. 
 
 ' A good wife is the only thing for Pether,' said 
 Pat. 
 
 And they went on thinking. 
 
 ' A husband would be better for her,' said Pat 
 Phelan, ' than a convent.' 
 
 'I can't say I agree with you there. Think of 
 all the good them nuns be doing.' 
 
 ' She isn't a nun yet,' said Pat Phelan.
 
 THE EXILE 17 
 
 And the men smoked on awhile, and they rumin- 
 ated as they smoked. 
 
 It would be better, James, that Pether got her 
 than that she stayed in a convent.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't say that/ said James. 
 You see/ said his father, ' she didn't go into the 
 convent because she had a calling, but because she 
 was crossed in love.' 
 
 And after another long while James said, ' It is a 
 bitter dose, I'm thinking, father, but you must go 
 and tell her that Pether has left Maynooth.' 
 
 ' And what would the Reverend Mother be saying 
 to me if I went to her with such a story as that ? 
 Isn't your heart broke enough already, James, with- 
 out wanting me to be breaking it still more ? Sure, 
 James, you could never see her married to Pether ?' 
 
 ' If she married Pether I'd be free to go to America, 
 and that would be the only thing for me to do.' 
 
 'That would be poor comfort for you, James.' 
 
 'Well, it is the best I shall get, to see Pether 
 settled, and to know that there will be someone to 
 look after you, father.' 
 
 ' You were always a good son, James.' 
 
 They talked on, and as they talked it became 
 clearer to them that someone must go to-morrow to 
 the convent and tell Catherine that Peter had left 
 Maynooth. 
 
 ' But wouldn't it be a pity/ said Pat Phelan, ' to 
 tell her this if Pether is not going to marry her at all ?' 
 
 ' I will have him out of his bed/ said James, ' and 
 he'll tell us before this fire if he will or won't.' 
 
 ' It's a serious thing you are doing, James, to get 
 a girl out of a convent, I'm thinking.'
 
 18 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' It will be on my advice that you will be doing 
 this, father ; and now I'll go and get Pether out of 
 his bed.' 
 
 And Peter was brought in, asking what they 
 wanted of him at this hour of the night ; and when 
 they told him what they had been talking about and 
 the plans they had been making, he said he would 
 be catching his death of cold, and they threw some 
 sods of turf on the fire. 
 
 ' "Tis against myself that I am asking a girl to 
 leave the convent, even for you, Pether,' said James. 
 ( But what else can we do ?' 
 
 f Pether will tell us if it is a sin that we'd be doing. 
 
 1 Surely we should tell Catherine all the truth 
 before she takes her vows ?' 
 
 ' Pether, I'd take it as a great kindness. I shall 
 never do a hand's turn in this country. I want to 
 get to America. It will be the saving of me.' 
 
 ' And now, Pether,' said his father, ' tell us for sure 
 if you'll have the girl ?' 
 
 ' Faith I will, though I never thought of marriage, 
 if it be pleasing James.' Seeing how heart-sick his 
 brother was, he said, ' I can't say I like her as you 
 like her ; but if she likes me I'll promise to do 
 right by her. James, you're going away ; we may 
 never see you again. It's a great pity. And now 
 you'll let me go back to bed.' 
 
 ' Pether, I knew you would not say no to me ; I 
 can't bear this any longer.' 
 
 ' And now,' said Peter, ' let me go back to bed. I 
 am catching my death of cold.' 
 
 And he ran back to his room, and left his brother 
 and father talking by the fire.
 
 THE EXILE 19 
 
 Pat thought the grey mare would take him in 
 faster than the old red horse ; and the old man sat, 
 his legs swinging over the shaft, wondering what he 
 should say to the Reverend Mother, and how she 
 would listen to his story ; and when he came to the 
 priest's house a great wish came upon him to ask the 
 priest's advice. The priest was walking up his little 
 lawn reading his breviary, and a great fear came on 
 Pat Phelan, and he thought he must ask the priest 
 what he would do. 
 
 The priest heard the story over the little wall, and 
 he was sorry for the old man. 
 
 It took him a long time to tell the story, and when 
 he was finished the priest said : 
 
 ' But where are you going, Pat ?' 
 
 ' That's what I stopped to tell you, your reverence. 
 I was thinking I might be going to the convent to 
 tell Catherine that Pether has come back.' 
 
 'Well, it wasn't yourself that thought of doing 
 such a thing as that, Pat Phelan.' 
 
 But at every word the priest said Pat Phelan's face 
 grew more stubborn, and at last he said : 
 
 ' Well, your reverence, that isn't the advice I ex- 
 pected from you,' and he struck the mare with the 
 ends of the reins and let her trot up the hill. Nor 
 did the mare stop trotting till she had reached the 
 top of the hill, and Pat Phelan had never known her 
 do such a thing before. From the top of the hill 
 there was a view of the bog, and Pat thought of the 
 many fine loads of turf he had had out of that bog,
 
 20 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 and the many young fellows he had seen there cut- 
 ting turf. ' But everyone is leaving the country/ the 
 old man said to himself, and his chin dropped into 
 his shirt-collar, and he held the reins loosely, letting 
 the mare trot or walk as she liked. And he let many 
 pass him without bidding them the time of day, for 
 he was too much overcome by his own grief to notice 
 anyone. 
 
 The mare trotted gleefully ; soft clouds curled over 
 the low horizon far away, and the sky was blue over- 
 head ; and the poor country was very beautiful in the 
 still autumn weather, only it was empty. He passed 
 two or three fine houses that the gentry had left to 
 caretakers long ago. The fences were gone, cattle 
 strayed through the woods, the drains were choked 
 with weeds, the stagnant water was spreading out 
 into the fields, and Pat Phelan noticed these things, 
 for he remembered what this country was forty years 
 ago. The devil a bit of lonesomeness there was in 
 it then. 
 
 He asked a girl if they would be thatching the 
 house that autumn ; but she answered that the thatch 
 would last out the old people, and she was going to 
 join her sister in America. 
 
 1 She's right they're all there now. Why should 
 anyone stop here ?' the old man said. 
 
 The mare tripped, and he took this to be a sign 
 that he should turn back. But he did not go back. 
 Very soon the town began, in broken pavements and 
 dirty cottages ; going up the hill there were some 
 slated roofs, but there was no building of any im- 
 portance except the church. 
 
 At the end of the main street, where the trees
 
 THE EXILE 21 
 
 began again, the convent stood in the middle of a 
 large garden, and Pat Phelan remembered he had 
 heard that the nuns were doing well with their dairy 
 and their laundry. 
 
 He knocked, and a lay-sister peeped through the 
 grating, and then she opened the door a little way, 
 and at first he thought he would have to go back 
 without seeing either Catherine or the Reverend 
 Mother. For he had got no farther than ( Sister 
 Catherine/ when the lay-sister cut him short with 
 the news that Sister Catherine was in retreat, and 
 could see no one. The Reverend Mother was busy. 
 
 ' But,' said Pat, ' you're not going to let Catherine 
 take vows without hearing me.' 
 
 ' If 'tis about Sister Catherine's vows ' 
 
 ' Yes, 'tis about them I've come, and I must see 
 the Reverend Mother.' 
 
 The lay-sister said Sister Catherine was going to 
 be clothed at the end of the week. 
 
 ' Well, that's just the reason I've come here.' 
 
 On that the lay-sister led him into the parlour, 
 and went in search of the Reverend Mother. 
 
 The floor was so thickly bees-waxed that the rug 
 slipped under his feet, and, afraid lest he might fall 
 down, he stood quite still, awed by the pious pictures 
 on the walls, and by the large books upon the table, 
 and by the poor-box, and by the pious inscriptions. 
 He began to think how much easier was this pious 
 life than the life of the world the rearing of 
 children, the failure of crops, and the loneliness. 
 Here life slips away without one perceiving it, and 
 it seemed a pity to bring her back to trouble. He 
 stood holding his hat in his old hands, and the time
 
 22 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 seemed very long. At last the door opened, and a 
 tall woman with sharp, inquisitive eyes came in. 
 
 ' You've come to speak to me about Sister 
 Catherine ?' 
 
 ' Yes, my lady.' 
 
 ' And what have you got to tell me about her ?' 
 
 ' Well, my son thought and I thought last night 
 we were all thinking we had better tell you last 
 night was the night that my son came back.' 
 
 At the word Maynooth a change of expression 
 came into her face, but when he told that Peter no 
 longer wished to be a priest her manner began to 
 grow hostile again, and she got up from her chair 
 and said : 
 
 ' But really, Mr. Phelan, I have got a great deal of 
 business to attend to.' 
 
 'But, my lady, you see Catherine wanted to 
 marry my son Pether, and 'tis because he went to 
 Maynooth that she came here. I don't think she'd 
 want to be a nun if she knew that he didn't want to 
 be a priest.' 
 
 ' I can't agree with you, Mr. Phelan, in that. I 
 have seen a great deal of Sister Catherine she has 
 been with us now for nearly a year and if she ever 
 entertained the wishes you speak of, I feel sure she 
 has forgotten them. Her mind is now set on higher 
 things.' 
 
 ' You may be right, my lady. It isn't for the 
 likes of me to argue a point with you ; but I have 
 come a long way to see Catherine herself ' 
 
 1 That is impossible. Catherine is in retreat.' 
 
 ' So the lay-sister told me ; but I thought- 
 
 ' Sister Catherine is going to be clothed next
 
 THE EXILE 23 
 
 Saturday, and I can assure you, Mr. Phelan, that the 
 wishes you tell me of are forgotten. I know her 
 very well. I can answer for Sister Catherine.' 
 
 The rug slipped under the peasant's feet and his 
 eyes wandered round the room ; and the Reverend 
 Mother told him how busy she was, she really couldn't 
 talk to him any more that day. 
 
 ( You see, it all rests with Sister Catherine her- 
 self.' 
 
 1 That's just it,' said the old man ; ' that's just it, 
 my lady. My son Pether, who has come from May- 
 nooth, told us last night that Catherine should know 
 everything that has happened, so that she mayn't 
 be sorry afterwards. Only for this I wouldn't come 
 at all. I wouldn't be troubling you.' 
 
 ' I am sorry, Mr. Phelan, that your son Peter has 
 left Maynooth. It is sad indeed when one finds 
 that one hasn't a vocation. But that happens 
 sometimes. I don't think it will be Catherine's 
 case. And now, Mr. Phelan, I must ask you to 
 excuse me,' and the Reverend Mother persuaded the 
 unwilling peasant into the passage, and he followed 
 the lay-sister down the passage to the gate and got 
 into his cart again. 
 
 ' No wonder at all,' he said to himself ; ' it wouldn't 
 be suiting them to let Catherine out, and that after 
 getting that fine farm. And I'm sure there isn't one 
 of them in it could boil pig's food like Catherine 
 herself.' 
 
 At the very same moment the same thoughts 
 passed through the Reverend Mother's mind. She 
 had not left the parlour yet, and stood thinking how 
 she should manage if Catherine were to leave them.
 
 24 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 f Why,' she asked, ' should he choose to leave May- 
 nooth at such a time ? It is indeed unfortunate. 
 There is nothing/ she reflected, ' that gives a woman 
 so much strength as to receive the veil. She always 
 feels stronger after her clothing. She feels that the 
 world is behind her.' 
 
 The Reverend Mother reflected that perhaps it 
 would be better for Catherine's sake and for Peter's 
 sake indeed, for everyone's sake if she were not 
 to tell Catherine of Pat Phelan's visit until after the 
 clothing. She might tell Catherine three months 
 hence. The disadvantage of this would be that 
 Catherine might hear that Peter had left Maynooth. 
 In a country place news of this kind cannot be kept 
 out of a convent. And if Catherine were going to 
 leave, it were better that she should leave them 
 now than leave them six months hence, after her 
 clothing. 
 
 ' There are many ways of looking at it,' the 
 Reverend Mother reflected. ' If I don't tell her, she 
 may never hear it. I might tell her later, when she 
 has taught one of the nuns how to manage the farm.' 
 She took two steps towards the door and stopped to 
 think again, and she was thinking when a knock 
 came to the door. She answered mechanically, 
 c Come in,' and Catherine wondered at the Reverend 
 Mother's astonishment. 
 
 ( I wish to speak to you, dear mother,' she said 
 timidly. But seeing the Reverend Mother's face 
 change expression, she said, ' Perhaps another time 
 will suit you better.' 
 
 The Reverend Mother stood looking at her, 
 irresolute ; and Catherine, who had never seen the
 
 THE EXILE 25 
 
 Reverend Mother irresolute before, wondered what 
 was passing in her mind. 
 
 ' I know you are busy, dear mother, but what I've 
 come to tell you won't take very long.' 
 
 ( Well, then, tell it to me, my child.' 
 
 ' It is only this, Reverend Mother. I had better 
 be telling you now, and you are expecting the bishop, 
 and my clothing fixed for the end of the week, 
 and ' 
 
 'And,' said the Reverend Mother, 'you feel 
 you aren't certain of your vocation.' 
 
 ' That's it, dear mother. I didn't like to tell you 
 before. I was thinking that the feeling would pass 
 away ; but it isn't everyone that has a vocation.' 
 
 The Reverend Mother asked Catherine to sit down 
 by her ; and Catherine told her she had come to the 
 convent because she was crossed in love, and not as 
 the others came, because they wished to give up 
 their wills to God. 
 
 'Our will is the most precious thing in us, and 
 that is why the best thing we can do is to give it up 
 to you, for in giving it up to you, dear mother, we 
 are giving it up to God. I know all these things, 
 but ' 
 
 ' You should have told me of this when you came 
 here, Catherine, and then I shouldn't have advised 
 you to come to live with us.' 
 
 'Mother, you must forgive me. My heart was 
 broke, and I couldn't do else. And you told me 
 yourself I made the dairy a success.' 
 
 ' If you had stayed with us, Catherine, you would 
 have made the dairy a success ; but we have got no 
 one to take your place. However, since it is the
 
 26 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 will of God, I suppose we must try to get on as well 
 as we can without you. And now tell me, Catherine, 
 when it was you changed your mind. It was 
 only the other day you told me you wished to 
 become a nun. You said you were most anxious for 
 your clothing. How is it that you have changed 
 your mind ?' 
 
 Catherine's eyes brightened, and speaking like one 
 illuminated by some inward light, she said : 
 
 ' It was the second day of my retreat, mother. I 
 was walking in the garden where the great cross 
 stands amid the rocks. Sister Angela and Sister 
 Mary were with me, and I was listening to what 
 they were saying, when suddenly my thoughts were 
 taken away and I remembered those at home. I 
 remembered Mr. Phelan, and James, who wanted to 
 marry me, but whom I would not marry ; and it 
 seemed to me that I saw him leaving his father it 
 seemed to me that I saw him going away to America. 
 I don't know how it was you won't believe me, 
 dear mother but I saw the ship that is to take him 
 away lying in the harbour. And then I thought 
 of the old man sitting at home with no one to 
 look after him, and it came over me suddenly that 
 my duty was not here, but there. Of course you 
 won't agree with me, but I can't resist it, it was 
 a call.' 
 
 ( But the Evil One, my dear child, calls us too ; 
 we must be careful not to mistake the devil's call for 
 God's call.' 
 
 'I'm sure, mother.' Tears came to Catherine's 
 eyes, she began to weep. ' I can't be arguing with 
 you, mother, I only know ' She could not speak
 
 THE EXILE 27 
 
 for sobbing, and between her sobs she said, ' I only 
 know that I must go home.' 
 
 She recovered herself very soon, and the Reverend 
 Mother took her hand and said : 
 
 ' Well, my dear child, I shan't stand in your way ' 
 
 Even the Reverend Mother could not help think- 
 ing that the man who got her would get a charming 
 wife. Her face was rather long and white, and her 
 eyes were full of tenderness. She had spoken out 
 of so deep a conviction that the Reverend Mother 
 had begun to believe that her mission was perhaps 
 to look after this hapless young man ; and when 
 she told the Reverend Mother that yesterday she 
 had felt a conviction that Peter was not going to 
 be a priest, the Reverend Mother felt that she 
 must tell her of Pat Phelan's visit. 
 
 ( I did not tell you at once, my dear child, because 
 I wished to know from yourself how you felt about 
 this matter ;' and the nun told Catherine that Peter 
 had left Maynooth. 
 
 A glow came into the postulant's eyes. 
 
 ' How did he know that I cared for him ?' the girl 
 said, half to herself, half to the nun. 
 
 ' I suppose his father or his brother must have told 
 him,' the nun answered. 
 
 And then Catherine, fearing to show too much 
 interest in things that the nun deemed frivolous, 
 said, ' I am sorry to leave before my work is done, 
 ma'am. So it has all come true ; it was extraordin- 
 ary what I felt that morning in the garden,' she said, 
 returning to her joy. 
 
 'The saints, of course, have had visions. We 
 believe in the visions of the saints.'
 
 28 
 
 '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'll 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
 
 THE EXILE 29 
 
 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 be after 
 missing James at the station. 'Twas because of that 
 I came for you so early. I thought you'd be liking 
 to see him.' 
 
 ' Why didn't you come earlier ?' she cried. ' I 
 shall never be happy again 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 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 tram 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 run- 
 ning down the steps and crossing the line. The 
 signal went down. 
 
 ' Pether,' she said, ' we will have time to talk 
 presently. I must speak to James now.' 
 
 And they walked up 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's bad news to hear 
 you're going. Maybe we'll never see you again,
 
 30 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 and there is no time to be talking now, and me with 
 so much to say.' 
 
 ' 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 Pether.' 
 
 His emotion almost overcame him, and Catherine 
 looked aside so that she should not see his tears. 
 
 'Tis no time for talking of Pether,' she said. 
 ' You are going away, James, but you will come back. 
 You'll find better women than me 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'll be 
 proud of you when you do. I'll build up the house, 
 and then we'll be happy. Oh ! here's the train. 
 Good-bye ; you have been very good to me. Oh, 
 James ! when will I be seeing 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 as 
 James. The wailing relatives ran alongside of the 
 train, waving their hands until they could no longer 
 keep up. James waved a red handkerchief till the 
 train disappeared in a cutting, and a moment after
 
 THE EXILE 31 
 
 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, ' we'd better be after getting 
 home.'
 
 HOME SICKNESS 
 
 |E 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 he began to wonder how the people at home 
 were getting on. The doctor was right. He 
 thanked him, and three weeks after he landed 
 in Cork. 
 
 As he sat in the railway-carriage he recalled his 
 native village, built among the rocks of the large 
 headland stretching out into the winding lake. He 
 could see the houses and the streets, and the fields 
 of the tenants, and the Georgian mansion and the 
 owners of it ; he and they had been boys together 
 before he went to America. He remembered the 
 32
 
 HOME SICKNESS 33 
 
 villagers going every morning to the big house to 
 work in the stables, in the garden, in the fields 
 mowing, reaping, digging, and Michael Malia build- 
 ing a wall ; it was all as clear as if it were yesterday, 
 yet he had been thirteen years in America; and 
 when the train stopped at the station the first thing 
 he did was to look round for any changes that might 
 have come into it. It was the same blue limestone 
 station as it was thirteen years ago, with the same five 
 long miles between it and Duncannon. He had once 
 walked these miles gaily, in little over an hour, 
 carrying a heavy bundle on a stick, but he did not 
 feel strong enough for the walk to-day, though the 
 evening tempted him to try it. A car was waiting 
 at the station, and the boy, discerning from his accent 
 and his dress that Bryden had come from America, 
 plied him with questions, which Bryden answered 
 rapidly, for he wanted to hear who were still living in 
 the village, and if there was a house in which he could 
 get a clean lodging. The best house in the village, 
 he was told, was Mike Scully's, who had been away 
 in a situation for many years, as a coachman in the 
 King's County, but had come back and built a fine 
 house with a concrete floor. The boy could recom- 
 mend the loft, he had slept in it himself, and Mike 
 would be glad to take in a lodger, he had no doubt. 
 Bryden remembered that Mike had been in a situa- 
 tion at the big house. He had intended to be a 
 jockey, but had suddenly shot up into a fine tall 
 man, and had become a coachman instead ; and 
 Bryden tried to recall his face, but could only re- 
 c
 
 34 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 member a straight nose and a somewhat dusky com- 
 plexion. 
 
 So Mike had come back from King's County, and 
 had built himself a house, had married there were 
 children for sure running about ; while he, Bryden, 
 had gone to America, but he had come back ; 
 perhaps he, too, would build a house in Duncannon, 
 
 and His reverie was suddenly interrupted by 
 
 the carman. 
 
 ' There's Mike Scully,' he said, pointing with his 
 whip, and Bryden saw a tall, finely built, middle-aged 
 man coming through the gates, who looked astonished 
 when he was accosted, for he 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're thin in the cheeks, and you're very sallow in 
 the cheeks too.' 
 
 ' I haven't been very well lately that is one of 
 the reasons I've come back ; but I want to see you 
 all again.' 
 
 ( And thousand welcome you are.' 
 
 Bryden paid the carman, and wished him ' God- 
 speed.' They divided the luggage, Mike carrying the 
 bag and Bryden the bundle, and they walked round 
 the lake, for the townland was at the back of the 
 domain ; and while walking he remembered the woods 
 thick and well-forested ; now they were wind-worn, 
 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
 
 HOME SICKNESS 35 
 
 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 customs, he begged of Mrs. Scully not to 
 drive them out, saying they reminded him of old 
 times. 
 
 ' And why wouldn't they ?' Mike answered, ' he 
 being one of ourselves bred and born in Duncannon, 
 and his father before him.' 
 
 * Now, is it truth ye are telling me ?' and she gave 
 him her hand, after wiping it on her apron, saying 
 he was heartily welcome, only she was afraid he 
 wouldn't 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've 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.' 
 
 ' You'll take a sup of milk, won't you ? You must 
 be dry,' said Mrs. Scully. 
 
 And when he had drunk the milk Mike asked him
 
 36 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 if he would like to go inside or if he would like to 
 go for a walk. 
 
 ' Maybe resting you'd 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 of interest, he asked Mike 
 about Ireland. But Mike did not seem to be able 
 to tell him much. 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 the 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 left alone ; 
 he did not want to hear of anyone's misfortunes, but 
 about nine o'clock a number of villagers came in, 
 and Bryden remembered one or two of them he 
 used to know them very well when he was a boy ;
 
 HOME SICKNESS 37 
 
 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 inter- 
 ested 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. 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 unpleasant- 
 ness, 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 recognized a ragged hunchback with 
 grey hair ; twenty years ago he was a young hunch- 
 back, and, turning to him, Bryden asked him if he 
 were doing well with his five acres. 
 
 ' Ah, not much. This has been a poor 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 a foal worth 
 forty pounds, Bryden began to wish himself back in 
 the slum. And when they left the house he won- 
 dered if every evening would be like the present
 
 S8 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 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 street kept him 
 awake, and he seemed to realize suddenly how lonely 
 the country was, and he foresaw mile after mile of 
 scanty fields stretching all round the lake with one 
 little town in the far corner. A dog howled in the 
 distance, and the fields and the boreens between 
 him and the dog appeared as in a crystal. He could 
 hear Michael breathing by his wife's side in the 
 kitchen, and he could barely resist the impulse to 
 run out of the house, and he might have yielded to 
 it, but he wasn't sure that he mightn't awaken Mike 
 as he came down the ladder. His terror increased, 
 and he drew the blanket over his head. He fell 
 asleep and awoke and fell asleep again, and lying 
 on his back he dreamed of the men he had seen 
 sitting round the fireside that evening, like spectres 
 they seemed to him in his dream. He seemed to 
 have been asleep only a few minutes when he heard 
 Mike calling him. He had come half-way up the 
 ladder, and was telling him that breakfast was ready. 
 ' What kind of a 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 be at in the farm one 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
 
 HOME SICKNESS 39 
 
 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. 
 
 ' It's a long time since you've done any mowing, 
 and its heavier work than you think for. You'd 
 better go for a walk by the lake.' Seeing that 
 Bryden looked a little disappointed, he added, ' If 
 you like you can come up in the afternoon and help 
 me to turn the grass over.' Bryden said he would, 
 and the morning passed pleasantly by the lake shore 
 a delicious breeze rustled in the trees, and the 
 reeds were talking together, and the ducks were 
 talking in the reeds ; a cloud blotted out the sun- 
 light, and the cloud passed and the sun shone, and 
 the reed cast its shadow again in the still water; 
 there was a lapping always about the shingle ; the 
 magic of returning health was sufficient distraction 
 for the convalescent ; he lay with his eyes fixed upon 
 the castles, dreaming of the men that had manned 
 the battlements ; whenever a peasant driving a cart 
 or an ass or an old woman with a bundle of sticks on 
 her back went by, Bryden kept them in chat, and 
 he soon knew the village by heart. One day the 
 landlord from the Georgian mansion set on the 
 pleasant green hill came along, his retriever at his 
 heels, and stopped surprised at finding somebody 
 whom he didn't know on his property. ' What, James 
 Bryden !' he said. And the story was told again 
 how ill-health had overtaken him at last, and he 
 had come home to Duncannon to recover. The two 
 walked as far as the pine-wood, talking of the county 
 what it had been, the ruin it was slipping into, and 
 as they parted Bryden asked for the loan of a boat.
 
 40 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 1 Of course, of course !' the landlord answered, and 
 Bryden rowed about the islands every morning ; 
 and resting upon his oars looked at the old castles, 
 remembering the prehistoric raiders that the land- 
 lord 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 
 Bryden 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 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, 
 ' and will be leaving us soon.' 
 
 ' 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 :
 
 HOME SICKNESS 41 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 He went down to the reedy tarn, and at his 
 approach several snipe got up, and they flew above 
 his head uttering sharp cries. His fishing-rod was a 
 long hazel-stick, and he threw the frog as far as he 
 could in the lake. In doing this he roused some 
 wild ducks ; a mallard and two ducks got up, and 
 they flew toward the larger lake in a line with an old 
 castle ; and they had not disappeared from view when 
 Bryden came toward her, and he and she drove the 
 cows home together that evening. 
 
 They had not met very often when she said : 
 ' James, you had better not come here so often calling 
 to me. ' 
 
 ' Don't you wish me to come ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I wish you to come well enough, but keeping
 
 42 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 company isn't the custom of the country, and I don't 
 want to be talked about.' 
 
 ' Are you afraid the priest would speak against us 
 from the altar ?' 
 
 ' He has spoken against keeping company, but it 
 is not so much what the priest says, for there is no 
 harm in talking.' 
 
 ' But if you're going to be married there is no harm 
 in walking out together.' 
 
 ' Well, not so much, but marriages are made 
 differently in these parts ; there isn't much courting 
 here.' 
 
 And next day it was known in the village that 
 James was going to marry Margaret Dirken. 
 
 His desire to excel the boys in dancing had caused 
 a stir of gaiety in the parish, and for some time past 
 there had been dancing in every house where there 
 was a floor fit to dance upon ; and if the cottager had 
 no money to pay for a barrel of beer, James Bryden, 
 who had money, sent him a barrel, so that Margaret 
 might get her dance. She told him that they some- 
 times crossed over into another parish where the 
 priest was not so averse to dancing, and James 
 wondered. And next morning at Mass he wondered 
 at their simple fervour. Some of them held their 
 hands above their head as they prayed, and all this 
 was very new and very old to James Bryden. But 
 the obedience of these people to their priest sur- 
 prised him. When he was a lad they had not been so 
 obedient, or he had forgotten their obedience ; and 
 he listened in mixed anger and wonderment to the 
 priest, who was scolding his parishioners, speaking to
 
 HOME SICKNESS 43 
 
 them by name, saying that he had heard there was 
 dancing going on in their homes. Worse than that, 
 he said he had seen boys and girls loitering about 
 the road, and the talk that went on was of one kind 
 love. He said that newspapers containing love 
 stories were finding their way into the people's 
 houses, stories about love, in which there was nothing 
 elevating or ennobling. The people listened, accept- 
 ing the priest's opinion without question. And their 
 pathetic submission was the submission of a primi- 
 tive people clinging to religious authority, and 
 Bryden contrasted the weakness and incompetence 
 of the people about him with the modern restless- 
 ness and cold energy of the people he left behind 
 him. 
 
 One evening, as they were dancing, a knock came 
 to the door, and the piper stopped playing, and the 
 dancers whispered : 
 
 ' Someone has told on us ; it is the priest.' 
 
 And the awe-stricken villagers crowded round the 
 cottage fire, afraid to open the door. But the priest 
 said that if they didn't open the door he would put 
 his shoulder to it and force it open. Bryden went 
 towards the door, saying he would allow no one to 
 threaten him, priest or no priest, but Margaret 
 caught his arm and told him that if he said anything 
 to the priest, the priest would speak against them 
 from the altar, and they would be shunned by the 
 neighbours. 
 
 ' I've heard of your goings on,' he said ' of your 
 beer-drinking and dancing. I'll not have it in my 
 parish. If you want that sort of thing you had 
 better go to America.'
 
 44 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ( If that is intended for me, sir, I'll go back 
 to-morrow. Margaret can follow.' 
 
 ' It isn't the dancing, it's the drinking I'm opposed 
 to,' said the priest, turning to Bryden. 
 
 'Well, no one has drunk too much, sir,' said 
 Bryden. 
 
 ' But you'll sit here drinking all night,' and the 
 priest's eyes went toward the corner where the 
 women had gathered, and Bryden felt that the priest 
 looked on the women as more dangerous than the 
 porter. ' It's after midnight,' he said, taking out his 
 watch. 
 
 By Bryden's watch it was only half-past eleven, 
 and while they were arguing about the time Mrs. 
 Scully offered Bryden's umbrella to the priest, for 
 in his hurry to stop the dancing the priest had gone 
 out without his ; and, as if to show Bryden that he 
 bore him no ill-will, the priest accepted the loan of 
 the umbrella, for he was thinking of the big marriage 
 fee that Bryden would pay him. 
 
 ' I shall be badly off for the umbrella to-morrow,' 
 Bryden said, as soon as the priest was out of the 
 house. He was going with his father-in-law to a 
 fair. His father-in-law was leaiping him how to buy 
 and sell cattle. The country was mending, and a 
 man might become rich in Ireland if he only had 
 a little capital. Margaret had an uncle on the other 
 side of the lake who would give twenty pounds, and 
 her father would give another twenty pounds. Bryden 
 had saved two hundred pounds. Never in the village 
 of Duncannon had a young couple begun life with 
 so much prospect of success, and some time after 
 Christmas was spoken of as the best time for the
 
 HOME SICKNESS 45 
 
 marriage ; James Bryden said that he would not 
 be able to get his money out of America before 
 the spring. The delay seemed to vex him, and 
 he seemed anxious to be married, until one day Jie 
 received a letter from America, from a man who 
 had served in the bar with him. This friend wrote 
 to ask Bryden if he were coming back. The letter 
 was no more than a passing wish to see Bryden 
 again. Yet Bryden stood looking at it, and everyone 
 wondered what could be in the letter. It seemed 
 momentous, and they hardly believed him when he 
 said it was from a friend who wanted to know if his 
 health were better. He tried to forget the letter, 
 and he looked at the worn fields, divided by walls 
 of loose stones, and a great longing came upon 
 him. 
 
 The smell of the Bowery slum had come across 
 the Atlantic, and had found him out in this western 
 headland ; and one night he awoke from a dream in 
 which he was hurling some drunken customer through 
 the open doors into the darkness. He had seen his 
 friend in his white duck jacket throwing drink from 
 glass into glass amid the din of voices and strange 
 accents ; he had heard the clang of money as it was 
 swept into the till, and his sense sickened for the 
 bar-room. But how should he tell Margaret Dirken 
 that he could not marry her ? She had built her life 
 upon this marriage. He could not tell her that he 
 would not marry her . . . yet he must go. He felt 
 as if he were being hunted ; the thought that he 
 must tell Margaret that he could not marry her 
 hunted him day after day as a weasel hunts a rabbit. 
 Again and again he went to meet her with the
 
 46 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 intention of telling her that he did not love her, 
 that their lives were not for one another, that it had 
 all been a mistake, and that happily he had found 
 out it was a mistake soon enough. But Margaret, as 
 if she guessed what he was about to speak of, threw 
 her arms about him and begged him to say he loved 
 her, and that they would be married at once. He 
 agreed that he loved her, and that they would be 
 married at once. But he had not left her many 
 minutes before the feeling came upon him that he 
 could not marry her that he must go away. The 
 smell of the bar-room hunted him down. Was it for 
 the sake of the money that he might make there 
 that he wished to go back ? No, it was not the 
 money. What then ? His eyes fell on the bleak 
 country, on the little fields divided by bleak walls ; 
 he remembered the pathetic ignorance of the people, 
 and it was these things that he could not endure. 
 It was the priest who came to forbid the dancing. 
 Yes, it was the priest. As he stood looking at the 
 line of the hills the bar-room seemed by him. He 
 heard the politicians, and the excitement of politics 
 was in his blood again. He must go away from this 
 place he must get back to the bar-room. Looking 
 up, he saw the scanty orchard, and he hated the 
 spare road that led to the village, and he hated the 
 little hill at the top of which the village began, and 
 he hated more than all other places the house where 
 he was to live with Margaret Dirken if he married 
 her. He could see it from where he stood by the 
 edge of the lake, with twenty acres of pasture land 
 about it, for the landlord had given up part of his 
 demesne land to them.
 
 HOME SICKNESS 47 
 
 He caught sight of Margaret, and he called her to 
 come through the stile. 
 
 ' I have just had a letter from America.' 
 
 * About the money ?' 
 
 ' Yes, about the money. But I shall have to go 
 over there.' 
 
 He stood looking at her, wondering what to say ; 
 and she guessed that he would tell her that he must 
 go to America before they were married. 
 
 'Do you mean, James, you will have to go at 
 once ?' 
 
 f Yes,' he said, ( at once. But I shall come back 
 in time to be married in August. It will only mean 
 delaying our marriage a month.' 
 
 They walked on a little way talking, and every 
 step he took James felt that he was a step nearer 
 the Bowery slum. And when they came to the gate 
 Bryden said : 
 
 ' I must walk on or I shall miss the train.' 
 
 ' But,' she said, ' you are not going now you are 
 not going to-day ?' 
 
 'Yes, this morning. It is seven miles. I shall 
 have to hurry not to miss the train.' 
 
 And then she asked him if he would ever come 
 back. 
 
 ' Yes/ he said, ' I am coming back.' 
 
 ' If you are coming back, James, why don't you 
 let me go with you ?' 
 
 ' You couldn't walk fast enough. We should miss 
 the train.' 
 
 ' One moment, James. Don't make me suffer ; 
 tell me the truth. You are not coming back. Your 
 clothes where shall I send them ?'
 
 48 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 He hurried away, hoping he would come back. 
 He tried to think that he liked the country he was 
 leaving, that it would be better to have a farmhouse 
 and live there with Margaret Dirken than to serve 
 drinks behind a counter in the Bowery. He did 
 not think he was telling her a lie when he said he 
 was coming back. Her offer to forward his clothes 
 touched his heart, and at the end of the road he 
 stood and asked himself if he should go back to her. 
 He would miss the train if he waited another minute, 
 and he ran on. And he would have missed the train 
 if he had not met a car. Once he was on the car he 
 felt himself safe the country was already behind 
 him. The train and the boat at Cork were mere 
 formulae ; he was already in America. 
 
 And when the tall skyscraper stuck up beyond 
 the harbour he felt the thrill of home that he had 
 not found in his native village, and wondered how it 
 was that the smell of the bar seemed more natural 
 than the smell of fields, and the roar of crowds 
 more welcome than the silence of the lake's edge. 
 He entered into negotiations for the purchase of the 
 bar-room. He took a wife, she bore him sons and 
 daughters, the bar-room prospered, property came 
 and went ; he grew old, his wife died, he retired 
 from business, and reached the age when a man 
 begins to feel there are not many years in front of 
 him, and that all he has had to do in life has been 
 done. His children married, lonesomeness began to 
 creep about him in the evening, and when he looked 
 into the firelight, a vague, tender reverie floated up, 
 and Margaret's soft eyes and name vivified the dusk. 
 His wife and children passed out of mind, and it
 
 HOME SICKNESS 49 
 
 seemed to him that a memory was the only real 
 thing he possessed, and the desire to see Margaret 
 again grew intense. But she was an old woman, she 
 had married, maybe she was dead. Well, he would 
 like to be buried in the village where he was born. 
 
 There is an unchanging, silent life within every 
 man that none knows but himself, and his unchanging, 
 silent life was his memory of Margaret Dirken. The 
 bar-room was forgotten and all that concerned it, 
 and the things he saw most clearly were the green 
 hillside, and the bog lake and the rushes about it, 
 and the greater lake in the distance, and behind it 
 the blue line of wandering hills.
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 
 
 I HE way before Father Maguire was plain 
 enough, yet his uncle's apathy and con- 
 stitutional infirmity of purpose seemed 
 at times to thwart him. Only two or 
 three days ago, he had come .running 
 down from Kilmore with the news that a baby had 
 been born out of wedlock, and what do you think ? 
 Father Stafford had shown no desire that his curate 
 should denounce the girl from the altar. 
 
 ' The greatest saints,' he said, ' have been kind, 
 and have found excuses for the sins of others.' 
 
 And a few days later, when he told his uncle that 
 the Salvationists had come to Kilmore, and that he 
 had walked up the village street and slit their drum 
 with a carving-knife, his uncle had not approved of 
 his conduct, and what had especially annoyed Father 
 Tom was that his uncle seemed to deplore the slit- 
 ting of the drum in the same way as he deplored 
 that the Kavanaghs had a barrel of porter in every 
 Saturday, as one of those regrettable excesses to 
 which human nature is liable. On being pressed, he 
 agreed with his nephew that dancing and drinking 
 50
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 51 
 
 were no preparation for the Sabbath, but he would 
 not agree that evil could be suppressed by force. 
 He even hinted that too strict a rule brought about 
 a revolt against the rule, and when Father Tom 
 expressed his disbelief at any revolt against the 
 authority of the priest, Father Stafford said : 
 
 'They may just leave you, they may just go to 
 America.' 
 
 'Then you think that it is our condemnation of 
 sin that is driving the people to America.' 
 
 ' My dear Tom, you told me the other day that 
 you met a boy and girl walking along the roadside, 
 and drove them home. You told me you were sure 
 they were talking about things they shouldn't talk 
 about; you have no right to assume these things. 
 You're asking of the people an abstinence you 
 don't practise yourself. Sometimes your friends are 
 women.' 
 
 ' Yes. But ' 
 
 Father Tom's anger prevented him from finding 
 an adequate argument, and Father Stafford pushed 
 the tobacco-bowl towards his nephew. 
 
 ' You're not smoking, Tom.' 
 
 ' Your point is that a certain amount of vice is 
 inherent in human nature, and that if we raise the 
 standard of virtuous living our people will escape 
 from us to New York or London.' 
 
 ' The sexes mix freely everywhere in Western 
 Europe ; only in Ireland and Turkey is there any 
 attempt made to separate them.' 
 
 Later in the evening Father Tom insisted that the 
 measure of responsibility was always the same. 
 
 'I should be sorry,' said his uncle, 'to say that
 
 52 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 those who inherit drunkenness bear the same burden 
 of responsibility as those who come of parents who 
 are quite sane ' 
 
 ' You cannot deny, uncle John, that free will and 
 predestination ' 
 
 'My dear Tom, I really must go to bed. It is 
 after midnight.' 
 
 And as he walked home, Father Maguire thought 
 of the great change he perceived in his uncle. He 
 liked an hour's small-talk after dinner, his pipe, his 
 glass of grog, his bed at eleven o'clock, and Father 
 Maguire thought with sorrow of their great disputa- 
 tions, sometimes prolonged till after three o'clock. 
 The passionate scholiast of Maynooth seemed to him 
 unrecognizable in the esurient Vicar-General, only 
 occasionally interested in theology, at certain hours 
 and when he felt particularly well. The first seemed 
 incompatible with the second, his mind not being 
 sufficiently acute to see that after all no one can 
 discuss theology for more than five and twenty years 
 without wearying of the subject. 
 
 The moon was shining among the hills and the 
 mystery of the landscape seemed to aggravate his 
 sensibility, and he asked himself if the guardians of 
 the people should not fling themselves into the fore- 
 front of the battle. If men came to preach heresy 
 in his parish was he not justified in slitting their 
 drum ? 
 
 He had recourse to prayer, and he prayed for 
 strength and for guidance. He had accepted the 
 Church, and in the Church he saw only apathy, 
 neglect, and bad administration on the part of his 
 superiors . . . He had read that great virtues are,
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 53 
 
 like large sums of money, deposited in the bank, 
 whereas humility is like the pence, always at hand, 
 always current. Obedience to our superiors is the 
 sure path. He could not persuade himself that it 
 was right for him to allow the Kavanaghs to continue 
 a dissolute life of drinking and dancing. They were 
 the talk of the parish ; and he would have spoken 
 against them from the altar, but his uncle had 
 advised him not to do so. Perhaps his uncle was 
 right ; he might be right regarding the Kavanaghs. 
 In the main he disagreed with his uncle, but in this 
 particular instance it might be well to wait and pray 
 that matters might improve. 
 
 Father Tom believed Ned Kavanagh to be a good 
 boy. Ned was going to marry Mary Byrne, and 
 Father Tom had made up this marriage. The Byrnes 
 did not care for the marriage they were prejudiced 
 against Ned on account of his family. But he was 
 not going to allow them to break off the marriage. 
 He was sure of Ned, but in order to make quite sure 
 he would get him to take the pledge. Next morning, 
 when the priest had done his breakfast, the servant 
 opened the door, and told him that Ned Kavanagh 
 was outside, and wanted to see him. 
 
 It was a pleasure to look at this nice clean boy, 
 with his winning smile, and the priest thought that 
 Mary could not wish for a better husband. The 
 priest had done his breakfast, and was about to open 
 his newspaper, but he wanted to see Ned Kavanagh, 
 and he told his servant to let him in. Ned's smile 
 seemed a little fainter than usual, and his face was 
 paler ; the priest wondered, and presently Ned told 
 the priest that he had come to confession, and, going
 
 54 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 down on his knees, he told the priest that he had 
 been drunk last Saturday night, and that he had 
 come to take the pledge. He would never do any 
 good while he was at home, and one of the reasons 
 he gave for wishing to marry Mary Byrne was his 
 desire to leave home. The priest asked him if 
 matters were mending, and if his sister showed any 
 signs of wishing to be married. 
 
 ' Sorra sign,' said Ned. 
 
 'That's bad news you're bringing me,' said the 
 priest, and he walked up and down the room, and 
 they talked over Kate's wilful character. 
 
 'From the beginning she didn't like living at 
 home,' said the priest. 
 
 ' I wouldn't be caring about living at home/ said 
 Ned. 
 
 ' But for a different reason,' said the priest. ' You 
 want to leave home to get married, and have a 
 wife and children, if God is pleased to give you 
 children.' 
 
 He sat thinking of the stories he had heard. He 
 had heard that Kate had come back from her last 
 situation in a cab, wrapped up in blankets, saying she 
 was ill. On inquiry it was found that she had only 
 been three or four days in her situation ; three weeks 
 had to be accounted for. He had questioned her 
 himself regarding this interval, but had not been able 
 to get any clear and definite answer from her. 
 
 ' She and mother do be always quarrelling about 
 Pat Connex.' 
 
 'It appears,' said the priest, 'that your mother 
 went out with a jug of porter under her apron, and 
 offered a sup of it to Pat, who was talking with
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 55 
 
 Peter M'Shane, and now he is up at your cabin 
 every Saturday.' 
 
 f That's so/ said Ned. 
 
 f Mrs. Connex was here the other day, and I tell 
 you that if Pat marries your sister he will find him- 
 self cut off with a shilling.' 
 
 ' She's been agin us all the while/ said Ned. ' Her 
 money has made her proud, but I wouldn't be 
 blaming her. If I had the fine house she has, maybe 
 I would be as proud as she.' 
 
 ' Maybe you would/ said the priest. f But what 
 I'm thinking of is your sister Kate. She'll never 
 get Pat Connex. Pat won't ever go against his 
 mother.' 
 
 e Well, you see he comes up and plays the melodeon 
 on Saturday night/ said Ned, ' and she can't stop him 
 from doing that.' 
 
 ' Then you think/ said the priest, ( that Pat will 
 marry your sister ?' 
 
 ' I don't think she is thinking about him.' 
 
 ' If she doesn't want to marry him, what's all this 
 talk about ?' 
 
 ' She does like to be meeting Pat in the evenings 
 and to be walking out with him, and him putting 
 his arm round her waist and kiss her, saving your 
 reverence's presence.' 
 
 ' It is strange that you should be so unlike. You 
 come here and ask me to speak to Mary Byrne's 
 parents for you, and that I'll do, Ned, and it will be 
 all right. You will make a good husband, and 
 though you were drunk last night, you have taken 
 the pledge to-day. And I will make a good marriage 
 for Kate, too, if she'll listen to me.'
 
 56 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 * 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 
 schoolhouse to-night. Do you think you could bring 
 your sister with you ?' 
 
 ' We did use to keep a great many bins 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, and went for a walk on 
 the hills. 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. 
 
 ' They're quarrelling at home.' 
 
 Michael 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 isn't ready, father,' said
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 57 
 
 Kate, 'but it won't be long now. I'll cut the 
 bacon." 
 
 ' I met Ned on the road/ her father answered. 
 1 It's sorry I am that he has gone to fetch Mary. 
 He's going to take her to the lecture on poultry- 
 keeping at the schoolhouse.' 
 
 ' 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. And he 
 dropped in as Michael was finishing his dinner, 
 bringing with him Mary, a small, fair girl, who 
 everybody said 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 in the family. 
 
 ( We've just looked 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 had 
 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
 
 58 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 turned suddenly and went uphill. After walking 
 for a mile they came to the schoolhouse. 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. The women had 
 collected into one corner, and the priest was walking 
 up and down a long, smoky room, 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 tumble-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
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 59 
 
 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 asked in a fluttering voice. ' She'd know 
 much more than I. I see Biddy M'Hale there. She 
 has done very well with her poultry.' 
 
 ' I dare say 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 someone 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 har- 
 monium. Whom shall I announce ?' 
 
 The young woman told him her name, and he led
 
 60 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 her to the harmonium and left her talking, address- 
 ing most of her instruction to Biddy M'Hale, a long, 
 thin, pale-faced woman, with wistful eyes. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 e 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.'
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 61 
 
 ' 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 couldn't be 
 rearing chickens earlier than March. The end of 
 February is the earliest ever I saw. But, sure, if 
 you could be rearing 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. 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 pur- 
 pose and got up to go. 
 
 ' I don't want anyone to leave this room,' said the
 
 62 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 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 supply- 
 ing the village with a pump. Had not the authorities 
 put up one in the neighbouring village ? 
 
 'You should come out,' he said, f 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
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 63 
 
 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.
 
 64 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' 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 to-morrow, 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.' 
 
 e 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.' 
 
 ' 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.'
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 65 
 
 'And what way do you go about making up 
 a marriage ? Walking about the roads in the 
 evening, and turning 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." Those 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. 
 E
 
 66 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 c 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 divil a bit 
 of you would put me out of the door.' 
 
 1 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 Pether.' 
 
 '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 :
 
 SOME PARISHIONERS 67 
 
 ' I know that Pether has been very good, that he 
 has a liking for me. ... If he wishes to put the 
 ring on me ' 
 
 When Kate gave him her hand there was a mist in 
 his eyes, and he stood trembling before her.
 
 PATCHWORK 
 
 ;EXT 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, and the envelope 
 that Father Maguire was tearing open contained his 
 report ; two hundred pounds would be required to 
 make the walls secure. Well, he'd see if this were 
 so, 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. 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. . . . Meanwhile, 
 Mary Byrne and Ned Kavanagh were going to be 
 married. 
 
 And Ned and Mary noticed the dark look between 
 68
 
 PATCHWORK 69 
 
 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's the money to come from ? 
 All the money in Kilmore goes into drink, and,' 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 many 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. 
 
 Father Maguire felt that his temper had got the 
 better of him, but it was too late to go back on what 
 he said. Marry them for two pounds with the archi- 
 tect's letter in the pocket of his cassock ! And if 
 he was to accept two pounds, who'd pay five to 
 be married ? If he didn't stand out for his dues 
 the marriage fee would be reduced from five pounds 
 to one pound. . . . And if he accepted Ned's two 
 pounds his authority would be weakened ; he 
 wouldn't be able to get them to subscribe to have 
 the church made safe. So on the whole he thought 
 he'd done right, and his servant was of the same 
 opinion.
 
 70 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' They'd have the cassock off your back, your 
 reverence, if they could get it.' 
 
 'And the architect writing to me that the walls 
 can't be made safe under two hundred pounds, and 
 the whole lot of them earning not less than thirty 
 shillings a week, and they can't pay the priest five 
 pounds for marrying them.' 
 
 It the course of the day he went to Dublin to see 
 the architect ; and next morning it occurred to him 
 that he might have to go to America to get the 
 money to build a new church, and as he sat thinking 
 the door was opened, and the servant said that Biddy 
 M'Hale wanted to see his reverence. 
 
 She came in curtseying ; and before saying a word 
 she took ten sovereigns out of her pocket and put 
 them upon the table. The priest thought she had 
 heard of the architect's report, and he said : 
 
 ' Now, Biddy, I am glad to see you. I suppose 
 you have brought me this for my church. You 
 have heard of the money it will cost to make the 
 walls safe ?' 
 
 ' No, your reverence, I did not hear any more 
 than that there were cracks in the walls.' 
 
 ' But you have brought me this money to have the 
 cracks mended ?' 
 
 ' Well, no, your reverence. I have been thinking 
 a long time of doing something for the church, and 
 I thought I should like to have a window put up in 
 the church with colours in it.' 
 
 Father Maguire was touched by Biddy's desire to 
 do something for the church, and told her her name 
 would be put on the top of the subscription 
 list.
 
 PATCHWORK 71 
 
 ' A subscription from Miss M'Hale ten pounds.' 
 
 Biddy didn't answer, and it annoyed the priest 
 to see her sitting in his own chair stretching out 
 her hand ready to take the money back. He 
 could see that her wish to benefit the church 
 was merely a pretext for the glorification of her- 
 self, and he began to argue with the old woman. 
 But he might have spared himself the trouble of 
 explaining that it was necessary to have a new 
 church before you could have a window. She under- 
 stood well enough it was useless to put a window up 
 in a church that was going to fall down. But her 
 idea still was St. Joseph in a red cloak and the Virgin 
 in blue with a crown of gold on her head, and forget- 
 ful of everything else, she asked him whether her 
 window in the new church should be put over the 
 high altar, or if it should he a window lighting a 
 side altar. 
 
 f But, my good woman, ten pounds will not pay 
 for a window. You couldn't get anything to speak 
 of for less than fifty pounds.' 
 
 He had expected to astonish Biddy, but she did 
 not seem astonished. She said that although fifty 
 pounds was a great deal of money she would not 
 mind spending all that money if she were to have 
 her window all to herself. She had thought at first 
 of only putting in part of the window, a round piece 
 at the top, and she had thought that that could be 
 bought for ten pounds. The priest could see that 
 she had been thinking a good deal of this window, 
 and she seemed to know more about it than he 
 expected. ' It is extraordinary,' he said to himself, 
 ' how a desire of immortality persecutes these voteens.
 
 72 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 A desire of temporal immortality/ he said, fearing 
 he had been guilty of a heresy. 
 
 ' If I could have the whole window to myself, I 
 would give you fifty pounds, your reverence.' 
 
 The priest had no idea she had saved as much 
 money as that. 
 
 'The hins have been very good to me, your 
 reverence, and I'd like to put up the window in the 
 new church better than in the old church.' 
 
 ' But I've got no money, my good woman, to build 
 the church.' 
 
 ' Ah, won't your reverence go to America and get 
 the money ? Aren't all our own people over there, 
 and always giving money for churches ?' 
 
 The priest spoke to her about statues, and sug- 
 gested that perhaps a statue would be a more 
 permanent gift, but the old woman knew that 
 stained glass could be secured from breakage by 
 means of wire-netting. 
 
 ' Do you know, Biddy, it will require three or 
 four thousand pounds to build a new church ? If I 
 go to America and do my best to get the money, 
 how much will you help me with ?' 
 
 ( Does your reverence mean for the window ?' 
 
 ' No, Biddy, I was thinking of the church itself.' 
 
 And Biddy said that she would give him five 
 pounds to help to build the church and fifty pounds 
 for her window, and, she added, ' if the best gilding 
 and paint costs a little more I would be sorry to see 
 the church short.' 
 
 ' Well, you say, Biddy, you will give five pounds 
 towards the church. Now, let us think how much 
 money I could get in this parish.'
 
 PATCHWORK 73 
 
 He had a taste for gossip, and she began by 
 telling him she had met Kate Kavanagh on the road, 
 and Kate had told her that there had been great 
 dancing last night. 
 
 1 But there was no wedding,' said the priest. 
 
 ' I only know, your reverence, what Kate Kavanagh 
 told me. There had been great dancing last night. 
 The supper was ordered at Michael Dunne's and the 
 cars were ordered, and they went to Enniskerry and 
 back.' 
 
 'But Michael Dunne would not dare to serve 
 supper to people who weren't married,' said the 
 priest. 
 
 'The supper had been ordered, and they would 
 have to pay for it whether they ate it or not. There 
 was a pig's head, and the cake cost eighteen shil- 
 lings, and it was iced.' 
 
 ' Never mind the food,' said the priest, ' tell me 
 what happened.' 
 
 ' Kate said that after coming back from Ennis- 
 kerry, Michael Dunne said, " Is this the wedding 
 party ?" and that Ned jumped off the car, and said : 
 " To be sure. Ain't I the wedded man ?" And they 
 had half a barrel of porther.' 
 
 ' Never mind the drink/ said the priest, 'what 
 then r 
 
 ' There was dancing first and fighting after. Pat 
 Connex and Peter M'Shane were both there. You 
 know Pat plays the melodeon, and he asked Peter to 
 sing, and Peter can't sing a bit, and he was laughed 
 at. So he grabbed a bit of stick and hit Pat on the 
 head, and hit him badly, too. I hear the doctor had 
 to be sent for.'
 
 74 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 'That is always the end of their dancing and 
 drinking/ said the priest. 'And what happened 
 then, what happened ? After that they went home ?' 
 
 ' Yes, your reverence, they went home.' 
 
 e Mary Byrne went home with her own people, I 
 suppose, and Ned went back to his home.' 
 
 ' I don't know, your reverence, what they did.' 
 
 ' Well, what else did Kate Kavanagh tell you ?' 
 
 ' She had just left her brother and Mary, and they 
 were going towards the Peak. That is what Kate 
 told me when I met her on the road.' 
 
 ' Mary Byrne wouldn't go to live with a man to 
 whom she was not married. But you told me that 
 Kate said she had just left Mary Byrne and her 
 brother.' 
 
 ( Yes, they were just coming out of the cabin,' said 
 Biddy. ' She passed them on the road.' 
 
 ' Out of whose cabin ?' said the priest. 
 
 ' Out of Ned's cabin. I know it must have been 
 out of Ned's cabin, because she said she met them at 
 the cross-roads.' 
 
 He questioned the old woman, but she grew less 
 and less explicit. 
 
 ' I don't like to think this of Mary Byrne, but after 
 so much dancing and drinking, it is impossible to say 
 what mightn't have happened.' 
 
 ' I suppose they forgot your reverence didn't 
 marry them.' 
 
 ' Forgot !' said the priest. * A sin has been com- 
 mitted, and through my fault.' 
 
 'They will come to your reverence to-morrow 
 when they are feeling a little better.' 
 
 The priest did not answer, and Biddy said :
 
 PATCHWORK 75 
 
 ' Am I to take away my money, or will your rever- 
 ence keep it for the window ?' 
 
 ' The church is tumbling down, and before it is 
 built up you want me to put up statues.' 
 
 ' I'd like a window better.' 
 
 ' I've got other things to think of now.' 
 
 ' Your reverence is very busy. If I had known it 
 I wouldn't have come disturbing you. But I'll take 
 my money with me.' 
 
 'Yes, take your money,' he said. 'Go home 
 quietly, and say nothing about what you have told 
 me. I must think over what is best to be done.' 
 
 Biddy hurried away, gathering her shawl about her, 
 and this great strong man who had taken Pat Connex 
 by the collar and could have thrown him out of the 
 schoolroom, fell on his knees and prayed that God 
 might forgive him the avarice and anger that had 
 caused him to refuse to marry Ned Kavanagh and 
 Mary Byrne. 
 
 ' Oh ! my God, oh ! my God,' he said, ' Thou 
 knowest that it was not for myself that I wanted the 
 money, it was to build up Thine Own House.' 
 
 He remembered that his uncle had warned him 
 again and again against the sin of anger. He had 
 thought lightly of his uncle's counsels, and he had 
 not practised the virtue of humility, which, as St. 
 Teresa said, was the surest virtue to seek in this 
 treacherous world. 
 
 ' Oh, my God, give me strength to conquer anger.' 
 
 The servant opened the door, but seeing the priest 
 upon his knees, she closed it quietly, and the priest 
 prayed that if sin had been committed he might bear 
 the punishment.
 
 76 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 And on rising from his knees he felt that his duty 
 was to seek out the sinful couple. But how to speak 
 to them of their sin ? The sin was not theirs. He 
 was the original wrongdoer. If Ned Kavanagh and 
 Mary Byrne were to die and lose their immortal 
 souls, how could the man who had been the cause of 
 the loss of two immortal souls save his own ? and the 
 consequences of his refusal to marry Ned Kavanagh 
 and Mary Byrne seemed to reach to the very ends of 
 Eternity. 
 
 He walked to his uncle's with great swift steps, 
 hardly seeing his parishioners as he passed them on 
 the road. 
 
 < Is Father Stafford in ?' 
 
 ' Yes, your reverence.' 
 
 ' Uncle John, I have come to consult you.' 
 
 The priest sat huddled in his armchair over the 
 fire, and Father Maguire noticed the cassock covered 
 with snuff, the fringe of reddish hair about the great 
 bald head, and the fat, inert hands. He seemed to 
 see his uncle more clearly than he had ever seen 
 him before, and he fell to wondering why he 
 observed him so explicitly, his mind being intent 
 on a matter of great spiritual importance. 
 
 ' I have come to ask you,' Father Tom said, 
 'regarding the blame attaching to a priest who 
 refuses to marry a young man and a young woman, 
 there being no impediment of consanguinity or 
 other.' 
 
 ' But have you refused to marry anyone because 
 they couldn't pay you your dues ?' 
 
 'Listen, the church is falling.' 
 
 ' My dear Tom, you shouldn't have refused to
 
 PATCHWORK 77 
 
 marry them/ he said, as soon as his soul-stricken 
 curate had laid the matter before him. 
 
 ' Nothing can justify my action in refusing to 
 marry them/ said Father Tom, 'nothing. Uncle 
 John, I know that you can extenuate, that you are 
 kind, but I don't see it is possible to look at it from 
 any other side.' 
 
 ' My dear Tom, you are not sure they remained 
 together ; the only knowledge you have of the cir- 
 cumstances you obtained from that old woman, Biddy 
 M'Hale, who cannot tell a story properly. An old 
 gossip, who manufactures stories out of the slightest 
 materials . . . but who sells excellent eggs ; her 
 eggs are always fresh. I had two this morning.' 
 
 ' Uncle John, I didn't come here to be laughed at.' 
 
 ' I am not laughing at you, my dear Tom ; but 
 really you know very little about this matter.' 
 
 ' I know well enough that they remained together 
 last night. I examined the old woman carefully, and 
 she had just met Kate Kavanagh on the road. 
 There can be no doubt about it,' he said. 
 
 ' But,' said Father John, ' they intended to be 
 married ; the intention was there.' 
 
 'Yes, but the intention is no use. We aren't 
 living in a country where the edicts of the Council 
 of Trent haven't been promulgated.' 
 
 ( That's true,' said Father John. ' But how can I 
 help you ? What am I to do ?' 
 
 ' Are you feeling well enough for a walk this 
 morning ? Could you come up to Kilmore ?' 
 
 ( But it is two miles I really ' 
 
 1 The walk will do you good. If you do this for 
 me, Uncle John '
 
 78 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' My dear Tom, I am, as you say, not feeling very 
 well this morning, but ' 
 
 He looked at his nephew, and seeing that he was 
 suffering, he said : 
 
 ' I know what these scruples of conscience are ; 
 they are worse than physical suffering.' 
 
 But before he decided to go with his nephew to 
 seek the sinners out, he could not help reading him 
 a little lecture. 
 
 ' I don't feel as sure as you do that a sin has been 
 committed ; but admitting that a sin has been com- 
 mitted, I think you ought to admit that you set your 
 face against the pleasure of these poor people too 
 resolutely.' 
 
 ' Pleasure,' said Father Tom. ' Drinking and 
 dancing, hugging and kissing each other about the 
 lanes.' 
 
 ' You said dancing now, I can see no harm in it.' 
 
 ' There's no harm in dancing, but it leads to harm. 
 If they only went back with their parents after the 
 dance, but they linger in the lanes.' 
 
 ' It was raining the other night, and I felt sorry, 
 and I said, " Well, the boys and girls will have to 
 stop at home to-night, there will be no courting to- 
 night." If you don't let them walk about the lanes 
 and make their own marriages, they marry for money. 
 These walks at eventide represent all the aspiration 
 that may come into their lives. After they get 
 married, the work of the world grinds all the poetry 
 out of them.' 
 
 1 Walking under the moon,' said Father Tom, 
 ' with their arms round each other's waists, sitting 
 for hours saying stupid things to each other that
 
 PATCHWORK 79 
 
 isn't my idea of poetry. The Irish find poetry in 
 other things than sex.' 
 
 ' Mankind/ said Father John, ' is the same all the 
 world over. The Irish aren't different from other 
 races ; do not think it. Woman represents all the 
 poetry that the ordinary man is capable of appre- 
 ciating.' 
 
 ' And what about ourselves ?' 
 
 ' We're different. We have put this interest aside. 
 I have never regretted it, and you have not regretted 
 it either.' 
 
 ' Celibacy has never been a trouble to me.' 
 
 ( But Tom, your own temperament should not 
 prevent you from sympathy with others. You aren't 
 the whole of human nature ; you should try to get 
 a little outside yourself.' 
 
 ( Can one ever do this ?' said Father Tom. 
 
 'Well, you see what a difficulty your narrow- 
 mindedness has brought you into.' 
 
 ' I know all that/ said Father Tom. ' It is no use 
 insisting upon it. Will you come with me ? They 
 must be married this morning. Will you come with 
 me ? I want you to talk to them. You are kinder 
 than I am. You sympathize with them more than 
 I do, and it wasn't you who refused to marry them.' 
 
 Father John got out of his armchair and staggered 
 about the room on his short fat legs, trying to find 
 his hat. Father Tom said : 
 
 ' Here it is. You don't want your umbrella. 
 There's no sign of rain.' 
 
 ' No/ said his uncle, ' but it will be very hot 
 presently. My dear Tom, I can't walk fast.' 
 
 ' I am sorry, I didn't know I was walking fast.'
 
 80 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 * You are walking at the rate of four miles an hour 
 at the least.' 
 
 ' I am sorry, I will walk slower.' 
 
 At the cross-roads inquiry was made, and the 
 priests were told that the cabin Ned Kavanagh had 
 taken was the last one. 
 
 ' That's just another half-mile/ said Father John. 
 
 ' If we don't hasten we shall be late.' 
 
 'We might rest here/ said Father John, 'for a 
 moment/ and he leaned against a gate. ' My dear 
 Tom, it seems to me you're agitating yourself a little 
 unnecessarily about Ned Kavanagh and his wife I 
 mean the girl he is going to marry.' 
 
 ' I am quite sure. Ned Kavanagh brought Mary 
 back to his cabin. There can be no doubt.' 
 
 ' Even so/ said Father John. e He may have 
 thought he was married.' 
 
 ' How could he have thought he was married un- 
 less he was drunk, and that cannot be put forward 
 as an excuse. No, my dear uncle, you are inclined 
 for subtleties this morning.' 
 
 ' He may have thought he was married. More- 
 over, he intended to be married, and if through for- 
 getfulness ' 
 
 ' Forgetfulness!' cried Father Maguire. ( A pretty 
 large measure of forgetfulness !' 
 
 ' I shouldn't say that a mortal sin has been com- 
 mitted ; a venial one. ... If he intended to be 
 married ' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear uncle, we shall be late, we shall be 
 late !' 
 
 Father Stafford repressed the smile that gathered 
 in the corner of his lips, and he remembered how
 
 PATCHWORK 81 
 
 Father Tom had kept him out of bed till two o'clock 
 in the morning, talking to him about St. Thomas 
 Aquinas. 
 
 e If they're to be married to-day we must be get- 
 ting on." And Father Maguire's stride grew more 
 impatient. ( I'll walk on in front.' 
 
 At last he spied a woman in a field, and she told 
 him the married couple had gone for a walk most 
 of the party were with them, but Pat Connex was in 
 bed, and the doctor had been to see him. 
 
 ' I've heard/ said Father Tom, ' of last night's 
 drunkenness. Half a barrel of porter ; there's 
 what remains,' he said, pointing to some stains 
 on the roadway. ( They were too drunk to turn off 
 the tap.' 
 
 ' 1 heard your reverence wouldn't marry them/ the 
 woman said. 
 
 ' I am going to bring them down to the church at 
 once.' 
 
 ' Well, if you do/ said the woman, * you won't be a 
 penny the poorer ; you will have your money at the 
 end of the week. And how do you do, your 
 reverence ?' The woman dropped a curtsey to 
 Father Stafford. ( It's seldom we see you up here.' 
 
 ' They've gone towards the Peak,' said Father 
 Tom, for he saw his uncle would take advantage of 
 the occasion to gossip. 'We shall catch them up 
 there.' 
 
 ' I am afraid I am not equal to it, Tom. I'd like 
 to do this for you, but I am afraid I am not equal to 
 another half-mile uphill.' 
 
 Father Maguire strove to hypnotize his parish 
 priest. 
 
 F
 
 82 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Uncle John, you're called upon to make this 
 effort. I cannot speak to these people as I should 
 like to.' 
 
 ' If you spoke to them as you would like to, 
 you would only make matters worse/ said Father 
 John. 
 
 ' Very likely, I'm not in a humour to contest these 
 things with you. But I beseech you to come with 
 me. Come,' he said, ( take my arm.' 
 
 They went a few hundred yards up the road, then 
 there was another stoppage, and Father Maguire 
 had again to exercise his power of will, and he was 
 so successful that the last half-mile of the road was 
 accomplished almost without a stop. 
 
 At Michael Dunne's, the priests learned that the 
 wedding party had been there, and Father Stafford 
 called for a lemonade. 
 
 ' Don't fail me now, Uncle John. They are within 
 a few hundred yards of us. I couldn't meet them 
 without you. Think of it. If they were to tell me 
 that I had refused to marry them for two pounds, 
 my authority would be gone for ever. I should have 
 to leave the parish.' 
 
 ' My dear Tom, I would do it if I could, but I am 
 completely exhausted.' 
 
 At that moment sounds of voices were heard. 
 
 ' Listen to them, Uncle John.' And the curate 
 took the glass from Father John. ' They aren't as 
 far as I thought, they are sitting under these trees. 
 Come,' he said. 
 
 And they walked some twenty yards, till they 
 came to a spot where the light came pouring through 
 the young leaves, and all the brown leaves of last
 
 PATCHWORK 83 
 
 year were spotted with light. There were light 
 shadows amid the rocks and pleasant mosses, and the 
 sounds of leaves and water falling, and from the top 
 of a rock Kate listened while Peter told her they 
 would rebuild his house. " 
 
 ' The priests are after us,' she said. 
 
 And she gave a low whistle, and the men and boys 
 looked round, and seeing the priests coming, they 
 dispersed, taking several paths, and none but Ned 
 and Mary were left behind. Ned was dozing ; Mary 
 was sitting beside him fanning herself with her hat : 
 they had not heard Kate's whistle, and they did not 
 see the priests until they were by them. 
 
 ' Now, Tom, don't lose your head ; be quiet with 
 them.' 
 
 ' Will you speak to them, or shall I ?' said Father 
 Tom. 
 
 ' You are too excited, and will ' 
 
 ' I think you had better let me speak to them,' 
 said Father John. ' You are Ned Kavanagh, and 
 you are Mary Byrne, I believe. Now, I don't know 
 you all, for I am getting an old man, and don't often 
 come up this way. But notwithstanding my age, 
 and the heat of the day, I have come up, for I've 
 heard that you haven't acted as good Catholics 
 should. I do not doubt for a moment that you 
 intended to get married, but you have, I fear, been 
 guilty of a great sin, and you've set a bad example.' 
 
 ' We were on our way to your reverence now,' 
 said Mary. ' I mean to his reverence.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Father Tom, ' you are taking your 
 time over it, lying here half asleep under the 
 trees.'
 
 84 
 
 ' We hadn't the money/ Mary answered ; ' it 
 wasn't our fault.' 
 
 ' Didn't I say I'd marry you for nothing ?' 
 
 'But sure, your reverence, that's only a way of 
 speaking.' 
 
 ' There's no use lingering here,' said Father Tom. 
 ' You took the pledge the day before yesterday, and 
 yesterday you were tipsy.' 
 
 ' Maybe I had a drop of drink in me, your rever- 
 ence. Pat Connex passed me the mug of porther and 
 I forgot myself.' 
 
 ' And once/ said the priest, ' you tasted the porter 
 you thought you could go on taking it.' 
 
 Ned did not answer, and the priests whispered 
 together. 
 
 ' We are half-way now/ said Father Tom ; ' we 
 can get there before twelve o'clock.' 
 
 < I don't think I'm equal to it. ' I really don't 
 
 think You see it is all up-hill. See how the 
 
 road ascends. I couldn't manage it.' 
 
 ' The road is pretty flat at the top of the hill once 
 you get to the top of the hill. You'll ' 
 
 The sound of wheels was heard, and a peasant 
 driving a donkey-cart came up the road. 
 
 It seemed undignified to accept a lift, but his 
 nephew's conscience was at stake, and the Vicar- 
 General allowed himself to be helped into the 
 donkey-cart. 
 
 ' Now walk on in front of us/ Father Tom said 
 to the unmarried couple, ' and step out as quickly as 
 you can.' 
 
 But no sooner were the words out of his mouth 
 than Father Tom remembered he had caught sight
 
 PATCHWORK 85 
 
 of Kate standing at the top of the rock talking to 
 Peter M'Shane : in a few days they would come to 
 him to be married, and he hoped that Peter and 
 Kate's marriage would make amends for this miser- 
 able patchwork, for Ned Kavanagh's and Mary 
 Byrne's marriage was no better than patchwork.
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 
 
 [ND everywhere Kate went her gown 
 was being talked about the gown she 
 was to be married in, a grey silk that 
 had been bought at a rummage sale. 
 They were all at her, and so persistently 
 that she had begun to feel she was being driven into 
 a trap, and on the morning of her wedding turned 
 round to ask her sister if she thought she ought to 
 marry Peter. Julia thought it would be a pity if 
 she didn't, for her dress would be wasted, and 
 Kate threw a look down the skirt that boded no 
 good. 
 
 ' I hate the both of them the priest and that old 
 waddling sow of a mother-in-law of mine, or what is 
 to be.' 
 
 After this speech Julia expected to hear Peter's 
 name, but Kate was not thinking of him then nor 
 did she think of him once during the ceremony ; she 
 seemed all the time to be absent from herself ; and 
 it was not till he got up beside her on the car that 
 she remembered they were now one flesh. But 
 Peter did not notice that she shrank from him ; nor 
 86
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 87 
 
 did the others. The distribution occupied all their 
 attention. The fat were set beside the lean, and the 
 bridal party drove away, amid a great waving of hands 
 and hullabalu. 
 
 And when the last car passed out of sight, 
 Mrs. M'Shane returned home like a goose, wad- 
 dling slowly, a little overcome by the thought of the 
 happiness that awaited her son. There would be 
 no more lonely evenings in the cabin; Kate would 
 be with him now, and later on there would be some 
 children, and she waddled home thinking of the 
 cradle, and the joy it would be to her to take her 
 grandchildren upon her knee. Passing in at the 
 door, she sat down, so that she might dream over her 
 happiness a little longer. But she had not been sit- 
 ting long when she had a thought of the work before 
 her the cabin to be cleaned from end to end, the 
 supper to be cooked, and she did not pause in her 
 work till the pig's head was on the table, and the 
 sheeps' tongues also ; till the bread was baked and 
 the barrel of porter rolled up in a corner. As she 
 stood with her arms akimbo, expecting the piper 
 every minute, thinking of the great evening it would 
 be, she remembered that her old friend, Annie 
 Connex, had refused to come to Peter's wedding, 
 and that all the village was saying that Kate wouldn't 
 have married Peter if she hadn't been driven to it by 
 the priest and her mother. 
 
 1 Poor boy !' she thought, ' his heart is so set upon 
 her that he has no ears for any word against her. 
 And aren't people ill-natured to be talking ill of a girl 
 on her wedding-day, and Annie Connex preventing her 
 son from coming to the dance ? If she won't come
 
 88 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 herself, she might let Pat come round for an hour.' 
 And if Annie would do this, all the gossips would 
 have their tongues tied. Anyhow, she might try to 
 persuade her. She locked her door and waddled up 
 the road. 
 
 'I came round, Annie, to tell you they're married.' 
 
 'Well, come in, Mary,' she said, 'if you have the 
 time.' 
 
 ' If I have the time,' Mrs. M'Shane repeated to 
 herself as she passed into the comfortable kitchen, 
 with sides of bacon and home- cured hams hanging 
 from the rafters. She had not prospered like 
 Mrs. Connex, and she knew she would never have 
 a beautiful closed range, but an open hearth, till 
 the end of her days. She would never have a nice 
 dresser with a pretty carved top. The dresser 
 in her kitchen was deal, and had no nice shining 
 brass knobs on it. She would never have a parlour, 
 and this parlour had in it a mahogany table and a 
 grandfather's clock that would show you the moon 
 on it just the same as it was in the sky, and there 
 was a glass over the fireplace. And this was Annie 
 Connex's own parlour. The parlour on the other side 
 of the house was even better furnished, for in the 
 summer months Mrs. Connex bedded and boarded 
 her lodgers for one pound or one pound five shillings 
 a week. 
 
 ( So she was married to-day, and Father Maguire 
 married her after all. I never thought he would 
 have brought her to it. Well, I'm glad she's married.' 
 It rose to Mary's lips to say, ' You are glad she didn't 
 marry your son,' but she put back the words. ' It 
 comes upon me as a bit of surprise, for sure and
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 89 
 
 all I could never see her settling down in the 
 parish.' 
 
 'Them that are the wildest before marriage are 
 often the best after, and I think it will be like that 
 with Kate.' 
 
 ' I hope so/ said Annie. ' And there is reason why 
 it should be like that. She must have liked Peter 
 better than we thought ; you will never get me to 
 believe that it was the priest's will or anybody's will 
 but her own that brought Kate to do what she did.' 
 
 ( I hope she'll make my boy a good wife.' 
 
 ' I hope so, too/ said Annie, and the women sat 
 over the fire thinking it out. 
 
 Annie Connex held the Kavanagh family in abomi- 
 nation ; they got two shillings a week off the rates, 
 though every Saturday evening they bought a quarter 
 barrel of porter, and Annie Connex could not believe 
 in the future of a country that would tolerate such a 
 thing. If her son had married a Kavanagh her life 
 would have come to an end, and the twenty years 
 she had worked for him would have been wasted 
 years. Alert as a bee she sprang from her chair, 
 for she was thinking of the work that was waiting 
 for her as soon as she could rid herself of that 
 bothering old slut Mary, who'd just as lief sit here 
 all the morning talking of the Kavanaghs. 
 
 'You know Julia is doing well with her lace- 
 making ?' 
 
 ' Selling it, I haven't a doubt, above its market 
 value.' 
 
 ' She sells it for what she can get. Why shouldn't 
 she ?' 
 
 ' And it looking like as if it was cut out of paper !'
 
 90 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 To sell above the market value was abominable in 
 Annie Connex's eyes. Her idea of life was order 
 and administration. And Mary M' Shane seemed to 
 her the very picture of the thriftless, idle village in 
 which they lived. 
 
 ' We never had anyone like Kate Kavanagh in the 
 village before. I hear she turned round to her sister 
 Julia, who was dressing her, and said, " Now am I to 
 marry him, or shall I go to America ?" And she 
 putting on her grey dress at the time.' 
 
 ' She looked fine in that grey dress ; there was 
 lace on the front of it, and there isn't a man in 
 the parish that wouldn't be in Pether's place to-day 
 if he only dared.' 
 
 ' I don't catch your meaning, Mary.' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps I oughtn't to have said it now that 
 she's my own daughter, but I think many would have 
 been a bit afraid of her after what she said to the 
 priest three days ago.' 
 
 'She did have her tongue on him. People are 
 telling all ends of stories.' 
 
 ''Tis said that Father Maguire was up at the 
 Kavanaghs' three days ago, and I heard that she 
 hunted him. She called him a policeman, and a tax- 
 collector, and a landlord, and if she said this she said 
 more to a priest than anyone ever said before, for 
 there is plenty in the parish who believe he could 
 turn them into rabbits if he liked, though I don't 
 take it on myself to say if it be truth or lie. But 
 I know for a fact that Patsy Rogan had promised to 
 vote for the Unionist to please his landlord, but 
 the priest had been to see his wife, who was going 
 to be confined, and didn't he tell her that if Patsy
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 91 
 
 voted for the wrong man there would be horns on 
 the new baby, and Mrs. Rogan was so frightened 
 that she wouldn't let her husband go when he came 
 in that night till he had promised to vote as the 
 priest wished.' 
 
 ' Patsy Rogan is an ignorant man,' said Annie ; 
 ' there are many like him even here.' 
 
 'Ah, sure there will be always some like him. 
 Don't we like to believe the priest can do all things ?' 
 
 ' Anyhow she's married, and there will be an end 
 to all the work that has been going on.' 
 
 ' That's true for you, Annie, and that's just what 
 I came to talk to you about. I think now she's 
 married we ought to give her a chance. Every girl 
 ought to get her chance, and the way to put an end 
 to all this talk about her will be for you to come 
 round to the dance to-night.' 
 
 'I don't know that I can do that. I am not 
 friends with the Kavanaghs, though I always bid 
 them the time of day when I meet them on the 
 road.' 
 
 ' If you come in for a few minutes, or if Pat were 
 to come in for a few minutes. If Pether and Pat 
 aren't friends they'll be enemies.' 
 
 1 Maybe they'd be worse enemies if I don't keep 
 Pat out of Kate's way. She's married Pether ; but 
 her mind isn't settled yet.' 
 
 ' Yes, Annie, I've thought of all that ; but they'll 
 be meeting on the road, and, if they aren't friends, 
 there will be quarrelling, and some bad deed may be 
 done.' 
 
 Annie did not answer, and, thinking to convince 
 her, Mary said :
 
 92 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' You wouldn't like to see a corpse right over your 
 window.' 
 
 'It ill becomes you, Mary, to speak of corpses 
 after the blow that Pether gave Pat with his stick at 
 Ned Kavanagh's wedding. And I must stand by my 
 son, and keep him out of the low Irish, and he won't 
 be safe until I get him a good wife.' 
 
 ' The low Irish ! Indeed, it ill becomes you, Annie, 
 to be talking in that way of your neighbours. Is it 
 because none of us have brass knockers on our doors ? 
 I have seen this pride growing up in you, Annie 
 Connex, this long while. There isn't one in the 
 village that you've any respect for, except the 
 grocer, that black Protestant, who sits behind his 
 counter and makes money, and knows no enjoyment 
 in life at all.' 
 
 ' That's your way of looking at it ; but it isn't 
 mine. I set my face against my son marrying Kate 
 Kavanagh, and you should have done the same.' 
 
 ' Something will happen to you for the cruel words 
 you have spoken to me this day.' 
 
 ' Mary, you came to ask me to your son's wedding, 
 and I had to tell you ' 
 
 ' Yes, and you've told me that you won't come, and 
 that you hate the Kavanaghs, and you've said all you 
 could against them. I oughtn't to have listened to 
 all you said ; if I did, 'tis because we have known 
 each other these twenty years. But don't I remem- 
 ber well the rags you'd on your back when you 
 came to this village ? It ill becomes ' 
 
 Annie followed her to the gate. 
 
 The sounds of wheels and hooves were heard ; it 
 was the wedding party going by, and on the first car
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 93 
 
 whom should they see but Kate sitting between Pat 
 and Peter. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Annie, and good luck to you. I see 
 that Pat's coming to our dance after all/ and she 
 could not speak for want of breath when she got 
 to her door. 
 
 They were all there, Pat and the piper, and Kate 
 and Peter, and all their friends : but she couldn't 
 speak, and hadn't the strength to find the key, for 
 she could only think of the black look that had come 
 over Annie's face when she saw Pat sitting by Kate 
 on the car, and Mrs. M f Shane laughed as she searched 
 for the key, thinking how quickly her punishment 
 had come. 
 
 And all the while they were telling her how they 
 had met Pat at Michael Dunne's. 
 
 ' When he saw us he tried to sneak into the yard ; 
 but I went after him. And don't you think I did 
 right ?' Kate was heard to say ; and as soon as they 
 were inside she said : ' Now I'll get the biggest jug 
 of porter, and Pether shall drink one half and Pat 
 the other.' 
 
 Peter was fond of jugs, and there were large and 
 small on the dresser : some white and brown, and 
 some were gilt, with pink flowers. 
 
 ' Now, Pether, you'll say something nice.' 
 
 ' I'll say, then/ said Peter, ' this is the happiest 
 day of my life, as it should be, indeed : for haven't I 
 got the girl that I wanted, and hasn't Pat forgiven 
 me for the blow I struck him ? For he knows well 
 I wouldn't hurt a hair of his head. Weren't we boys 
 together ? But I had a cross drop in me at the time, 
 and that was how it was.'
 
 94 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 Catching sight of Kate's black hair and rosy cheeks, 
 which were all the world to him, he stopped speaking 
 and stood looking at her, unheedful of everything ; 
 and at that moment he looked so good and foolish 
 that more than one woman thought it would be a 
 weary thing to live with him. 
 
 ' Now, Pat, you must make a speech, too/ said 
 Kate. 
 
 ( I haven't any speech in me/ he said. ' I'm 
 glad enough to be sitting here ; but I'm sore 
 afraid my mother saw me on the car, and I think 
 I had better be going home and letting you finish 
 this marriage.' 
 
 ' What's that you're saying ?' said Kate. * You 
 won't go out of this house till you've danced a reel 
 with me, and now sit down at the table next to me ; 
 and, Pether, you sit on the other side of him, so that 
 he won't run away to his mother.' 
 
 Her eyes were as bright as coals of fire, and she 
 calling to her father, who was at the end of the table, 
 to have another slice of pig's head, and to the piper, 
 who was having his supper in the window, to have a 
 bit more ; and then turning to Pat, who said never a 
 word, and laughing at him for having nothing to 
 say. 
 
 It was afterwards they remembered that Kate had 
 seemed to put Pat out of her mind suddenly, and had 
 stood talking to her husband, saying he must dance 
 with her, though it was no amusement to a girl to 
 dance opposite Peter. It was afterwards that Mary, 
 Ned's wife, remembered how Kate, though she had 
 danced with Peter in the first reel, had not been 
 able to keep her eyes from the corner where Pat
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 95 
 
 sat sulking, and that, sudden-like, she had grown 
 weary of Peter. Mary remembered, too, she had 
 seen a wild look pass in Kate's eyes, and that she 
 had gone over to Pat and pulled him out for a dance. 
 And why shouldn't she ? for it was a pleasure for a girl 
 to dance opposite to Pat, so cleverly did his feet 
 move to the pipes. Everyone was admiring them 
 when Pat cried out : 
 
 ' I'm going home. I bid you all good-night here ; 
 finish this wedding as you like.' 
 
 And before anyone could stop him he had run out 
 of the house. 
 
 ' Pether, go after him,' Kate said ; ' bring him back. 
 It would be ill luck on our wedding night for anyone 
 to leave us like that.' 
 
 Peter went out of the door, and was away some 
 time ; but he came back without Pat. 
 
 ' The night is that dark, I lost him,' he said. 
 
 Then Kate didn't seem to care what she said. 
 Her black hair fell down, and she told Peter he was 
 a fool, and that he should have run faster. And her 
 mother said it was the porter that had been too 
 much for her ; but she said it was the priest's bless- 
 ing, and this frightened everyone. But, after saying 
 all this, she went to her husband, saying that he was 
 very good to her, and she had no fault to find with 
 him. But no sooner were the words out of her 
 mouth than her mind seemed to wander, and every- 
 one had expected her to run out of the house. But 
 she went into the other room instead, and shut the 
 door behind her. Everyone knew then there would 
 be no more dancing that night ; the piper packed up 
 his pipes, and the wedding party left Peter by the
 
 96 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 fire, who seemed to be crying like. And they were all 
 sorry to leave him like this ; and, so that he might 
 not remember what had happened, Ned drew a big 
 jug of porter, and put it by him. 
 
 He took a sup out of it, but seemed to forget 
 everything, and the jug fell out of his hand. 
 
 ' Never mind the pieces, Pether,' his mother said. 
 'You can't put them together; and it would be 
 better for you not to drink any more porther. Go to 
 your bed. There's been too much drinking this 
 night, I'm thinking.' 
 
 ' Mother, I want to know why she said I didn't 
 run fast enough after Pat. And didn't she know 
 that if I hit Pat so hard it was because there, were 
 knobs on his stick ; and didn't I pick up his stick by 
 mistake for my own ?' 
 
 'Sure, Peter, it wasn't your fault; we all know 
 that, and Kate knows it too. Now let there be no 
 more talking or drinking. No, Pether, you've had 
 enough porther for to-night.' 
 
 He looked round the kitchen, and seeing that 
 Kate was not there, he said : 
 
 ' She's in the other room, I think ; mother, you'll 
 be wantin' to go to your bed.' 
 
 And Peter got on his feet and stumbled against 
 the wall, and his mother had to help him towards 
 the door. 
 
 ' Is it drunk I am, mother ? Will you open the 
 door for me ?' 
 
 But Mrs. M'Shane couldn't open the door, and 
 she said : 
 
 ' I think she's put a bit of stick in it.' 
 
 ' A bit of stick in the door ? And didn't she say
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 97 
 
 that she didn't want to marry me ? Didn't she say 
 something about the priest's blessing ?' 
 
 And then Peter was sore afraid that he would not 
 get sight of his wife that night, and he said : 
 
 ' Won't she acquie-esh-sh ?' 
 
 And Kate said : 
 
 ' No, I won't.' 
 
 And then he said : 
 
 'We were married in church to-day, you 
 acquieshed.' 
 
 And she said : 
 
 'I'll not open the door to you. You're drunk, 
 Pether, and not fit to enter a decent woman's room.' 
 
 ' It isn't because I've a drop too much in me that 
 you should have fastened the door on me ; it is 
 because you're thinking of the blow I gave Pat. 
 But, Kate, it was because I loved you so much that 
 I struck him. Now will you open the door ?' 
 
 ' No, I'll not open the door to-night,' she said. 
 1 I'm tired and want to go to sleep.' 
 
 And when he said he would break open the door, 
 she said : 
 
 ' You're too drunk, Pether, and sorra bit of good it 
 will do you. I'll be no wife to you to-night, and 
 that's as true as God's in heaven.' 
 
 ' Pether,' said his mother, ' don't trouble her to- 
 night. There has been too much dancing and 
 drinking.' 
 
 ' It's a hard thing . . . shut out of me wife's room.' 
 
 ' Pether, don't vex her to-night. Don't hammer 
 her door any more.' 
 
 'Didn't she acquie-esh? Mother, you have 
 always been agin me. Didn't she acquie-esh ?' 
 a
 
 98 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Oh, Pether, why do you say I'm agin you ?' 
 
 ' Did you hear her say that I was drunk. If you 
 tell me I'm drunk I'll say no more. I'll acquie-esh.' 
 
 f Pether, you must go to sleep.' 
 
 ' Yes, go to sleep. ... I want to go to sleep, but 
 she won't open the door.' 
 
 ( Pether, never mind her.' 
 
 ' It isn't that I mind ; I'm getting sleepy, but what 
 I want to know, mother, before I go to bed, is if J 'm 
 drunk Tell me I'm not drunk on my wedding 
 night, and, though Kate and I'll acquie-esh in all 
 that may be put upon me.' 
 
 He covered his face with his hands and his mother 
 begged him not to cry. He became helpless, she 
 put a blanket under his head and covered him with 
 another blanket, and went up the ladder and lay 
 down in the hay. She asked herself what had she 
 done to deserve this trouble, and cried a great 
 deal. And the poor, hapless old woman was asleep 
 in the morning when Peter stumbled to his feet 
 and found his way into the yard. As soon as he had 
 dipped his head in a pail of water, he remembered 
 the horses were waiting for him in the farm, and 
 walked off to his work, staggering a little. Kate 
 must have been watching for his going, for as soon 
 as he was gone she drew back the bolt of the door 
 and came into the kitchen. 
 
 ' I'm going, mother,' she called up to the loft. 
 
 ' Wait a minute, Kate,' said Mrs. M'Shane, and 
 she was half-way down the ladder when Kate 
 said : 
 
 ' I can't wait, I'm going ' And she walked up the 
 road to her mother's all the chairs were out in the
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 99 
 
 pathway, for the rector was coming down that after- 
 noon, and she wanted to show him how beautifully 
 clean she kept the cabin. 
 
 ' I've come, mother, to give you this/ and she took 
 the wedding ring off her finger and threw it on the 
 ground. ' I shut the door on him last night, and I'm 
 going to America to-day. You see how well the 
 marriage that you and the priest made up together 
 has turned out.' 
 
 ' Going to America,' said Mrs. Kavanagh. ( Now, 
 is Pat going with you ? and for pity sake ' 
 
 Kate stood looking at the bushes that grew between 
 their cottage and the next one, remembering that 
 elder-flower water is good for the complexion. 
 
 ' I'm going,' she said suddenly, ' there's nothing 
 more to say. Good-bye.' 
 
 And her mother said, ' She's going with Pat 
 Connex.' But Kate had no thought of going to 
 America with him or of seeing him that day. But 
 she met him at the cross-roads, out with one of his 
 carts, and she thought he looked a nice boy ; but 
 her second thoughts were, ' He's better suited to 
 Ireland.' And on this thought he and the country 
 she had lived in always seemed to escape from her 
 like a dream. 
 
 ' I'm going to America, Pat.' 
 
 ' You were married yesterday.' 
 
 ' Yes, that was the priest's doing and mother's, and 
 I thought they knew best. But I'm thinking one 
 must go one's own way, and there's no judging for 
 oneself here. That's why I'm going. You'll find 
 some other girl, Pat.' 
 
 ' There's not another girl like you in the village.
 
 100 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 We're a dead and alive lot. You stood up to the 
 priest.' 
 
 ' I didn't stand up to him enough. You're waiting 
 for someone. Who are you waiting for ?' 
 
 ' I don't like to tell you, Kate.' 
 
 She pressed him to answer her, and he told her he 
 was waiting for the priest. His mother had said 
 he must marry, and the priest was coming to make 
 up a marriage for him. 
 
 ' Everything's mother's.' 
 
 ' That's true, Pat, and you'll give a message for 
 me. Tell my mother-in-law that I've gone.' 
 
 ' She'll be asking me questions, and I'll be sore set 
 for an answer." 
 
 She looked at him steadily, but she left him with- 
 out speaking, and he stood thinking. 
 
 He had had good times with her, and all such 
 times were ended for him for ever. He was going 
 to be married and he didn't know to whom. Sud- 
 denly he remembered he had a message to deliver, 
 and went down to the M'Shanes' cabin. 
 
 ' Ah, Mrs. M 'Shane, it was a bad day for me when 
 she married Pether. But this is a worse one, for 
 we've both lost her.' 
 
 ' My poor boy will feel it sorely.' 
 
 And when Peter came in for his dinner his mother 
 said : 
 
 ' Pether, she's gone, she's gone to America, and 
 you're well rid of her.' 
 
 ' Don't say that, mother, I am not well rid of her, 
 for there's no other woman in the world for me 
 except her that's gone. Has she gone with Pat 
 Connex ?'
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 101 
 
 * No, he said nothing about that, and it was he 
 who brought the message.' 
 
 ' I've no one to blame but myself, mother. Wasn't 
 I drunk last night, and how could she be letting a 
 drunken fellow like me into her bed ?' 
 
 And out he went into the back-yard, and didn't 
 his mother hear him crying there till it was time for 
 him to go back to work ?
 
 THE WINDOW 
 
 ND it was on getting up to go to his 
 work that he caught sight of Biddy 
 M'Hale. 
 
 ' And for what will she be coming up 
 here at this time in the morning/ he 
 said, ' but to be asking if the news is true ?' 
 
 ' And away he goes past me like a madman,' said 
 Biddy, as she turned into the cabin. 
 
 ' Ah, well may you ask bad work surely,' said 
 Mrs. M'Shane, ( and you'll be telling the priest the 
 true story as I'm telling it to you that the devil a bit 
 of her would let as much as her husband's foot into 
 her bed last night. You're on your way to him, 
 and it would be ill-befitting the truth should remain 
 unbeknownst to him.' 
 
 ' If she won't do the duties of a wife towards him, 
 it is a fine penance for her sin that she will be get- 
 ting when she goes to confession ' 
 
 ( When she goes to confession ! Don't ye know, 
 then, that she took the train this morning for 
 America and flaunted Pat Connex on the road, say- 
 ing he wasn't a man at all ?' 
 
 ' And you'd be disgracing his reverence's ears with 
 102
 
 THE WINDOW 103 
 
 such a story as that ! Let Pat tell it to him in his 
 confession.' 
 
 ' Whether he hears it in the confession or in the 
 daylight, isn't it the same ?' 
 
 ' Now it is I that am sorry to hear you speaking 
 like a Protestant ... no betther,' she added under 
 her breath as she hurried away. 
 
 She would have liked to have heard if Pat had 
 danced with Kate at the wedding, but the priest 
 was expecting her, and she daren't keep him 
 waiting. 
 
 f But sorra penny of my money will he be getting 
 all the same to build the walls of his old church. 
 He'll go to America for it and come home and build 
 a new church with a fine spire and a big bell in it, 
 that can be heard for miles and then we'll see what 
 I'll be doing for him !' And on these words her 
 dream began again of the saints and angels she 
 hoped she'd see one day looking down upon her, 
 and the sun setting behind them to the great 
 glory of God, and His Virgin Mother. And so im- 
 mersed was she in her dream that she did not see 
 the priest watching her all the while, his arms lean- 
 ing over the paling that divided his strip of garden 
 from the road. 
 
 ' The stupid old woman !' he was saying to himself. 
 'The divil a bit of her will understand that the 
 church must come before her window.' 
 
 f Sure, your reverence, there's terrible work going 
 on in the village, and I hope I haven't been keeping 
 your reverence waiting, for I had to stop to listen 
 to Mrs. M'Shane, and she telling me that Kate 
 Kavanagh that was, is gone to America after shut-
 
 104 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ting the door on her husband last night because he 
 was drunk.' 
 
 ' What's this you're telling me, Biddy M'Hale ?' 
 
 ( If your reverence will listen to me ' 
 
 ' I'm listening to you. Amn't I always listening 
 to you ? Go on with your story.' 
 
 At last all the facts seemed clear, and he said : ' 1 
 made up this marriage so that she mightn't go away 
 with Pat Connex.' 
 
 * Well, we've been saved that/ said Biddy. 
 
 ( Ned Kavanagh's marriage was bad enough, but 
 this is worse. "Tis no marriage at all.' 
 
 ' Ah, your reverence, you mustn't be taking it to 
 heart, for if the marriage didn't turn out all right it 
 was the drink.' 
 
 < Ah, the drink the drink,' said the priest, and 
 he declared that the brewer and the distiller were 
 the ruin of Ireland. 
 
 ( That's true for you ; at the same time we mustn't 
 forget they have put up many a fine church.' 
 
 A cloud came into the priest's face, for his brother 
 was a publican and had promised a large sub- 
 scription. 
 
 ' Now, Biddy, what are you going to give me to 
 make the walls safe ? I don't want you all to be 
 killed while I am away.' 
 
 e There's no fear of that, your reverence ; a church 
 never fell down on anyone.' 
 
 ' Even so, if it falls down when nobody's in it, 
 where are the people to hear Mass ?' 
 
 ' Ah, won't they be going down to hear Mass at 
 Father Stafford's ?' 
 
 ' If you don't wish to give anything, say so.'
 
 THE WINDOW 105 
 
 ' Your reverence, ain't I- 
 
 ' We don't want to hear about that window.' 
 
 And Biddy began to fear she would have to give 
 him a few pounds to quiet him. But fortunately 
 Pat Connex came up the road, and, turning from 
 Biddy, the priest said : 
 
 ' I hear you were dancing with Kate Kavanagh 
 she that went away to America this morning. Have 
 you heard that ?' 
 
 ' I have, your reverence. She passed me on the 
 road this morning.' 
 
 'And you weren't thinking you might stop 
 her?' 
 
 ' Stop her !' said Pat. ' Mightn't she be asking me 
 to sin with her if I did ?' 
 
 ' And now your mother writes to me, Pat Connex, 
 to ask if I will get Lennon's daughter for you.' 
 
 ' I see your reverence has private business with 
 Pat Connex. I'll be going/ said Biddy. 
 
 1 Now, Biddy M'Hale, don't you be going !' But 
 Biddy pretended not to hear him. 
 
 * Will I be running after her,' said Pat, ' and 
 bringing her back ?' 
 
 ' No, let her go. If she doesn't want to help to 
 make the walls safe I'm not going to go on my knees 
 to her. . . . You'll have to walk to Father Stafford's 
 to hear Mass. Have you heard your mother say 
 what she's going to give towards the new church, 
 Pat Connex ?' 
 
 ' I think she said, your reverence, she was going 
 to send you ten pounds.' 
 
 ' That's very good of her.' And this proof that a 
 public and religious spirit was not yet dead in his
 
 106 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 parish softened the priest's temper, and, thinking to 
 please him and perhaps escape a scolding, Pat began 
 to calculate how much Biddy had saved. 
 
 ' She must be worth, I'm thinking, close on one 
 hundred pounds to-day.' As the priest did not 
 answer, he said : ' I wouldn't be surprised if she 
 was worth another fifty !' 
 
 ' Hardly as much as that,' said the priest. 
 
 * Hadn't her aunt the house we're living in before 
 mother came to Kilmore, and it full of lodgers all 
 the summer ? It's true her aunt kept her working 
 for nothing, but when she died she left her one 
 hundred pounds, and she's been making money ever 
 since.' 
 
 ' Her poultry you're thinking of,' said the priest. 
 ' They're the best in the county.' And the thought 
 of Biddy's accident crossed his mind how one day 
 when carrying an exceptionally heavy tray she had 
 slipped on the stairs, and for two years afterwards 
 was on her back, everyone saying she'd never do a 
 hand's-turn, but be looking out of the window ever 
 afterwards. Yet it was while looking out of the 
 window that the thought of poultry had been put 
 into her mind ; seeing the fowls pecking in the yard, 
 she had said to herself : ' Now if it be the will of 
 God for me to get about again, I'll see what I can 
 do with chickens, and if I do well with them I'll 
 do something for Him afterwards.' It was herself 
 that had dropped these words to the priest, and 
 he remembered her eyes as she spoke them the 
 pathetic eyes of the hunchback. Hunchback is 
 perhaps too strong a word, but her shoulders were 
 higher than shoulders usually are; she was jerked
 
 THE WINDOW 107 
 
 forward from the waist, and by her side hung the 
 long thin arms of the hunchback. 'It was God's 
 will/ she said, 'that I should mend. . . . Before 
 my accident there wasn't a girl in the village that 
 could keep ahead of me when we went blackberry- 
 ing.' A light came into her eyes. ' We used to run 
 all over the hills,' was all she said ; but she stood at 
 gaze, lost in remembrances of the country under- 
 neath the hills, the plain lost in blue vapour, and on 
 either side the blue sea spitting foam over the rocks 
 of Braehead. ' I was the only one of the girls that 
 could keep up with the boys.' 
 
 e But after her accident she was no good for any- 
 thing except minding fowls.' The priest threw his 
 eye over Pat Connex and wondered if he'd ever be 
 able to make a steady fellow of him now that Kate 
 was out of the country ; she was better in America, 
 and by her flight made atonement in a measure for 
 her conduct towards Peter. 
 
 ' We'll go to Mrs. M 'Shane. I shall want to hear 
 her story.' 
 
 ' Sure, what story can she be telling of me, for 
 didn't I run out of the house away from Kate when 
 I saw what she was thinking of ? What more could 
 I do?' 
 
 ' If Mrs. M'Shane tells the same story as you do, 
 we'll go to your mother's, and afterwards I'll go to 
 see Lennon about his daughter. Why, here is 
 Ned. You've heard the news, Ned, haven't you ?' 
 
 ' Your reverence, I have.' 
 
 And all the morning was spent between the priest 
 and Ned Lennon, who was not inclined for the 
 match ; but at last he made show of giving in to the
 
 108 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 priest, after reducing his daughter's dowry to about 
 half. 
 
 ' Nor would yourself be able to get me to do that 
 much, your reverence, if Kate had remained in the 
 country. But she's gone from us, bad cess to her. 
 But if your reverence is going to America you may 
 be meeting her, and 'tis a fine fistful of money she 
 should be giving. But if you're going at once she 
 won't be. . . . And God speed your reverence, and 
 bring ye back safe to us with a fine lump of money 
 for building the entire church.' 
 
 'I think I shall be able to bring you back the 
 money for the church if that woman ' His sen- 
 tence did not finish : he was thinking of Biddy. But 
 there were many other things to think of now ; 
 further negotiations for Pat's marriage, his packing, 
 the payment of bills and a letter to the bishop, fully 
 occupied the last three weeks. 
 
 ( I'd like to stop for a minute, Pat/ he said, on 
 his way to the station. 
 
 1 Well, if you do, your reverence, we shall be 
 missing your train.' 
 
 ' Then go on with you !' said the priest. 
 
 The image of the old woman walking up and down 
 telling her beads, followed by Buff Orpingtons, often 
 rose up in his mind while he was trying to persuade 
 a loafer to give him fifty dollars. ' Now, if Biddy 
 could be dealt with like this man !' If the loafer 
 refused him he said : ' He is another such a one 
 as Biddy.' As the money piled up he said to 
 himself : ' I am bringing Biddy back her window,' 
 and on his way from the station on his return the 
 first person he saw was Biddy telling her beads,
 
 THE WINDOW 109 
 
 followed by her poultry. Much impressed by the 
 coincidence he called to the driver to stop. 
 
 ' Then how are ye, Biddy M f Hale ?' he cried out. 
 
 f So you're back again, your reverence, and I hope 
 you've been lucky in America.' 
 
 ' I've brought some money home, and who knows, 
 Biddy, but one of these days you'll be telling your 
 beads under beautiful panes full of saints and 
 angels ?' 
 
 ( Your reverence is very good to me, and God is 
 very good,' she answered, and stood looking after 
 him, thinking how she had brought him round to her 
 way of thinking. ' And all of them singing,' she 
 said, ' with harps in their hands. And to think that 
 'tis the birds themselves that will be bringing the 
 window to do honour to God and Kilmore !' She 
 began calling, ' Bea-bea-beaby !' And the Buff 
 Orpingtons and the Plymouth Rocks gathered round 
 her. ' Not a church twenty miles of Kilmore that 
 I haven't been in. ... Bea bea-beaby ! And they 
 mustn't be sparing of their reds and yallers ; and 
 there must be angels with wings spread out. Bea- 
 bea-beaby !' And when all the food was gone she 
 put aside the basin, and began telling her beads 
 once more. 
 
 A few days after she was at the priest's door. 
 
 ' He has a gentleman with him, Miss M'Hale.' 
 
 ' Isn't it the architect he has with him ? And 
 haven't I need to be seeing him, since it is me that's 
 paying for the saints and angels.' 
 
 'To be sure/ the priest called from his parlour. 
 ' Show her in, Margaret.' He drew forth his arm- 
 chair for Miss M'Hale, and the architect laid his
 
 110 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 pencil aside and leaned his chin on his hand, so that 
 he might better understand the kind of window 
 she wished to give to her church ; and encouraged 
 by his complacency, she rambled on, an unbearable 
 loquacity, all about herself and her neighbours. 
 
 1 1 think I understand,' said the architect, inter- 
 rupting, ' and we'll do everything to meet your views, 
 Miss M'Hale.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is a little premature to discuss the 
 window,' said the priest, ' but you shall choose the 
 subjects you would like to see represented, and 
 as for the colours, the architect and designer will 
 advise you. I am sorry, Biddy, this gentleman 
 says that the four thousand pounds the Americans 
 were good enough to give me will not do much more 
 than build the walls.' 
 
 ' They're waiting for me to offer them my money, 
 but I won't say a word,' Biddy said to herself ; and 
 she sat fidgeting with her shawl, coughing from time 
 to time, until the priest lost his patience. 
 
 ' Well, Biddy, we're very busy here, and I'm sure 
 you want to get back to your fowls. When the 
 church is finished we'll see if we want your window.' 
 
 The priest had hoped to frighten her, but her faith 
 in her money was abundant ; as long as she had her 
 money the priest would come to her for it on one 
 pretext or another, sooner or later ; and she was as 
 well pleased that nothing should be settled at 
 present, for she was not quite decided whether she 
 would like to see Christ sitting in judgment, or 
 Christ crowning His Virgin Mother ; and during the 
 next six months she pondered 011 the pictures ; the 
 design and the colours grew clearer, and every morn-
 
 THE WINDOW 111 
 
 ing, as soon as she had fed her chickens, she went up 
 to Kilmore to watch the workmen. 
 
 She was up there when the first spadeful of earth 
 was thrown up, and as soon as the walls showed 
 above the ground she began to ask the workmen 
 how long it would take them to reach the windows, 
 and if a workman put down his trowel and wandered 
 from his work, she would tell him it was God he was 
 cheating ; and later on, when the priest's money 
 began to come to an end and he could not pay the 
 workmen full wages, she told them they were work- 
 ing for God's Own House, and that He would reward 
 them in the next world. 
 
 ' Hold your tongue,' said a mason. ' If you want 
 the church built why don't you give the priest the 
 money you're saving, and let him pay us ?' 
 
 ' Keep a civil tongue in your head, Pat Murphy. 
 Tisn't for myself I am keeping it back, and isn't it 
 all going to be spent ?' 
 
 The walls were now built, and amid the clatter 
 of the slaters' hammers Biddy began to tell the 
 plasterers of the beautiful pictures that would be 
 seen in her window, gabbling on and mixing up 
 her memories of the different panes she had seen, 
 until at last her chatter grew wearisome, and they 
 threw bits of mortar, laughing at her for a crazy old 
 woman, or the priest would suddenly come upon 
 them, and they would scatter in all directions, leaving 
 him with Biddy. 
 
 ' What were they saying to you, Biddy ?' 
 
 ' They were saying, your reverence, that America 
 is a great place.' 
 
 ' You spend a great deal of your time here, Biddy,
 
 112 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 and I suppose you are beginning to see that it takes 
 a long time to build a church. But you're not 
 listening to what I am saying. You are thinking 
 about your window ; but as I have often told you, 
 you must have a house before you can have a 
 window.' 
 
 ' I know that very well, your reverence ; but, you 
 see, God has given us the house.' 
 
 'God's House consists of something more than 
 walls and a roof.' 
 
 ' Indeed it does, your reverence ; and ain't I saving 
 up all my money for the window ?' 
 
 ' But, my good Biddy, there's hardly any plastering 
 done yet. The laths have come in, and there isn't 
 sufficient to fill that end of the church, and I've 
 no more money.' 
 
 ' Won't your reverence be getting the rest of the 
 money in America ? And ain't I thinking a bazaar 
 would be a good thing ? We'd all be making 
 scapulars, and your reverence might get medals that 
 the Pope had blessed.' 
 
 Eventually he drove her out of the church with 
 his umbrella. But as his anger cooled he began to 
 think that perhaps Biddy was right a bazaar might 
 be a good thing, and a distribution of medals and 
 scapulars might induce his workmen to do some 
 overtime. He went to Dublin to talk over this 
 matter with some pious Catholics, and an old lady 
 wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, two or three others 
 subscribed smaller sums, and the plasterers were busy 
 all next week. But these subscriptions did not go 
 nearly as far towards completing the work as he had 
 expected. The architect had led him astray, and he
 
 THE WINDOW 113 
 
 looked round the vast barn that he had built, and 
 despaired. It seemed to him it would never be 
 finished in his lifetime. A few weeks after he 
 was speaking to his workmen one Saturday after- 
 noon, telling them how they could obtain a plenary 
 indulgence by subscribing so much towards the 
 building of the church, and by going to Confession 
 and Communion on the first Sunday of the month. 
 If they could not give money they could give 
 their work. ' And he would see that none would be 
 the loser,' he was saying, when Biddy suddenly 
 appeared, and, standing in front of the men, she 
 raised up her hands and said they should not pass 
 by her until they had pledged themselves to come 
 to work on Monday. 
 
 ' But haven't we got wives and little ones ? and we 
 must be thinking of them.' 
 
 ' Ah, one can live on very little when one is doing 
 the work of God,' said Biddy. 
 
 The men called her a vain old woman, who was 
 starving herself so that she might put up a window, 
 and they pushed her aside and went away, repeating 
 they had their wives and children to feed. 
 
 The priest turned upon her angrily and asked her 
 what she meant by interfering between him and his 
 workmen. 
 
 ' Now, don't be angry with me, your reverence. I 
 will say a prayer, and you will say a word or two in 
 your sermon to-morrow.' 
 
 And he spoke in his sermon of the disgrace it 
 would be to Kilmore if the church remained un- 
 finished. The news would go over to America, and 
 H
 
 114 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 what priest would be ever able to get money there 
 again to build a church ? 
 
 1 Do you think a priest likes to go about the bar- 
 rooms asking for dollars and half-dollars ? And if 
 I have to go to America again, what answer shall I 
 make if they cry after me down the bar : " They 
 don't want churches at Kilmore. If they did your 
 workmen wouldn't have left you ?" You'll be dis- 
 gracing Kilmore for ever if you don't come to work ; 
 and if any of you should chance to go to America, 
 let him not say he comes from Kilmore, for he 
 won't be thought much of.' 
 
 A murmur went up from the body of the church, 
 the people not liking the threat, and there was great 
 talking that night in Michael Dunne's ; and every- 
 one was agreed that it would be a disgrace to Kilmore 
 if the church were not finished, there was no doubt 
 about that ; but no one could see that he could work 
 for less wages than he was in the habit of getting, 
 and as the evening wore on the question of indul- 
 gences was raised. 
 
 'The divil a bit of use going against the priest,' 
 said Ned Kavanagh, ' and the indulgences will do us 
 no harm.' 
 
 ( The devil a bit, but maybe a great deal of good,' 
 said Peter M'Shane, and an hour later they were 
 staggering down the road swearing they would stand 
 by the priest till death. 
 
 But on Monday morning nearly all were in their 
 beds ; only half a dozen came to the work, and the 
 priest sent them all away, except one ; one plasterer, 
 he thought, could stand on the scaffold. 
 
 ' If I were to fall I'd go straight to Heaven,' the
 
 THE WINDOW 115 
 
 plasterer said, and he stood so near the edge, and his 
 knees seemed so weak under him, that Biddy thought 
 he was going to fall. 
 
 ' It would be betther for you to finish what you are 
 doing; the Holy Virgin will be more thankful to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Aye, maybe she would/ he said, and he con- 
 tinued working on the clustered columns about the 
 window Biddy had chosen for her stained glass, and 
 she never taking her eyes off him. A little before 
 twelve o'clock the priest returned, as the plasterer 
 was going to his dinner, and he asked the plasterer if 
 he were feeling better. 
 
 ' I'm all right, your reverence, and it won't occur 
 agin.' 
 
 'I hope he won't go down to Michael Dunne's 
 during his dinner hour,' the priest said to Biddy. 
 ' If you see any further sign of drink upon him when 
 he comes back you must tell me.' 
 
 ' He is safe enough, your reverence. Wasn't he 
 telling me while your reverence was having your 
 breakfast that if he fell down he would go straight 
 to Heaven, and opening his shirt and showing me 
 he was wearing the scapular of the Holy Virgin ?' 
 
 Biddy began to advocate a sale of scapulars. 
 
 ' A sale of scapulars won't finish my church. 
 You're all a miserly lot here, you want everything 
 done for you.' 
 
 ' Weren't you telling me, your reverence, that a 
 pious lady in Dublin ?' 
 
 ' The work is at a standstill. If I were to go 
 to America to-morrow it would be no use unless I 
 could tell them it was progressing.'
 
 116 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Sure they don't ask any questions in America, 
 they just give their money.' 
 
 'If they do, that's more than you're doing at 
 home. Come, Biddy, you've been talking long 
 enough about what you are going to do for this 
 church. Come, now, out with it ! How much ?' 
 
 ' Well, now, your reverence, aren't you very hard 
 on me ? Haven't I often said I'd begin with a pound ? 
 and that much you've had from me, and ' 
 
 ' You don't seem to understand, Biddy, that you 
 can't put up your window until the plastering is 
 finished.' 
 
 ' I think I understand that well enough, but the 
 church will be finished." 
 
 'How will it be finished? When will it be 
 finished ?' 
 
 She didn't answer, and nothing was heard in the 
 still church but her irritating little cough. 
 
 ' You're very obstinate. Well, tell me where you 
 would like to have your window.' 
 
 f It is there I do be kneeling, and I'd like to see 
 the Virgin and St. John with her. And don't you 
 think, your reverence, we might have St. Joseph as 
 well, with Our Lord in the Virgin's arms ? And I 
 think, your reverence, I'd like Our Lord coming 
 down to judge us, and Him on His throne on the 
 day of Judgment up at the top of the window.' 
 
 ' I can see you've been thinking a good deal about 
 this window,' the priest said. 
 
 She began again, and the priest heard the names 
 of the different saints she would like to see in stained 
 glass, and he let her prattle on. But his temper 
 boiled up suddenly, and she ran away shrinking like
 
 THE WINDOW 117 
 
 a dog, and the priest walked up and down the un- 
 finished church. f She tries my temper more than 
 anyone I ever met/ he said to himself. At that 
 moment he heard some loose boards clanking, and, 
 thinking it was the old woman coming back, he 
 looked round, his eyes flaming. It was not Biddy, but 
 a short and square-set man, of the type that one sees 
 in Germany, and he introduced himself as an agent 
 of a firm of stained-glass manufacturers. ' I met an 
 old woman on the road, and she told me that I would 
 find you in the church considering the best place for 
 the window she is going to put up. But she looks 
 very poor.' 
 
 ' She's not as poor as she looks ; she's been saving 
 money all her life for this window ; and like people 
 of one idea, she's apt to become a little tiresome.' 
 
 ' I don't quite understand.' 
 
 ' Well, this is the way it is,' and seeing the German 
 was interested in the old woman, he began to acquire 
 an interest in her himself an unpremeditated 
 interest ; for he had not suspected Biddy's mediaeval- 
 ism till the German said she reminded him of the 
 quaint sculpture of Nuremburg ; and talking of 
 St. Tharagolinda, mediaevalism, and Gothic art, the 
 priest and the agent for the manufacture of stained 
 glass in Munich walked up and down the unfinished 
 church till the return of the plasterer to his lonely 
 labour reminded the German that it would be well 
 to inquire when the church would be finished. The 
 priest hesitated, and at last decided to take the 
 German into his confidence. 
 
 'These embarrassments always occur,' said the 
 agent, ' but there is no such thing as an unfinished
 
 118 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 church in Ireland ; if you were to let her put up the 
 window subscriptions would pour in.' 
 
 < How is that ?' 
 
 ' A paragraph in the newspaper describing the 
 window the gift of a local saint. I think you told 
 me her name was M'Hale, and that she lives in the 
 village.' 
 
 'Yes, you pass her house on the way to the 
 station.' 
 
 The German took his leave abruptly, and when he 
 was half-way down the hill he asked some children 
 to direct him. 
 
 e Is it Biddy M f Hale, that has all the hins, that you 
 are looking for ?' 
 
 The German said that that was the woman he 
 was seeking. 
 
 'You will see her feeding her chickens over 
 beyant, and you must call to her over the hedge.' 
 
 He did as he was bidden. 
 
 ' Madam. . . . The priest has sent me to show 
 you some designs for a stained-glass window.' 
 
 No one had ever addressed Biddy as Madam before, 
 and, very pleased, she wiped the table clean so that he 
 could spread the designs upon it, and the first he 
 showed her were the four Evangelists, but he said 
 he would like a woman's present to the church to 
 be in a somewhat lighter style, and produced a 
 picture of St. Cecilia. As Biddy seemed doubtful, he 
 suggested a group of figures would look handsomer 
 than a single figure. She was fascinated by what 
 she saw, but unable to put aside the idea of the 
 window that had grown up in her mind, she began 
 her relation.
 
 THE WINDOW 119 
 
 At the top of the picture, where the window 
 narrowed to a point, Our Lord must sit dressed in 
 white on a throne, placing a golden crown on the 
 head of the Virgin kneeling before Him, and all 
 around the women that had loved Him ; and with 
 tears rolling over her eyelids the old woman said she 
 was sorry she was not a nun, but perhaps God in His 
 goodness might not think less of her ; it couldn't be 
 helped now ; for as far as a mortal sin she could say 
 truly she had never committed one. ' And 'tis only 
 them that do be dying in mortal sin that go into 
 boiling pots.' The cauldrons that Biddy wished to 
 see them in, the agent said, would be difficult to 
 introduce the suffering of the souls could be more 
 artistically indicated by flames. 
 
 ' I shall have great joy,' she said, ' seeing the 
 blessed women standing about Our Divine Lord, 
 singing hymns in His praise, and the sight of sinners 
 broiling will make me be sorrowful.' 
 
 She did not notice that he was turning over his 
 designs and referring to his notebook while she was 
 talking. Suddenly he said : 
 
 ' Excuse me, but I think we have got the greater 
 part of the window you wish for in stock, and the 
 rest can be easily made up. Now the only question 
 that remains is the question of the colours you care 
 about.' 
 
 ' I've always thought there's no colour like blue. 
 I'd like the Virgin to wear a blue cloak.' 
 
 She did not know why she had chosen that colour, 
 but the agent told her that she was quite right that 
 blue signified chastity ; and when the German had 
 gone she sat thinking of the Virgin and her cloak,
 
 120 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 oblivious of the cackling of the Minorcas, Buff 
 Orpingtons, and Plymouth Rocks waiting to be fed. 
 And while feeding them she sat, her eyes fixed on the 
 beautiful evening sky, wondering if the blue in the 
 picture would be as pale, or if it would be a deeper 
 blue. 
 
 She used to wear a blue ribbon when she went 
 blackberrying among the hills ; and finding it in an 
 old box, she tied it round her neck ; and her mind 
 was lighted up with memories of the saints and 
 the miracles they had performed, and she went to 
 Father Maguire to tell him of the miracle. That the 
 agent should have in stock the very window she had 
 imagined seemed a miracle, and she was encouraged 
 to think some miraculous thing had happened when 
 the priest asked her to tell him exactly what her 
 window was like. She had often told him before, 
 but he had never listened to her. But now he 
 recognized her window as an adaptation of Fra 
 Angelico's picture, and he told her how the saint 
 had wandered from monastery to monastery painting 
 pictures on the walls, and promised to procure a 
 small biography of the saint for her. She received 
 it a few days after, and as she turned over the 
 leaves the children were out in the road coming 
 home from school ; and taking it out to them, they 
 read bits of it aloud, for her sight was failing. She 
 frightened them by dropping on her knees and cry- 
 ing out that God had been very good to her. Soon 
 after she took to wandering over the country visiting 
 churches, returning to Kilmore suddenly. She was 
 seen as usual at sunrise and at sunset feeding her 
 poultry, and then she went away again, and the next
 
 THE WINDOW 121 
 
 time she was heard of was in a church near Dublin 
 celebrated for its stained glass. A few days after 
 Ned Kavanagh met her hurrying up the road from 
 the station, and she told him she had just received a 
 letter from the Munich agent saying he had forwarded 
 her window. 
 
 It was to arrive to-morrow some time about mid- 
 day, but Biddy's patience was exhausted long before, 
 and she walked a great part of the way to Dublin, 
 returning with the dray, walking with the draymen 
 till within three miles of Kilmore, when she was so 
 tired that she could walk no longer ; they put her on 
 the top of the boxes, and a cheer went up from the 
 villagers when she was lifted down. As soon as she 
 reached the ground she called to the workmen to be 
 careful in unpacking the glass ; and when they were 
 putting the window in she went down on her knees 
 and prayed that no accident might happen. 
 
 At sunset the church had to be closed, and it was 
 with difficulty she was persuaded to leave it. Next 
 morning at sunrise she was knocking at the door of 
 the woman who was charged with the cleaning of the 
 church, asking for the key ; and from that day she 
 was hardly ever out of the church, preventing the 
 charwoman from getting on with her work, saying she 
 would show her things in the window she had not 
 seen before. One day, as the priest and the char- 
 woman were talking, Biddy came in. She seemed a 
 little astray, a little exalted, and Father Maguire 
 watched her as she knelt with uplifted face, telling 
 her beads. He noticed that she held the same bead 
 a long time between her fingers. Minutes passed, 
 but her lips did not move ; and her look was so
 
 122 THE UNT1LLED FIELD 
 
 enraptured that he began to wonder if Paradise were 
 being revealed to her. 
 
 And while the priest wondered, Biddy listened to 
 music inconceivably tender. She had been awakened 
 from her prayers by the sound of a harp-string 
 touched very gently ; the note floated down the isle, 
 and all the vibrations were not dead when the same 
 note was repeated. Biddy listened, anxious to hear 
 it a third time. Once more she heard it, and the 
 third time she saw the saint's fingers moving over 
 the strings ; she played a little tune of six notes. 
 And it was at the end of the second playing of the 
 tune that the priest touched Biddy on the shoulder. 
 She looked up and it was a long while before she 
 saw him, and she was greatly grieved that she had 
 been awakened from her dream. It was the priest 
 that said it was a dream, not she ; though he was a 
 priest, she couldn't believe he was right in this, and 
 looking at him, she wondered what would have hap- 
 pened if he had not awakened her. 
 
 Next day was Sunday, and she was in the church 
 at sunrise listening for the music. But she heard 
 and saw nothing until the priest had reached the 
 middle of the Mass. The acolyte had rung the bell 
 to prepare the people for the Elevation, and it was 
 then that she heard the faint low sound that the 
 light wire emitted when the saint touched her harp, 
 and she noticed that it was the same saint that had 
 played yesterday, the tall saint with the long fair 
 hair who stood apart from the others, looking more 
 intently at Our Blessed Lord than the others. The 
 saint touched her harp again and the note vibrated for 
 a long while, and when the last vibrations died she
 
 THE WINDOW 128 
 
 touched the string again. The note was sweet and 
 languid and intense, and it pierced to the very core 
 of Biddy. The saint's hand passed over the strings, 
 producing faint exquisite sounds, so faint that Biddy 
 felt no surprise they were not heard by anyone else ; 
 it was only by listening intently that she could hear 
 them. Yesterday's little tune appeared again, a 
 little tune of six notes, and it seemed to Biddy even 
 more exquisite than it had seemed when she first 
 heard it. The only difference between to-day and 
 yesterday was, that to-day all the saints struck their 
 harps, and after playing for some time the music 
 grew white like snow and remote as star-fire, and 
 yet Biddy heard it more clearly than she had heard 
 anything before, and she saw Our Lord more clearly 
 than she had ever seen anybody else. She saw Him 
 look up when He had placed the crown on His 
 mother's head ; she heard Him sing a few notes, 
 and then the saints began to sing. Biddy was lifted 
 into their heavenly life, and among them she was 
 beautiful and clad in shining garments. She praised 
 God with them, and when the priest raised the host, 
 Biddy saw Our Lord look at her, and His eyes 
 brightened as if with love of her. He seemed to 
 have forgotten the saints that sang His praises so 
 beautifully, and when He bent towards her and she 
 felt His presence about her, she cried out : ' He is 
 coming to take me in His arms !' and fell out of her 
 place, pale as a dead woman. The clerk went to 
 her, but she lay rigid as one who had been dead a 
 long while. 
 
 ' He is coming to put the gold crown on my head,' 
 she cried, and swooned again.
 
 124 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 It was a long time before she seemed conscious of 
 those around her. She was carried to the porch and 
 sprinkled with holy water, and little by little she 
 regained consciousness ; she was helped to her feet, 
 and tottered out of the church and followed the road 
 without seeing it or the people whom she met on the 
 road. At last a woman took her by the arm and led 
 her into her cabin and spoke to her. She could not 
 answer at first, but she awoke gradually, and began 
 to remember that she had heard music in the window 
 and that Our Lord had been very good to her. The 
 neighbour left her babbling. She began to feed her 
 chickens, and was glad when she had fed them, for 
 she wanted to think of all the great and wonderful 
 sights she had seen. Her craving for ecstasy grew 
 more intense ; and striving to forget her poor cabin, 
 she placed her thought in her window and waited 
 for Sunday to come round again. The priest's 
 mutterings were indifferent to her; tremulous and 
 expectant, she knelt, and the signal was the same as 
 before. The note from the harp-string floated down 
 the aisles, and when it had been repeated three times 
 the saintly fingers moved over the strings, and she 
 heard the beautiful little tune. 
 
 Every eye was upon her, and forgetful of the fact 
 that the priest was celebrating Mass, they said, ' Look, 
 she hears the saints singing about her. She sees 
 Christ coming.' The priest heard Biddy cry out 
 ' Christ is coming,' and she fell prone and none dared 
 to raise her up, and she lay there till the Mass was 
 finished. When the priest left the altar she was 
 still lying at length, and the people were about her ; 
 and knowing how much she would feel the slightest
 
 THE WINDOW 125 
 
 reproof, he did not say a word that would throw 
 doubt on her statement He did not like to impugn 
 a popular belief, but he felt himself obliged to 
 exercise clerical control. 
 
 ' Now, Biddy, I know you to be a pious woman, 
 but I cannot allow you to interrupt the Mass.' 
 
 ' If the Lord comes to me ain't I to receive Him, 
 your reverence ? ' 
 
 * In the first place I object to your dress ; you are 
 not properly dressed.' 
 
 She wore a bright blue cloak she seemed to wear 
 hardly anything else, and tresses of dirty hair hung 
 over her shoulders. 
 
 ' The Lord has not said anything to me about my 
 dress, your reverence, and He put His gold crown 
 on my head to-day.' 
 
 ' Biddy, is all this true ?' 
 
 'As true as you're standing there.' 
 
 ' I'm not asking if your visions are true : I have 
 my opinion about that. I'm asking if they are true 
 to you.' 
 
 'True to me, your reverence? I don't rightly 
 understand.' 
 
 ' I want to know if you think Our Lord put a gold 
 crown on your head to-day.' 
 
 ' To be sure He did, your reverence.' 
 
 ' If He did, where is it ?' 
 
 e Where is it, your reverence ? It is with Him, to 
 be sure. He wouldn't be leaving it on my head and 
 me walking about the parish that wouldn't be 
 reasonable at all, I'm thinking. He doesn't want 
 me to be robbed.' 
 
 ' There is 110 one in the parish who'd rob you.'
 
 126 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Maybe someone would come out of another parish, 
 if I had a gold crown on my head. And such a 
 crown as He put upon it ! I'm sorry you didn't see 
 it, but your reverence was saying the holy Mass at 
 the time.' 
 
 And she fell on her knees and clung to his 
 cassock. 
 
 ' And you saw the crown, Biddy ?' 
 
 ' I had it on my head, your reverence.' 
 
 ' And you heard the saints singing ?' 
 
 ' Yes, and I'll tell you what they were singing,' 
 and she began crooning. ' Something like that, your 
 reverence. You don't believe me, but we have only 
 our ears and our eyes to guide us.' 
 
 ' I don't say I don't believe you, Biddy, but you 
 may be deceived.' 
 
 1 Sorra deceiving, your reverence, or I've been de- 
 ceived all my life. And now, your reverence, if you've 
 no more business with me I will go, for they do be 
 waiting in the chapel yard to hear me tell them 
 about the crown that was put upon my head.' 
 
 ' Well, Biddy, I want you to understand that I can- 
 not have you interrupting the Mass. I cannot permit 
 it. The visions may be true, or not true, but you 
 must not interrupt the Mass.' 
 
 The acolyte opened the door of the sacristy, Biddy 
 slipped through, and the priest took off his cassock. 
 As he did so, he noticed that the acolyte's eyes 
 were at the window watching, and when the priest 
 looked he saw the people gathering about Biddy, 
 and when he came out of the sacristy no one noticed 
 him ; everyone was listening to Biddy. 
 
 ' She's out of her mind,' he said. ' She's as good as
 
 THE WINDOW 127 
 
 mad. What did she tell me that Our Lord put a 
 crown on her head ?' 
 
 One parishioner withdrew without answering. 
 Another went away saying, ' Well, I suppose your 
 reverence knows best.' He heard another say, ' Well, 
 after all, doesn't she hear the saints singing ?' 
 
 And next day there were people from Dublin 
 asking after Biddy, and Father Maguire had to send 
 for her, though he feared all the honour that was 
 being shown to her would turn her head and lead 
 her into further extravagances. On the other hand, 
 subscriptions were coming in and he could not close 
 his mind to the fact that it was Biddy who enabled 
 him to furnish his church with varnished pews and 
 holy pictures. He received two fine statues of Our 
 Lady and St. Joseph in different coloured cloaks 
 St. Joseph in a purple, Our Lady in a blue, and there 
 were gold stars on it. He placed these two statues 
 on the two side altars, and fell to thinking of the 
 many things he wanted and that he could get 
 through Biddy. For the sake of these things he 
 must let her remain in Kilmore ; but she could not 
 be allowed to interrupt the Mass, and he must be 
 allowed to pass in and out of his church without 
 extravagant salutation. 
 
 Now he was going home to his breakfast, and a 
 young man extremely interested in ecclesiastical art 
 was coming to breakfast with him ; and as soon as 
 they entered the church they would be accosted 
 by this old woman, who would follow them about 
 asking them to look at her window, telling them 
 her visions, which might or might not be true. She 
 had a knack of hiding herself he often came upon
 
 128 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 her suddenly behind the pillars, and sometimes he 
 found her in the confessional. e Now, shall I tell 
 him about Biddy or shall I take my chance that she 
 may not be in the church this morning ?' He 
 remembered that the young man was very learned in 
 Walter Pater and Chartres Cathedral, and Father 
 Maguire feared he would cut a poor figure in the dis- 
 cussion, for he could not fix his attention ; he could 
 think only of Biddy, and when he and his visitor 
 walked down to the new church he thought he had 
 done well to keep his own counsel. He could not 
 see the old woman anywhere ; his fears subsided, 
 and he called the young man's attention to the altar 
 that had been specially designed for his church. 
 The young man was interested in it, and had begun 
 to tell the priest of the altars he had seen in Italy, 
 when a hand was laid upon his shoulder suddenly. 
 
 ' Your honour will be well rewarded if you'll come 
 to my window. Now why should I be telling him a 
 lie, your reverence ?' 
 
 She threw herself at the priest's feet and besought 
 him to believe that the saints had been with her, 
 and that every word she was speaking was the truth. 
 
 ' Biddy, if you don't go away at once, I'll not allow 
 you inside the church to-morrow.' 
 
 The young man looked at the priest, surprised at 
 his sternness, and the priest said : 
 
 e She has become a great trial to us at Kilmore. 
 Come aside and I'll tell you about her.' 
 
 And when the priest had told the young man 
 about the window the young man asked if Biddy 
 would have to be sent away. 
 
 ' I hope not, for if she were separated from her
 
 THE WINDOW 129 
 
 window she would certainly die. It came out of her 
 savings, out of the money she made out of chickens.' 
 
 ' And what has become of the chickens ?' 
 
 ' She has forgotten all about them, and they've 
 wandered away or died. She has been evicted, 
 and lives now in an out-house on the bits of bread 
 and the potatoes the neighbours give her. The 
 things of this world are no longer realities to her. 
 Her realities are what she sees and hears in that 
 window. Last night she told me a saint knocked at 
 her door. I don't like to encourage her to talk, but 
 if you would like to hear her Biddy, come here !' 
 
 The old woman came back as a dog comes to its 
 master, joyful, and with brightening eyes. 
 
 ' Tell us what you saw last night.' 
 
 ' Well, your reverence, I was asleep, and there 
 suddenly came a knocking at the door, and I got up, 
 and then I heard a voice saying, " Open the door." 
 A beautiful young man was outside, his hair was 
 yellow and curly, and he was dressed in white. He 
 came into the room first, and he was followed by 
 other saints, and they all had harps in their hands, 
 and they sang for a long while. Come to the 
 window, and you will hear it for yourselves. 
 Someone is always singing it in the window, but not 
 always as clearly as they did last night.' 
 
 f We'll go to see your window presently.' 
 
 The old woman crept back to her place, and the 
 priest and the young man began to talk about the 
 possibilities of miracles in modern times ; and they 
 talked on, until the sudden sight of Biddy gave 
 them pause. 
 
 1 Look at her,' said the young man. ' Can you 
 I
 
 130 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 doubt that she sees heaven quite plainly, and that 
 the saints visited her just as she told us ?' 
 
 ' No doubt, no doubt. But she's a great trial to 
 us at Mass. . . . The Mass mustn't be interrupted." 
 
 ' I suppose even miracles are inconvenient at 
 times, Father Maguire. Be patient with her : let 
 her enjoy her happiness.' 
 
 And the two men stood looking at her, trying 
 vainly to imagine what her happiness might be.
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 
 
 NE morning the priest's housekeeper 
 mentioned, as she gathered up the 
 breakfast things, that Mike Mulhare had 
 refused to let his daughter Catherine 
 marry James Murdoch until he had 
 earned the price of a pig. 
 
 'This is bad news/ said the priest, and he laid 
 down the newspaper. 
 
 ' And he waiting for her all the summer ! Wasn't 
 it in February last that he came out of the poor- 
 house ? And the fine cabin he has built for her ! 
 
 He'll be so lonesome in it that he'll be going ' 
 
 ' To America !' said the priest. 
 'Maybe it will be going back to the poor-house 
 he'll be, for he'll never earn the price of his passage 
 at the relief works.' 
 
 The priest looked at her for a moment as if he 
 did not catch her meaning. A knock came at the 
 door, and he said : 
 
 'The inspector is here, and there are people 
 
 waiting for me.' And while he was distributing the 
 
 clothes he had received from Manchester, he argued 
 
 with the inspector as to the direction the new road 
 
 131
 
 132 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 should take ; and when he came back from the 
 relief works, his dinner was waiting. He was busy 
 writing letters all the afternoon ; and it was not until 
 he had handed them to the post-mistress that he was 
 free to go to poor James Murdoch, who had built a 
 cabin at the end of one of the famine roads in a 
 hollow out of the way of the wind. 
 
 From a long way off the priest could see him dig- 
 ging his patch of bog. 
 
 And when he caught sight of the priest he stuck 
 his spade in the ground and came to meet him, 
 almost as naked as an animal, bare feet protruding 
 from ragged trousers ; there was a shirt, but it was 
 buttonless, and the breast-hair trembled in the wind 
 a likely creature to come out of the hovel behind 
 him. 
 
 'It has been dry enough,' he said, 'all the 
 summer ; and I had a thought to make a drain. But 
 'tis hard luck, your reverence, and after building 
 this house for her. There's a bit of smoke in the 
 house now, but if I got Catherine I wouldn't be long 
 making a chimney. I told Mike he should give 
 Catherine a pig for her fortune, but he said he 
 would give her a calf when I bought the pig, and I 
 said, " Haven't I built a fine house, and wouldn't it 
 be a fine one to rear him in ?" ' 
 
 And together they walked through the bog, James 
 talking to the priest all the way, for it was seldom 
 he had anyone to talk to. 
 
 ' Now I mustn't take you any further from your 
 digging.' 
 
 ' Sure there's time enough,' said James. ' Amn't 
 I there all day ?'
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 133 
 
 ' I'll go and see Mike Mulhare myself,' said the 
 priest. 
 
 ' Long life to your reverence.' 
 ' And I will try to get you the price of the pig.' 
 ' Ah, 'tis your reverence that's good to us.' 
 The priest stood looking after him, wondering if 
 he would give up life as a bad job and go back to 
 the poor-house ; and while thinking of James Mur- 
 doch he became conscious that the time was coming 
 for the priests to save Ireland. Catholic Ireland 
 was passing away ; in five-and-twenty years Ireland 
 would be a Protestant country if (he hardly dared 
 to formulate the thought) if the priests did not 
 marry. The Greek priests had been allowed to 
 retain their wives in order to avert a schism. Rome 
 had always known how to adapt herself to circum- 
 stances ; there was no doubt that if Rome knew 
 Ireland's need of children she would consider the 
 revocation of the decree of celibacy, and he returned 
 home remembering that celibacy had only been 
 made obligatory in Ireland in the twelfth century. 
 
 Ireland was becoming a Protestant country ! He 
 drank his tea mechanically, and it was a long time 
 before he took up his knitting. But he could not 
 knit, and laid the stocking aside. Of what good 
 would his letter be? A letter from a poor parish 
 priest asking that one of the most ancient decrees 
 should be revoked ! It would be thrown into the 
 waste-paper basket. The cardinals are men whose 
 thoughts move up and down certain narrow ways, 
 clever men no doubt, but clever men are often the 
 dupes of conventions. All men who live in the 
 world accept the conventions as truths. It is only
 
 134 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 in the wilderness that the truth is revealed to 
 man. c I must write the letter ! Instinct/ he said, 
 ' is a surer guide than logic, and my letter to Rome 
 was a sudden revelation.' 
 
 As he sat knitting by his own fireside his idea 
 seemed to come out of the corners of the room. 
 ' When you were at Rathowen,' his idea said, ' you 
 heard the clergy lament that the people were leaving 
 the country. You heard the bishop and many 
 eloquent men speak on the subject. Words, words, 
 but on the bog road the remedy was revealed to you. 
 
 ' That if each priest were to take a wife about four 
 thousand children would be born within the year, 
 forty thousand children would be added to the birth- 
 rate in ten years. Ireland can be saved by her 
 priesthood !' 
 
 The truth of this estimate seemed beyond ques- 
 tion, and yet, Father MacTurnan found it difficult 
 to reconcile himself to the idea of a married clergy. 
 ' One is always the dupe of prejudice,' he said to 
 himself and went on thinking. ' The priests live in 
 the best houses, eat the best food, wear the best 
 clothes ; they are indeed the flower of the nation, 
 and would produce magnificent sons and daughters. 
 And who could bring up their children according to 
 the teaching of our holy church as well as priests ?' 
 
 So did his idea unfold itself, and very soon he 
 realized that other advantages would accrue, beyond 
 the addition of forty thousand children to the birth- 
 rate, and one advantage that seemed to him to ex- 
 ceed the original advantage would be the nationaliza- 
 tion of religion, the formation of an Irish Catholicism 
 suited to the ideas and needs of the Irish people.
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 135 
 
 In the beginning of the century the Irish lost 
 their language, in the middle of the century the 
 characteristic aspects of their religion. It was 
 Cardinal Cullen who had denationalized religion in 
 Ireland. But everyone recognized his mistake. How 
 could a church be nationalized better than by the 
 rescission of the decree of celibacy ? The begetting 
 of children would attach the priests to the soil of 
 Ireland ; and it could not be said that anyone loved 
 his country who did not contribute to its mainten- 
 ance. The priests leave Ireland on foreign missions, 
 and every Catholic who leaves Ireland, he said, helps 
 to bring about the very thing that Ireland has been 
 struggling against for centuries Protestantism. 
 
 His idea talked to him every evening, and, one 
 evening, it said, ' Religion, like everything else, must 
 be national,' and it led him to contrast cosmo- 
 politanism with parochialism. ' Religion, like art, 
 came out of parishes,' he said. He felt a great 
 force to be behind him. He must write ! He must 
 write. . . . 
 
 He dropped the ink over the table and over the 
 paper, he jotted down his ideas in the first words 
 that came to him until midnight ; and when he 
 slept his letter floated through his sleep. 
 
 ' I must have a clear copy of it before I begin the 
 Latin translation.' 
 
 He had written the English text thinking of the 
 Latin that would come after, very conscious of the 
 fact that he had written no Latin since he had left 
 Maynooth, and that a bad translation would dis- 
 credit his ideas in the eyes of the Pope's secretary, 
 who was doubtless a great Latin scholar.
 
 136 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' The Irish priests have always been good Latinists/ 
 he murmured, as he hunted through the dictionary. 
 
 The table was littered with books, for he had 
 found it necessary to create a Latin atmosphere, 
 and one morning he finished his translation and 
 walked to the whitening window to rest his eyes 
 before reading it over. But he was too tired to do 
 any more, and he laid his manuscript on the table by 
 his bedside. 
 
 ' This is very poor Latin,' he said to himself some 
 hours later, and the manuscript lay on the floor while 
 he dressed. It was his servant who brought it to 
 him when he had finished his breakfast, and, taking 
 it from her, he looked at it again. 
 
 ' It is as tasteless/ he said, c as the gruel that poor 
 James Murdoch is eating.' He picked up St. Augus- 
 tine's Confessions. ' Here is idiom,' he muttered, 
 and he continued reading till he was interrupted 
 by the wheels of a car stopping at his door. It was 
 Meehan ! None had written such good Latin at 
 Maynooth as Meehan. 
 
 ' My dear Meehan, this is indeed a pleasant sur- 
 prise.' 
 
 ' I thought I'd like to see you. I drove over. 
 But I am not disturbing you. . . . You've taken 
 to reading again. St. Augustine ! And you're 
 writing in Latin !' 
 
 Father James's face grew red, and he took the 
 manuscript out of his friend's hand. 
 
 ' No, you mustn't look at that.' 
 
 And then the temptation to ask him to overlook 
 certain passages made him change his mind. 
 
 ' I was never much of a Latin scholar.'
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 137 
 
 ' And you want me to overlook your Latin for you. 
 But why are you writing Latin ?' 
 
 ' Because I am writing to the Pope. I was at first 
 a little doubtful, but the more I thought of this 
 letter the more necessary it seemed to me.' 
 
 ' And what are you writing to the Pope about ?' 
 
 ' You see Ireland is going to become a Protestant 
 country.' 
 
 ' Is it ?' said Father Median, and he listened a 
 little while. Then, interrupting his friend, he said : 
 
 ' I've heard enough. Now, I strongly advise you 
 not to send this letter. We have known each other 
 all our lives. Now, my dear MacTurnan ' 
 
 Father Michael talked eagerly, and Father Mac- 
 Turnan sat listening. At last Father Meehan saw 
 that his arguments were producing no effect, and he 
 said : 
 
 ' You don't agree with me.' 
 
 'It isn't that I don't agree with you. You have 
 spoken admirably from your point of view, but our 
 points of view are different.' 
 
 ' Take your papers away, burn them !' 
 
 Then, thinking his words were harsh, he laid his 
 hand on his friend's shoulder and said : 
 
 ' My dear MacTurnan, I beg of you not to send 
 this letter.' 
 
 Father James did not answer ; the silence grew 
 painful, and Father Michael asked Father James to 
 show him the relief works that the Government had 
 ordered. 
 
 But important as these works were, the letter to 
 Rome seemed more important to Father Michael, 
 and he said :
 
 138 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 'My good friend, there isn't a girl that would 
 marry us ; now is there ? There isn't a girl in Ire- 
 land who would touch us with a forty-foot pole. 
 Would you have the Pope release the nuns from 
 their vows ?' 
 
 ' I think exceptions should be made in favour of 
 those in Orders. But I think it would be for the 
 good of Ireland if the secular clergy were married.' 
 
 'That's not my point. My point is that even if 
 the decree were rescinded we shouldn't be able to 
 get wives. You've been living too long in the waste, 
 my dear friend. You've lost yourself in dreams. 
 We shouldn't get a penny. " Why should we sup- 
 port that fellow and his family ?" is what they'd be 
 saying.' 
 
 ' We should be poor, no doubt,' said Father James 
 ' But not so poor as our parishioners. My parishioners 
 eat yellow meal, and I eat eggs and live in a good 
 house.' 
 
 ' We are educated men, and should live in better 
 houses than our parishioners.' 
 
 'The greatest saints lived in deserts.' 
 
 And so the argument went on until the time came 
 to say good-bye, and then Father James said : 
 
 ' I shall be glad if you will give me a lift on your 
 car. I want to go to the post-office." 
 
 ' To post your letter ?' 
 
 'The idea came to me it came swiftly like a 
 lightning-flash, and I can't believe that it was an 
 accident. If it had fallen into your mind with the 
 suddenness that it fell into mine, you would believe 
 that it was an inspiration.' 
 
 'It would take a good deal to make me believe I
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 139 
 
 was inspired/ said Father Michael, and he watched 
 Father James go into the post-office to register his 
 letter. 
 
 At that hour a long string of peasants returning 
 from their work went by. The last was Norah 
 Flynn, and the priest blushed deeply for it was the 
 first time he had looked on one of his parishioners 
 in the light of a possible spouse ; and he entered his 
 house frightened ; and when he looked round his 
 parlour he asked himself if the day would come 
 when he should see Norah Flynn sitting opposite to 
 him in his armchair. His face flushed deeper 
 when he looked towards the bedroom door, and he 
 fell on his knees and prayed that God's will might 
 be made known to him. 
 
 During the night he awoke many times, and the 
 dream that had awakened him continued when he 
 had left his bed, and he wandered round and round 
 the room in the darkness, seeking a way. At last 
 he reached the window and drew the curtain, and 
 saw the dim dawn opening out over the bog. 
 
 ' Thank God,' he said, ' it was only a dream only 
 a dream.' 
 
 And lying down he fell asleep, but immediately 
 another dream as horrible as the first appeared, and 
 his housekeeper heard him beating on the walls. 
 
 ' Only a dream, only a dream,' he said. 
 
 He lay awake, not daring to sleep lest he might 
 dream. And it was about seven o'clock when he 
 heard his housekeeper telling him that the inspector 
 had come to tell him they must decide what direc- 
 tion the new road should take. In the inspector's 
 opinion it should run parallel with the old road. To
 
 140 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 continue the old road two miles further would involve 
 extra labour ; the people would have to go further 
 to their work, and the stones would have to be drawn 
 further. The priest held that the extra labour was 
 of secondary importance. He said that to make two 
 roads running parallel with each other would be a 
 wanton humiliation to the people. 
 
 But the inspector could not appreciate the priest's 
 arguments. He held that the people were thinking 
 only how they might earn enough money to fill their 
 bellies. 
 
 ' I don't agree with you. I don't agree with you,' 
 said the priest. ' Better go in the opposite direction 
 and make a road to the sea.' 
 
 'You see, your reverence, the Government don't 
 wish to engage upon any work that will benefit any 
 special class. These are my instructions.' 
 
 'A road to the sea will benefit no one. ... I 
 see you are thinking of the landlord. But there isn't 
 a harbour ; no boat ever comes into that flat, 
 waste sea.' 
 
 ' Well, your reverence, one of these days a harbour 
 may be made. An arch would look well in the 
 middle of the bog, and the people wouldn't have to 
 go far to their work.' 
 
 ' No, no. A road to the sea will be quite useless ; 
 but its futility will not be apparent at least, not 
 so apparent and the people's hearts won't be 
 broken.' 
 
 The inspector seemed a little doubtful, but the 
 priest assured him that the futility of the road would 
 satisfy English ministers. 
 
 ' And yet these English ministers,' the priest re-
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 141 
 
 fleeted, ' are not stupid men ; they're merely men 
 blinded by theory and prejudice, as all men are who 
 live in the world. Their folly will be apparent to 
 the next generation, and so on and so on for ever 
 and ever, world without end.' 
 
 ' And the worst of it is,' the priest said, ' while the 
 people are earning their living on these roads, their 
 fields will be lying idle, and there will be no crops 
 next year.' 
 
 ' We can't help that,' the inspector answered, and 
 Father MacTurnan began to think of the cardinals 
 and the transaction of business in the Vatican ; 
 cardinals and ministers alike are the dupes of con- 
 vention. Only those who are estranged from habits 
 and customs can think straightforwardly. 
 
 ' If, instead of insisting on these absurd roads, the 
 Government would give me the money, I'd be able 
 to feed the people at a cost of about a penny a 
 day, and they'd be able to sow their potatoes. 
 And if only the cardinals would consider the rescis- 
 sion of the decree on its merits, Ireland would be 
 saved from Protestantism.' 
 
 Some cardinal was preparing an answer an 
 answer might be even in the post. Rome might 
 not think his letter worthy of an answer. 
 
 A few days afterwards the inspector called to show 
 him a letter he had just received from the Board of 
 Works. Father James had to go to Dublin, and in 
 the excitement of these philanthropic activities the 
 emigration question was forgotten. Six weeks must 
 have gone by when the postman handed him a letter. 
 
 1 This is a letter from Father Moran,' he said to 
 the inspector who was with him at the time. ' The
 
 142 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 Bishop wishes to see me. We will continue the con- 
 versation to-morrow. It is eight miles to Rathowen, 
 and how much further is the Palace ?' 
 
 ' A good seven/ said the inspector. ' You're not 
 going to walk it, your reverence ?' 
 
 ' Why not ? In four hours I shall be there.' He 
 looked at his boots first, and hoped they would hold 
 together ; and then he looked at the sky, and hoped 
 it would not rain. 
 
 There was no likelihood of rain ; no rain would 
 fall to-day out of that soft dove-coloured sky full of 
 sun ; ravishing little breezes lifted the long heather, 
 the rose-coloured hair of the knolls, and over the cut- 
 away bog wild white cotton was blowing. Now and 
 then a yellow-hammer rose out of the coarse grass 
 and flew in front of the priest, and once a pair of 
 grouse left the sunny hillside where they were 
 nesting with a great whirr ; they did not go far, 
 but alighted in a hollow, and the priest could see 
 their heads above the heather watching him. 
 
 ' The moment I'm gone they'll return to their nest.' 
 
 He walked on, and when he had walked six 
 miles he sat down and took a piece of bread out of 
 his pocket. As he ate it his eyes wandered over 
 the undulating bog, brown and rose, marked here 
 and there by a black streak where the peasants had 
 been cutting turf. The sky changed very little ; it 
 was still a pale, dove colour ; now and then a little 
 blue showed through the grey, and sometimes the 
 light lessened ; but a few minutes after the sunlight 
 fluttered out of the sky again and dozed among the 
 heather. 
 
 ( I must be getting on,' he said, and he looked
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 143 
 
 into the brown water, fearing he would find none 
 other to slake his thirst. But just as he stooped 
 he caught sight of a woman driving an ass who had 
 come to the bog for turf, and she told him where he 
 would find a spring, and he thought he had never 
 drunk anything so sweet as this water. 
 
 ' I've got a good long way to go yet/ he said, and 
 he walked studying the lines of the mountains, 
 thinking he could distinguish one hill from the 
 other ; and that in another mile or two he would be 
 out of the bog. The road ascended, and on the other 
 side there were a few pines. Some hundred yards 
 further on there was a green sod. But the heather 
 appeared again, and he had walked ten miles before 
 he was clear of whins and heather. 
 
 As he walked he thought of his interview with the 
 Bishop, and was nearly at the end of his journey 
 when he stopped at a cabin to mend his shoe. And 
 while the woman was looking for a needle and 
 thread, he mopped his face with a great red hand- 
 kerchief that he kept in the pocket of his threadbare 
 coat a coat that had once been black, but had grown 
 green with age and weather. He had outwalked 
 himself, and would not be able to answer the points 
 that the Bishop would raise. The woman found 
 him a scrap of leather, and it took him an hour to 
 patch his shoe under the hawthorn tree. 
 
 He was still two miles from the Palace, and arrived 
 footsore, covered with dust, and so tired that he 
 could hardly rise from the chair to receive Father 
 Moran when he came into the parlour. 
 
 'You seem to have walked a long way, Father 
 MacTurnan.'
 
 144 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' I shall be all right presently. I suppose his 
 Grace doesn't want to see me at once.' 
 
 ' Well, that's just it. His Grace sent me to say 
 he would see you at once. He expected you 
 earlier.' 
 
 ' I started the moment I received his Grace's 
 letter. I suppose his Grace wishes to see me re- 
 garding my letter to Rome.' 
 
 The secretary hesitated, coughed, and went out, 
 and Father MacTurnan wondered why Father Moran 
 looked at him so intently. He returned in a few 
 minutes, saying that his Grace was sorry that Father 
 MacTurnan had had so long a walk, and he hoped 
 he would rest awhile and partake of some refresh- 
 ment. . . . The servant brought in some wine and 
 sandwiches, and the secretary returned in half an 
 hour. His Grace was now ready to receive him. . . . 
 
 Father Moran opened the library door, and Father 
 MacTurnan saw the Bishop a short, alert man, 
 about fifty-five, with a sharp nose and grey eyes and 
 bushy eyebrows. He popped about the room giving 
 his secretary many orders, and Father MacTurnan 
 wondered if the Bishop would ever finish talking to 
 his secretary. He seemed to have finished, but a 
 thought suddenly struck him, and he followed his 
 secretary to the door, and Father MacTurnan began 
 to fear that the Pope had not decided to place the 
 Irish clergy on the same footing as the Greek. If 
 he had, the Bishop's interest in these many various 
 matters would have subsided : his mind would be 
 engrossed by the larger issue. 
 
 As he returned from the door his Grace passed 
 Father MacTurnan without speaking to him, and
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 145 
 
 going to his writing-table he began to search amid 
 his papers. At last Father MacTurnan said : 
 
 ' Maybe your Grace is looking for my letter to 
 Rome ?' 
 
 ' Yes/ said his Grace, ' do you see it ?' 
 
 ' It's under your Grace's hand, those blue 
 papers.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes,' and his Grace leaned back in his arm- 
 chair, leaving Father MacTurnan standing. 
 
 f Won't you sit down, Father MacTurnan ?' he 
 said casually. ' You've been writing to Rome, I see, 
 advocating the revocation of the decree of celibacy. 
 There's no doubt the emigration of Catholics is a very 
 serious question. So far you have got the sympathy 
 of Rome, and I may say of myself; but am I to 
 understand that it was your fear for the religious 
 safety of Ireland that prompted you to write this 
 letter?' 
 
 ' What other reason could there be ?' 
 
 Nothing was said for a long while, and then the 
 Bishop's meaning began to break in on his mind ; 
 his face flushed, and he grew confused. 
 
 ' I hope your Grace doesn't think for a moment 
 that ' 
 
 ' I only want to know if there is anyone if your 
 eyes ever went in a certain direction, if your 
 thoughts ever said, " Well, if the decree were 
 revoked " ' 
 
 'No, your Grace, no. Celibacy has been no 
 burden to me far from it. Sometimes I feared 
 that it was celibacy that attracted me to the priest- 
 hood. Celibacy was a gratification rather than a 
 sacrifice.'
 
 146 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' I am glad/ said the Bishop, and he spoke slowly 
 and emphatically, ' that this letter was prompted by 
 such impersonal motives.' 
 
 ' Surely, your Grace, His Holiness didn't sus- 
 pect ' 
 
 The Bishop murmured an euphonious Italian 
 name, and Father MacTurnan understood that he 
 was speaking of one of the Pope's secretaries. 
 
 'More than once,' said Father MacTurnan, ' I feared 
 if the decree were revoked, I shouldn't have had 
 sufficient courage to comply with it.' 
 
 And then he told the Bishop how he had met 
 Norah Flynn on the road. An amused expression 
 stole into the Bishop's face, and his voice changed. 
 
 'I presume you do not contemplate making 
 marriage obligatory; you do not contemplate the 
 suspension of the faculties of those who do not take 
 wives ?' 
 
 ' It seems to me that exception should be made in 
 favour of those in Orders, and of course in favour of 
 those who have reached a certain age like your 
 Grace.' 
 
 The Bishop coughed, and pretended to look for 
 some paper which he had mislaid. 
 
 e This was one of the many points that I discussed 
 with Father Michael Meehan.' 
 
 ' Oh, so you consulted Father Meehan,' the Bishop 
 said, looking up. 
 
 ' He came in the day I was reading over my Latin 
 translation before posting it. I'm afraid the ideas 
 that I submitted to the consideration of His Holiness 
 have been degraded by my very poor Latin. I 
 should have wished Father Meehan to overlook my
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 147 
 
 Latin, but he refused. He begged of me not to 
 send the letter.' 
 
 ' Father Meehan/ said his Grace, ' is a great friend 
 of yours. Yet nothing he could say could shake 
 your resolution to write to Rome ?' 
 
 ' Nothing/ said Father MacTurnan. ' The call I 
 received was too distinct and too clear for me to 
 hesitate.' 
 
 ' Tell me about this call.' 
 
 Father MacTurnan told the Bishop that the poor 
 man had come out of the workhouse because he 
 wanted to be married, and that Mike Mulhare would 
 not give him his daughter until he had earned the 
 price of a pig. ' And as I was talking to him I 
 heard my conscience say, " No one can afford to 
 marry in Ireland but the clergy." We all live better 
 than our parishioners.' 
 
 And then, forgetting the Bishop, and talking as 
 if he were alone with his God, he described how the 
 conviction had taken possession of him that Ireland 
 would become a Protestant country if the Catholic 
 emigration did not cease. And he told how this 
 conviction had left him little peace until he had 
 written his letter. 
 
 The priest talked on until he was interrupted by 
 Father Moran. 
 
 ' I have some business to transact with Father 
 Moran now,' the Bishop said, e but you must stay to 
 dinner. You've walked a long way, and you are 
 tired and hungry.' 
 
 1 But, your Grace, if I don't start now, I shan't get 
 home until nightfall.' 
 
 * A car will take you back, Father MacTurnan. I
 
 148 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 will see to that. I must have some exact informa- 
 tion about your poor people. We must do some- 
 thing for them.' 
 
 Father MacTurnan and the Bishop were talking 
 together when the car came to take Father 
 MacTurnan home, and the Bishop said : 
 
 e Father MacTurnan, you have borne the loneliness 
 of your parish a long while.' 
 
 ' Loneliness is only a matter of habit. I think, 
 your Grace, I'm better suited to the place than I am 
 for any other. I don't wish any change, if your 
 Grace is satisfied with me.' 
 
 'No one will look after the poor people better 
 than yourself, Father MacTurnan. But,' he said, 
 ' it seems to me there is one thing we have forgotten. 
 You haven't told me if you have succeeded in getting 
 the money to buy the pig.' 
 
 Father MacTurnan grew very red. ... ' I had 
 forgotten it. The relief works ' 
 
 ' It's not too late. Here's five pounds, and this 
 will buy him a pig.' 
 
 ' It will indeed,' said the priest, ' it will buy him 
 two !' 
 
 He had left the Palace without having asked the 
 Bishop how his letter had been received at Rome, 
 and he stopped the car, and was about to tell the 
 driver to go back. But no matter, he would hear 
 about his letter some other time. He was bringing 
 happiness to two poor people, and he could not 
 persuade himself to delay their happiness by one 
 minute. He was not bringing one pig, but two pigs, 
 and now Mike Mulhare would have to give him 
 Norah and a calf ; and the priest remembered that
 
 A LETTER TO ROME 149 
 
 James Murdoch had said ' What a fine house this 
 will be to rear them in.' There were many who 
 thought that human beings and animals should not 
 live together ; but after all, what did it matter if 
 they were happy ? And the priest forgot his letter 
 to Rome in the thought of the happiness he was 
 bringing to two poor people. He could not see 
 Norah Mulhare that night ; but he drove down to 
 the famine road, and he and the driver called till 
 they awoke James Murdoch. The poor man came 
 stumbling across the bog, and the priest told him the 
 news.
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE 
 
 [ T'S a closed mouth that can hold a good 
 story/ as the saying goes, and very soon 
 it got about that Father MacTurnan had 
 written to Rome saying he was willing 
 to take a wife to his bosom for patriotic 
 reasons, if the Pope would relieve him of his vow of 
 celibacy. And many phrases and words from his 
 letter (translated by whom by the Bishop or Father 
 Meehan ? Nobody ever knew) were related over 
 the Dublin firesides, till at last out of the talk a tall 
 gaunt man emerged, in an old overcoat green from 
 weather and wear, the tails of it napping as he rode 
 his bicycle through the great waste bog that lies 
 between Belmullet and Crossmolina. His name ! 
 We liked it. It appealed to our imagination. 
 MacTurnan ! It conveyed something from afar 
 like Hamlet or Don Quixote. He seemed as near 
 and as far from us as they, till Pat Comer, one of 
 the organizers of the I.A.O.S., came in and said, 
 after listening to the talk that was going round : 
 
 ' Is it of the priest that rides in the great Mayo 
 bog you are speaking ? If it is, you haven't got the 
 story rightly.' As he told us the story, so it is printed 
 150
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE 151 
 
 in this book. And we sat wondering greatly, for we 
 seemed to see a soul on its way to heaven. But 
 round a fire there is always one who cannot get 
 off the subject of women and blasphemy a papist 
 generally he is ; and it was Quinn that evening 
 who kept plaguing us with jokes, whether it would 
 be a fat girl or a thin that the priest would choose if 
 the Pope gave him leave to marry, until at last, losing 
 all patience with him, I bade him be silent, and asked 
 Pat Comer to tell us if the priest was meditating a 
 new plan for Ireland's salvation. 
 
 ' For a mind like his,' I said, ' would not stand 
 still and problems such as ours waiting to be solved.' 
 ' You're wrong there ! He thinks no more of 
 Ireland, and neither reads nor plans, but knits 
 stockings ever since the wind took his play-house 
 away.' 
 
 ' Took his play-house away ! ' said several. 
 'And why would he be building a play-house/ 
 somebody asked, ' and he living in a waste ?' 
 
 A queer idea, surely !' said another. f A play-house 
 in the waste !' 
 
 ' Yes, a queer idea,' said Pat, ' but a true one all 
 the same, for I have seen it with my own eyes or 
 the ruins of it, and not later back than three weeks 
 ago, when I was staying with the priest himself. 
 You know the road, all of you how it straggles 
 from Foxford through the bog alongside of bog- 
 holes deep enough to drown one, and into which 
 the jarvey and myself seemed in great likelihood 
 of pitching, for the car went down into great ruts, 
 and the horse was shying from one side of the road 
 to the other, and at nothing so far as we could see.'
 
 152 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' There's nothing to be afeared of, yer honour ; 
 only once was he near leaving the road, the day 
 before Christmas, and I driving the doctor. It was 
 here he saw it a white thing gliding, and the wheel 
 of the car must have gone within an inch of the bog- 
 hole.' 
 
 ' And the doctor. Did he see it ?' I said. 
 
 ' He saw it too, and so scared was he that the hair 
 rose up and went through his cap.' 
 
 c Did the jarvey laugh when he said that ?' we 
 asked Pat Comer ; and Pat answered : ' Not he ! 
 Them fellows just speak as the words come to them 
 without thinking. Let me get on with my story. 
 We drove on for about a mile, and it was to stop him 
 from clicking his tongue at the horse that I asked 
 him if the bog was Father MacTurnan's parish.' 
 
 ' Every mile of it, sir/ he said, ' every mile of it, 
 and we do be seeing him buttoned up in his old coat 
 riding along the roads on his bicycle going to sick 
 calls.' 
 
 ' Do you often be coming this road ?' says I. 
 
 ' Not very often, sir. No one lives here except the 
 poor people, and the priest and the doctor. Faith ! 
 there isn't a poorer parish in Ireland, and every one 
 of them would have been dead long ago if it had not 
 been for Father James.' 
 
 ' And how does he help them ?' 
 
 ' Isn't he always writing letters to the Government 
 asking for relief works ? Do you see those bits of 
 roads ?' 
 
 ' Where do those roads lead to ?' 
 
 ' Nowhere. Them roads stops in the middle of the 
 bog when the money is out.'
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE 153 
 
 ' But/ I said, 'surely it would be better if the money 
 were spent upon permanent improvements on 
 drainage, for instance.' 
 
 The jarvey didn't answer ; he called to his horse, 
 and not being able to stand the clicking of his 
 tongue, I kept on about the drainage. 
 
 f There's no fall, sir.' 
 
 ( And the bog is too big/ I added, in hope of en- 
 couraging conversation. 
 
 ' Faith it is, sir.' 
 
 ' But we aren't very far from the sea, are we ?* 
 
 ' About a couple of miles.' 
 
 ' Well then/ I said, e couldn't a harbour be made ?' 
 
 1 They were thinking about that, but there's no 
 depth of water, and everyone's against emigration 
 now.' 
 
 ' Ah ! the harbour would encourage emigration.' 
 
 ' So it would, your honour.' 
 
 ' But is there no talk about home industries, weav- 
 ing, lace-making ?' 
 
 ' I won't say that.' 
 
 c But has it been tried ?' 
 
 ' The candle do be burning in the priest's window 
 till one in the morning, and he sitting up thinking of 
 plans to keep the people at home. Now, do ye see 
 that house, sir, fornint my whip at the top of the 
 hill ? Well, that's the play-house he built.' 
 
 ' A play-house ?' 
 
 ' Yes, yer honour. Father James hoped the people 
 might come from Dublin to see it, for no play like it 
 had ever been acted in Ireland before, sir !' 
 
 ' And was the play performed ?' 
 
 ' No, yer honour. The priest had been learning
 
 154 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 them all the summer, but the autumn was on them 
 before they had got it by rote, and a wind came and 
 blew down one of the walls.' 
 
 'And couldn't Father MacTurnan get the money to 
 build it up ?' 
 
 ' Sure, he might have got the money, but where'd 
 be the use when there was no luck in it ?' 
 
 ' And who were to act the play ?' 
 
 'The girls and the boys in the parish, and the 
 prettiest girl in all the parish was to play Good 
 Deeds.' 
 
 ' So it was a miracle play,' I said. 
 
 ' Do you see that man ? It's the priest coming out 
 of Tom Burke's cabin, and I warrant he do be bring- 
 ing him the Sacrament, and he having the holy oils 
 with him, for Tom won't pass the day ; we had the 
 worst news of him last night.' 
 
 'And I can tell you,' said Pat Comer, dropping 
 his story for a moment and looking round the circle, 
 ' it was a sad story the jarvey told me. He told it 
 well, for I can see the one-roomed hovel full of peat- 
 smoke, the black iron pot with traces of the yellow 
 stirabout in it on the hearth, and the sick man on 
 the pallet bed, and the priest by his side mumbling 
 prayers together. Faith ! these jarveys can tell a 
 story none better.' 
 
 ' As well as yourself, Pat,' one of us said. And 
 Pat began to tell of the miles of bog on either side 
 of the straggling road, of the hill-top to the left, with 
 the play-house showing against the dark and chang- 
 ing clouds ; of a woman in a red petticoat, a hand- 
 kerchief tied round her head, who had flung down her 
 spade the moment she caught sight of the car, of the
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE 155 
 
 man who appeared on the brow and blew a horn. 
 ' For she mistook us for bailiffs,' said Pat, ' and two 
 little sheep hardly bigger than geese were driven 
 away.' 
 
 ' A play-house in the waste for these people,' I was 
 saying to myself all the time, till my meditations 
 were interrupted by the jarvey telling that the 
 rocky river we crossed was called the Greyhound 
 a not inappropriate name, for it ran swiftly. . . . 
 Away down the long road a white cottage appeared, 
 and the jarvey said to me, 'That is the priest's 
 house.' It stood on the hillside some little way 
 from the road, and all the way to the door I 
 wondered how his days passed in the great loneliness 
 of the bog. 
 
 'His reverence isn't at home, yer honour he's 
 gone to attend a sick call.' 
 ' Yes, I know Tom Burke.' 
 ( And is Tom better, Mike ?' 
 
 ' The devil a bether he'll be this side of Jordan,' 
 the jarvey answered, and the housekeeper showed 
 me into the priest's parlour. It was lined with books, 
 and I looked forward to a pleasant chat when we 
 had finished our business. At that time I was on 
 a relief committee, and the people were starving 
 in the poor parts of the country. 
 
 f I think he'll be back in about an hour's time, yer 
 honour.' But the priest seemed to be detained 
 longer than his housekeeper expected, and the moan- 
 ing of the wind round the cottage reminded me of 
 the small white thing the horse and the doctor had 
 seen gliding along the road. ' The priest knows the 
 story he will tell me,' I said, and piled more turf
 
 156 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 on the fire fine sods of hard black turf they were, 
 and well do I remember seeing them melting away. 
 But all of a sudden my eyes closed. I couldn't 
 have been asleep more than a few minutes when 
 it seemed to me a great crowd of men and women 
 had gathered about the house, and a moment after the 
 door was flung open, and a tall, gaunt man faced me. 
 ' I've just come,' he said, ' from a deathbed, and 
 they that have followed me aren't far from death if 
 we don't succeed in getting help.' 
 
 I don't know how I can tell you of the crowd I 
 saw round the house that day. We are accustomed 
 to see poor people in towns cowering under arches, 
 but it is more pitiful to see people starving in the 
 fields on the mountain side. I don't know why it 
 should be so, but it is. But I call to mind two men 
 in ragged trousers and shirts as ragged, with brown 
 beards on faces yellow with famine ; and the words 
 of one of them are not easily forgotten : ' The white 
 sun of Heaven doesn't shine upon two poorer men 
 than upon this man and myself.' I can tell you I 
 didn't envy the priest his job, living all his life in the 
 waste listening to tales of starvation, looking into 
 famished faces. There were some women among 
 them, kept back by the men, who wanted to get their 
 word in first. They seemed to like to talk about 
 their misery . . , and I said : 
 
 ' They are tired of seeing each other. I am a 
 spectacle, a show, an amusement for them. I don't 
 know if you can catch my meaning ?' 
 
 I 1 think I do,' Father James answered. And I 
 asked him to come for a walk up the hill and show 
 me the play-house.
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE 157 
 
 Again he hesitated, and I said : ' You must come, 
 Father MacTurnan, for a walk. You must forget the 
 misfortunes of those people for a while.' He yielded, 
 and we spoke of the excellence of the road under our 
 feet, and he told me that when he conceived the idea 
 of a play-house, he had already succeeded in persuad- 
 ing the inspector to agree that the road they were 
 making should go to the top of the hill. 'The 
 policy of the Government,' he said, 'from the first 
 was that relief works should benefit nobody except 
 the workers, and it is sometimes very difficult to 
 think out a project for work that will be perfectly 
 useless. Arches have been built on the top of hills, 
 and roads that lead nowhere. A strange sight to 
 the stranger a road must be that stops suddenly in 
 the middle of a bog. One wonders at first how a 
 Government could be so foolish, but when one thinks 
 of it, it is easy to understand that the Government 
 doesn't wish to spend money on works that will 
 benefit a class. But the road that leads nowhere is 
 difficult to make, even though starving men are 
 employed upon it ; for a man to work well there must 
 be an end in view, and I can tell you it is difficult 
 to bring even starving men to engage on a road 
 that leads nowhere. If I'd told everything I am 
 telling you to the inspector, he wouldn't have 
 agreed to let the road run to the top of the hill ; but 
 I said to him : " The road leads nowhere ; as well let 
 it end at the top of the hill as down in the valley." 
 So I got the money for my road and some money for 
 my play-house, for of course the play-house was as 
 useless as the road ; a play-house in the waste can 
 neither interest or benefit anybody ! But there was
 
 158 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 an idea at the back of my mind all the time that 
 when the road and the play-house were finished. I 
 might be able to induce the Government to build a 
 harbour.' 
 
 ' But the harbour would be of use.' 
 
 ' Of very little,' he answered. ' For the harbour to 
 be of use a great deal of dredging would have to be 
 done.' 
 
 ' And the Government needn't undertake the 
 dredging. How very ingenious ! I suppose you 
 often come here to read your breviary ?' 
 
 'During the building of the play-house I often 
 used to be up here, and during the rehearsals I was 
 here every day.' 
 
 ' If there was a rehearsal,' I said to myself, ' there 
 must have been a play.' And I affected interest in 
 the grey shallow sea and the erosion of the low- 
 lying land a salt marsh filled with pools. 
 
 ' I thought once,' said the priest, ' that if the play 
 were a great success, a line of flat-bottomed steamers 
 might be built.' 
 
 ' Sitting here in the quiet evenings,' I said to 
 myself, ' reading his breviary, dreaming of a line of 
 steamships crowded with visitors ! He has been 
 reading about the Oberammergau performances.' So 
 that was his game the road, the play-house, the 
 harbour and I agreed with him that no one would 
 have dared to predict that visitors would have come 
 from all sides of Europe to see a few peasants per- 
 forming a miracle play in the Tyrol. 
 
 'Come,' I said, 'into the play-house and let me 
 see how you built it.'
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE 159 
 
 Half a wall and some of the roof had fallen, and 
 the rubble had not been cleared away, and I said : 
 
 * It will cost many pounds to repair the damage, 
 but having gone so far you should give the play a 
 chance.' 
 
 ' I don't think it would be advisable,' he muttered, 
 half to himself, half to me. 
 
 As you may well imagine, I was anxious to hear if 
 he had discovered any aptitude for acting among the 
 girls and the boys who lived in the cabins. 
 
 ' I think,' he answered me, ' that the play would 
 have been fairly acted ; I think that, with a little 
 practice, we might have done as well as they did 
 at Oberammergau.' 
 
 An odd man, more willing to discuss the play that 
 he had chosen than the talents of those who were 
 going to perform it, and he told me that it had been 
 written in the fourteenth century in Latin, and that 
 he had translated it into Irish. 
 
 I asked him if it would have been possible to 
 organize an excursion from Dublin ' Oberammergau 
 in the West.' 
 
 'I used to think so. But it is eight miles from 
 Rathowen, and the road is a bad one, and when they 
 got here there would be no place for them to stay ; 
 they would have to go all the way back again, and 
 that would be sixteen miles. 
 
 ' Yet you did well, Father James, to build the play- 
 house, for the people could work better while they 
 thought they were accomplishing something. Let me 
 start a subscription for you in Dublin.' 
 
 ' I don't think that it would be possible ' 
 
 ' Not for me to get fifty pounds ?'
 
 160 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' You might get the money, but I don't think we 
 could ever get a performance of the play.' 
 
 ' And why not ?' I said. 
 
 ' You see, the wind came and blew down the wall. 
 The people are very pious ; I think they felt that 
 the time they spent rehearsing might have been 
 better spent. The play-house disturbed them in 
 their ideas. They hear Mass on Sundays, and there 
 are the Sacraments, and they remember they have 
 to die. It used to seem to me a very sad thing to 
 see all the people going to America ; the poor Celt 
 disappearing in America, leaving his own country, 
 leaving his language, and very often his religion.' 
 
 ' And does it no longer seem to you sad that such 
 a thing should happen ?' 
 
 ' No, not if it is the will of God. God has specially 
 chosen the Irish race to convert the world. No race 
 has provided so many missionaries, no race has 
 preached the Gospel more frequently to the heathen ; 
 and once we realize that we have to die, and very 
 soon, and that the Catholic Church is the only true 
 Church, our ideas about race and nationality fade 
 from us. We are here, not to make life successful 
 and triumphant, but to gain heaven. That is the 
 truth, and it is to the honour of the Irish people 
 that they have been selected by God to preach the 
 truth, even though they lose their nationality in 
 preaching it. I do not expect you to accept these 
 opinions. I know that you think very differently, 
 but living here 1 have learned to acquiesce in the 
 will of God.' 
 
 He stopped speaking suddenly, like one ashamed 
 of having expressed himself too openly, and soon
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE l6l 
 
 after we were met by a number of peasants, and 
 the priest's attention was engaged; the inspector 
 of the relief works had to speak to him ; and I 
 didn't see him again until dinner-time. 
 
 ' You have given them hope/ he said. 
 
 This was gratifying to hear, and the priest sat 
 listening while I told him of the looms already 
 established in different parts of the country. We 
 talked about half an hour, and then like one who 
 suddenly remembers, the priest got up and fetched 
 his knitting. 
 
 ' Do you knit every evening ?' 
 
 '1 have got into the way of knitting lately it 
 passes the time.' 
 
 ( But do you never read ?' I asked, and my eyes 
 went towards the bookshelves. 
 
 ' I used to read a great deal. But there wasn't a 
 woman in the parish that could turn a heel properly, 
 so I had to learn to knit.' 
 
 1 Do you like knitting better than reading?' I asked, 
 feeling ashamed of my curiosity. 
 
 ' I have constantly to attend sick calls, and if one 
 is absorbed in a book one doesn't like to put it 
 aside.' 
 
 ' I see you have two volumes of miracle plays !' 
 
 f Yes, and that's another danger : a book begets all 
 kinds of ideas and notions into one's head. The 
 idea of that play-house came out of those books.' 
 
 ' But,' I said, ' you don't think that God sent the 
 storm because He didn't wish a play to be per- 
 formed ?' 
 
 ' One cannot judge God's designs. Whether God 
 sent the storm or whether it was accident must
 
 162 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 remain a matter for conjecture ; but it is not a matter 
 of conjecture that one is doing certain good by 
 devoting oneself to one's daily task, getting the 
 Government to start new relief works, establishing 
 schools for weaving. The people are entirely de- 
 pendent upon me, and when I'm attending to their 
 wants I know I'm doing right.' 
 
 The play-house interested me more than the 
 priest's ideas of right and wrong, and I tried to get 
 him back to it ; but the subject seemed a painful one, 
 and I said to myself: ' The jarvey will tell me all 
 about it to-morrow. I can rely on him to find out 
 the whole story from the housekeeper in the kitchen.' 
 And sure enough, we hadn't got to the Greyhound 
 River before he was leaning across the well of the 
 car talking to me and asking if the priest was think- 
 ing of putting up the wall of the play-house. 
 
 ' The wall of the play-house ?' I said. 
 
 ' Yes, yer honour. Didn't I see both of you going 
 up the hill in the evening time ?' 
 
 ' I don't think we shall ever see a play in the play- 
 house.' 
 
 ' Why would we, since it was God that sent the 
 wind that blew it down ?' 
 
 ' How do you know it was God that sent the wind ? 
 It might have been the devil himself, or somebody's 
 curse.' 
 
 ' Sure it is of Mrs. Sheridan you do be thinking, 
 yer honour, and of her daughter she that was to be 
 playing Good Deeds in the play, yer honour ; and 
 wasn't she wake coming home from the learning of 
 the play? And when the signs of her wakeness 
 began to show, the widow Sheridan took a halter off
 
 A PLAY-HOUSE IN THE WASTE l6s 
 
 the cow and tied Margaret to the wall, and she was 
 in the stable till the child was born. Then didn't 
 her mother take a bit of string and tie it round the 
 child's throat, and bury it near the play-house ; and 
 it was three nights after that the storm rose, and the 
 child pulled the thatch out of the roof.' 
 
 ' But did she murder the child ?' 
 
 ' Sorra wan of me knows. She sent for the priest 
 when she was dying, and told him what she had 
 done.' 
 
 ' But the priest wouldn't tell what he heard in 
 the confessional,' I said. 
 
 ' Mrs. Sheridan didn't die that night ; not till the 
 end of the week, and the neighbours heard her talking 
 of the child she had buried, and then they all knew 
 what the white thing was they had seen by the road- 
 side. The night the priest left her he saw the white 
 thing standing in front of him, and if he hadn't been 
 a priest he'd have dropped down dead ; so he took 
 some water from the bog-hole and dashed it over it, 
 saying, " I baptize thee in the name of the Father, 
 and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost !" ' 
 
 The driver told his story like one saying his 
 prayers, and he seemed to have forgotten that he had 
 a listener. 
 
 ' It must have been a great shock to the priest.' 
 
 ' Faith it was, sir, to meet an unbaptized child on 
 the roadside, and that child the only bastard that was 
 ever born in the parish so Tom Mulhare says, and 
 he's the oldest man in the county.' 
 
 1 It was altogether a very queer idea this play- 
 house.'
 
 164 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' It was indeed, sir, a quare idea, but you see he's a 
 quare man. He has been always thinking of some- 
 thing to do good, and it is said that he thinks too 
 much. Father James is a very quare man, your 
 honour.'
 
 JULIA CAHILL'S CURSE 
 
 ' ND what has become of Margaret ?' 
 
 ' Ah, didn't her mother send her to 
 America as soon as the baby was born ? 
 Once a woman is wake here she has to 
 go. Hadn't Julia to go in the end, 
 and she the only one that ever said she didn't mind 
 the priest ?' 
 
 ' Julia who ?' said I. 
 ' Julia Cahill.' 
 
 The name struck my fancy, and I asked the 
 driver to tell me her story. 
 
 1 Wasn't it Father Madden who had her put out of 
 the parish, but she put her curse on it, and it's on 
 it to this day.' 
 
 ' Do you believe in curses ?' 
 
 c Bedad I do, sir. It's a terrible thing to put a 
 curse on a man, and the curse that Julia put on 
 Father Madden's parish was a bad one, the divil a 
 worse. The sun was up at the time, and she on the 
 hilltop raising both her hands. And the curse she 
 put on the parish was that every year a roof must 
 fall in and a family go to America. That was the 
 curse, your honour, and every word of it has come 
 165
 
 166 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 true. You'll see for yourself as soon as we cross 
 the mearing.' 
 
 ' And what became of Julia's baby ?' 
 
 ' I never heard she had one, sir.' 
 
 He flicked his horse pensively with his whip, and 
 it seemed to me that the disbelief I had expressed 
 in the power of the curse disinclined him for further 
 conversation. 
 
 ' But/ I said, ' who is Julia Cahill, and how did 
 she get the power to put a curse upon the village ?' 
 
 1 Didn't she go into the mountains every night to 
 meet the fairies, and who else could Ve given her 
 the power to put a curse on the village ?' 
 
 ' But she couldn't walk so far in one evening.' 
 
 'Them that's in league with the fairies can walk 
 that far and as much farther in an evening, your 
 honour. A shepherd saw her ; and you'll see the 
 ruins of the cabins for yourself as soon as we cross 
 the mearing, and I'll show you the cabin of the 
 blind woman that Julia lived with before she went 
 away.' 
 
 ' And how long is it since she went ?' 
 
 'About twenty year, and there hasn't been a girl the 
 like of her in these parts since. I was only a gossoon 
 at the time, but I've heard tell she was as tall as I'm 
 myself, and as straight as a poplar. She walked with 
 a little swing in her walk, so that all the boys used 
 to be looking after her, and she had fine black eyes, 
 sir, and she was nearly always laughing. Father 
 Madden had just come to the parish ; and there was 
 courting in these parts then, for aren't we the same 
 as other people we'd like to go out with a girl 
 well enough if it was the custom of the country.
 
 JULIA CAH ILL'S CURSE 167 
 
 Father Madden put down the ball alley because 
 he said the boys stayed there instead of going into 
 Mass, and he put down the cross-road dances because 
 he said dancing was the cause of many a bastard, 
 and he wanted none in his parish. Now there was 
 no dancer like Julia ; the boys used to gather about 
 to see her dance, and who ever walked with her 
 under the hedges in the summer could never think 
 about another woman. The village was cracked 
 about her. There was fighting, so I suppose the priest 
 was right : he had to get rid of her. But I think 
 he mightn't have been as hard on her as he was. 
 
 ' One evening he went down to the house. Julia's 
 people were well-to-do people, they kept a grocery- 
 store in the village ; and when he came into the shop 
 who should be there but the richest farmer in the 
 country, Michael Moran by name, trying to get 
 Julia for his wife. He didn't go straight to Julia, 
 and that's what swept him. There are two counters 
 in that shop, and Julia was at the one on the left 
 hand as you go in. And many's the pound she had 
 made for her parents at that counter. Michael 
 Moran says to the father, " Now, what fortune are 
 you going to give with Julia ?" And the father says 
 there was many a man who would take her without 
 any ; and that's how they spoke, and Julia listening 
 quietly all the while at the opposite counter. For 
 Michael didn't know what a spirited girl she was, 
 but went on arguing till he got the father to say 
 fifty pounds, and thinking he had got him so far he 
 said, " I'll never drop a flap to her unless you give 
 the two heifers." Julia never said a word, she just 
 sat listening. It was then that the priest came in.
 
 168 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 And over he goes to Julia ; " And now," says he, 
 " aren't you proud to hear that you'll have such a fine 
 fortune, and it's I that'll be glad to see you married, 
 for I can't have any more of your goings-on in my 
 parish. You're the encouragement of the dancing 
 and courting here ; but I'm going to put an end to 
 it." Julia didn't answer a word, and he went over 
 to them that were arguing about the sixty pounds. 
 " Now why not make it fifty-five ?" says he. So the 
 father agreed to that since the priest had said it. 
 And all three of them thought the marriage was 
 settled. "Now what will you be taking, Father 
 Tom?" says Cahill, "and you, Michael?" Sorra one 
 of them thought of asking her if she was pleased with 
 Michael ; but little did they know what was passing 
 in her mind, and when they came over to the counter 
 to tell her what they had settled, she said, " Well, 
 I've just been listening to you, and 'tis well for you 
 to be wasting your time talking about me," and she 
 tossed her head, saying she would just pick the boy 
 out of the parish that pleased her best. And what 
 angered the priest most of all was her way of saying 
 it that the boy that would marry her would be 
 marrying herself and not the money that would be 
 paid when the book was signed or when the first 
 baby was born. Now it was agin girls marrying 
 according to their fancy that Father Madden had set 
 himself. He had said in his sermon the Sunday 
 before that young people shouldn't be allowed out 
 by themselves at all, but that the parents should 
 make up the marriages for them. And he went 
 fairly wild when Julia told him the example she was 
 going to set. He tried to keep his temper, sir, but
 
 JULIA CAHILL'S CURSE 169 
 
 it was getting the better of him all the while, and 
 Julia said, " My boy isn't in the parish now, but maybe 
 he is on his way here, and he may be here to-morrow 
 or the next day." And when Julia's father heard 
 her speak like that he knew that no one would turn 
 her from what she was saying, and he said, " Michael 
 Moran, my good man, you may go your way : you'll 
 never get her." Then he went back to hear what 
 Julia was saying to the priest, but it was the priest 
 that was talking. " Do you think," says he, " I am 
 going to let you go on turning the head of every boy 
 in the parish ? Do you think," says he, " I'm going 
 to see you gallavanting with one and then with the 
 other ? Do you think I'm going to see fighting and 
 quarrelling for your like? Do you think I'm going to 
 hear stories like I heard last week about poor Patsy 
 Carey, who has gone out of his mind, they say, on 
 account of your treatment? No," says he, "I'll have 
 no more of that. I'll have you out of my parish, or 
 I '11 have you married. ' ' Julia didn't answer the priest ; 
 she tossed her head, and went on making up parcels 
 of tea and sugar and getting the steps and taking 
 down candles, though she didn't want them, just to 
 show the priest that she didn't mind what he was 
 saying. And all the while her father trembling, not 
 knowing what would happen, for the priest had a big 
 stick, and there was no saying that he wouldn't strike 
 her. Cahill tried to quiet the priest, he promising 
 him that Julia shouldn't go out any more in the 
 evenings, and bedad, sir, she was out the same 
 evening with a young man and the priest saw them, 
 and the next evening she was out with another and 
 the priest saw them, nor was she minded at the end
 
 170 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 of the month to marry any of them. Then the priest 
 went down to the shop to speak to her a second 
 time, and he went down again a third time, though 
 what he said the third time no one knows, no one 
 being there at the time. And next Sunday he 
 spoke out, saying that a disobedient daughter would 
 have the worst devil in hell to attend on her. I've 
 heard tell that he called her the evil spirit that set 
 men mad. But most of the people that were there 
 are dead or gone to America, and no one rightly 
 knows what he did say, only that the words came 
 pouring out of his mouth, and the people when they 
 saw Julia crossed themselves, and even the boys who 
 were most mad after Julia were afraid to speak to 
 her. Cahill had to put her out.' 
 
 'Do you mean to say that the father put his 
 daughter out ?' 
 
 c Sure, didn't the priest threaten to turn him into 
 a rabbit if he didn't, and no one in the parish would 
 speak to Julia, they were so afraid of Father Madden, 
 and if it hadn't been for the blind woman that I was 
 speaking about a while ago, sir, it is to the Poor 
 House she'd have to go. The blind woman has a 
 little cabin at the edge of the bog I'll point it out 
 to you, sir ; we do be passing it by and she was with 
 the blind woman for nearly two years disowned by 
 her own father. Her clothes wore out, but she was 
 as beautiful without them as with them. The boys 
 were told not to look back, but sure they couldn't 
 help it. 
 
 ' Ah, it was a long while before Father Madden 
 could get shut of her. The blind woman said she 
 wouldn't see Julia thrown out on the road-side, and
 
 JULIA CAHILL'S CURSE 171 
 
 she was as good as her word for wellnigh two years, 
 till Julia went to America, so some do be saying, 
 sir, whilst others do be saying she joined the fairies. 
 But 'tis for sure, sir, that the day she left the parish 
 Pat Quinn heard a knocking at his window and 
 somebody asking if he would lend his cart to go to 
 the railway station. Pat was a heavy sleeper and 
 he didn't get up, and it is thought that it was Julia 
 who wanted Pat's cart to take her to the station ; 
 it's a good ten mile ; but she got there all the 
 same !' 
 
 ' You said something about a curse ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. You'll see the hill presently. A man 
 who was taking some sheep to the fair saw her there. 
 The sun was just getting up and he saw her cursing 
 the village, raising both her hands, sir, up to the sun, 
 and since that curse was spoken every year a roof 
 has fallen in, sometimes two or three.' 
 
 I could see he believed the story, and for the 
 moment I, too, believed in an outcast Venus becom- 
 ing the evil spirit of a village that would not accept 
 her as divine. 
 
 ' Look, sir, the woman coming down the road is 
 Bridget Coyne. And that's her house,' he said, and 
 we passed a house built of loose stones without 
 mortar, but a little better than the mud cabins I had 
 seen in Father MacTurnan's parish. 
 
 ' And now, sir, you will see the loneliest parish in 
 Ireland.' 
 
 And I noticed that though the land was good, 
 there seemed to be few people on it, and what was 
 more significant than the untilled fields were the 
 ruins for they were not the cold ruins of twenty, or
 
 172 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 thirty, or forty years ago when the people were 
 evicted and their tillage turned into pasture the 
 ruins I saw were the ruins of cabins that had been 
 lately abandoned, and I said : 
 
 ' It wasn't the landlord who evicted these people.' 
 
 ' Ah, it's the landlord who would be glad to have 
 them back, but there's no getting them back. 
 Everyone here will have to go, and 'tis said that the 
 priest will say Mass in an empty chapel, sorra a one 
 will be there but Bridget, and she'll be the last he'll 
 give communion to. It's said, your honour, that Julia 
 has been seen in America, and I'm going there this 
 autumn. You may be sure I'll keep a lookout for 
 her.' 
 
 'But all this is twenty years ago. You won't 
 know her. A woman changes a good deal in twenty 
 years.' 
 
 ' There will be no change in her, your honour. 
 Sure hasn't she been with the fairies ?'
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN 
 
 T was said, but with what truth I cannot 
 say, that the Roche property had been 
 owned by the O'Dwyers many years 
 ago, several generations past, some time 
 in the eighteenth century. Only a 
 faint legend of this ownership remained ; only once 
 had young Mr. Roche heard of it, and it was from 
 his mother he had heard it ; among the country 
 people it was forgotten. His mother had told him 
 that his great-great-grandfather, who had made 
 large sums of money abroad, had increased his pro- 
 perty by purchase from the O'Dwyers, who then 
 owned, as well as farmed, the hillside on which the 
 Big House stood. The O'Dwyers themselves had 
 forgotten that they were once much greater people 
 than they now were, but the master never spoke to 
 them without remembering it, for though they only 
 thought of themselves as small farmers, dependents 
 on the squire, every one of them, boys and girls alike, 
 retained an air of high birth, which at the first glance 
 distinguished them from the other tenants of the 
 estate. Though they were not aware of it, some 
 sense of their remote origin must have survived in 
 them, and I think that in a still more obscure way 
 173
 
 174 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 some sense of it survived in the country side, for the 
 villagers did not think worse of the O'Dwyers 
 because they kept themselves aloof from the 
 pleasures of the village and its squabbles. The 
 O'Dwyers kept themselves apart from their fellows 
 without any show of pride, without wounding any- 
 one's feelings. 
 
 The head of the family was a man of forty, and he 
 was the trusted servant, almost the friend, of the 
 young master. He was his bailiff and his steward, and 
 he lived in a pretty cottage by the edge of the lake. 
 O'Dwyer's aunts they were old women of sixty-eight 
 and seventy lived in the Big House ; the elder had 
 been cook, and the younger housemaid, and both were 
 now past their work, and they lived full of gratitude 
 to the young master, to whom they thought they 
 owed a great deal. He believed the debt to be all 
 on his side, and when he was away he often thought 
 of them, and when he returned home he went to 
 greet them as he might go to the members of his 
 own family. The family of the O'Dwyers was long- 
 lived, and Betty and Mary had a sister far older than 
 themselves, Margaret Kirwin, ' Granny Kirwin/ as 
 she was called, and she lived in the cottage by the 
 lake with her nephew, Alec O'Dwyer. She was 
 over eighty it was said that she was nearly ninety 
 but her age was not known exactly. Mary O'Dwyer 
 said that Margaret was nearly twenty years older 
 than she, but neither Betty nor Mary remembered 
 the exact date of their sister's birth. They did not 
 know much about her, for though she was their 
 sister, she was almost a stranger to them. She had 
 married when she was sixteen, and had gone away
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN 175 
 
 to another part of the country, and they had hardly 
 heard of her for thirty years. It was said that she 
 had been a very pretty girl, and that many men had 
 been in love with her, and it was known for certain 
 that she had gone away with the son of the game- 
 keeper of the grandfather of the present Mr. Roche, 
 so you can understand what a very long while ago it 
 was, and how little of the story of her life had come 
 to the knowledge of those living now. 
 
 It was certainly sixty years since she had gone 
 away with this young man ; she had lived with him 
 in Meath for some years, nobody knew exactly how 
 many years, maybe some nine or ten years, and then 
 he had died suddenly, and his death, it appears, had 
 taken away from her some part of her reason. It 
 was known for certain that she left Meath after his 
 death, and had remained away many years. She 
 had returned to Meath about twenty years ago, 
 though not to the place she had lived in before. 
 Some said she had experienced misfortunes so great 
 that they had unsettled her mind. She herself had 
 forgotten her story, and one day news had come to 
 Galway news, but it was sad news, that she was 
 living in some very poor cottage on the edge of 
 Navan town where her strange behaviour and her 
 strange life had made a scandal of her. The priest 
 had to inquire out her relations, and it took him 
 some time to do this, for the old woman's answers 
 were incoherent, but he at length discovered she 
 came from Galway, and he had written to the 
 O'Dwyers. And immediately on receiving the 
 priest's letter, Alec sent his wife to Navan, and she 
 had come back with the old woman.
 
 176 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 f And it was time indeed that I went to fetch her/ 
 she said. ' The boys in the town used to make game 
 of her, and follow her, and throw things at her, and 
 they nearly lost the poor thing the little reason that 
 was left to her. The rain was coming through the 
 thatch, there was hardly a dry place in the cabin, 
 and she had nothing to eat but a few scraps that the 
 neighbours gave her. Latterly she had forgotten 
 how to make a fire, and she ate the potatoes the 
 neighbours gave her raw, and on her back there 
 were only a few dirty rags. She had no care for 
 anything except for her wedding gown. She kept 
 that in a box covered over with paper so that no 
 damp should get to it, and she was always folding it 
 and seeing that the moth didn't touch it, and she 
 was talking of it when I came in at the door. She 
 thought that I had come to steal it from her. The 
 neighbours told me that that was the way she always 
 was, thinking that someone had come to steal her 
 wedding gown.' 
 
 And this was all the news of Margaret Kirwin that 
 Alec O'Dwyer's wife brought back with her. The 
 old woman was given a room in the cottage, and 
 though with food and warmth and kind treatment 
 she became a little less bewildered, a little less like 
 a wild, hunted creature, she never got back her 
 memory sufficiently to tell them all that had hap- 
 pened to her after her husband's death. Nor did 
 she seem as if she wanted to try to remember : she 
 was garrulous only of her early days when the parish 
 bells rang for her wedding, and the furze was in 
 bloom. This was before the Big House on the hill 
 had been built. The hill was then a fine pasture for
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN 177 
 
 sheep, and Margaret would often describe the tink- 
 ling of the sheep-bells in the valley, and the yellow 
 furze, and the bells that were ringing for her wed- 
 ding. She always spoke of the bells, though no one 
 could understand where the bells came from. It 
 was not customary to ring the parish bell for wed- 
 dings, and there was no other bell, so that it was 
 impossible to say how Margaret could have got the 
 idea into her head that bells were ringing for her 
 when she crossed the hill on her way to the church, 
 dressed in the beautiful gown, which the grand- 
 mother of the present Mr. Roche had dressed her in, 
 for she had always been the favourite, she said, with 
 the old mistress, a much greater favourite than even 
 her two sisters had ever been. Betty and Mary were 
 then little children and hardly remembered the 
 wedding, and could say nothing about the bells. 
 
 Margaret Kirwin walked with a short stick, hei 
 head lifted hardly higher than the handle, and when 
 the family were talking round the kitchen fire she 
 would come among them for a while and say some- 
 thing to them, and then go away, and they felt they 
 had seen someone from another world. She hobbled 
 now and then as far as the garden-gate, and she 
 frightened the peasantry, so strange did she seem 
 among the flowers so old and forlorn, almost cut off 
 from this world, with only one memory to link her 
 to it. It was the spectral look in her eyes that 
 frightened them, for Margaret was not ugly. In 
 spite of all her wrinkles the form of the face 
 remained, and it was easy, especially when her little 
 grandniece was by, to see that sixty-five years ago 
 
 M
 
 178 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 she must have had a long and pleasant face, such as 
 one sees in a fox, and red hair like Molly. 
 
 Molly was sixteen, and her grey dress reached 
 only to her ankles. Everyone was fond of the poor 
 old woman ; but it was only Molly who had no fear 
 of her at all, and one would often see them standing 
 together beside the pretty paling that separated the 
 steward's garden from the high road. Chestnut 
 trees grew about the house, and China roses over the 
 walls, and in the course of the summer there would 
 be lilies in the garden, and in the autumn hollyhocks 
 and sunflowers. There were a few fruit-trees a little 
 further on, and, lower down, a stream. A little 
 bridge led over the stream into the meadow, and 
 Molly and her grandaunt used to go as far as the 
 bridge, and everyone wondered what the child and 
 the old woman had to say to each other. Molly was 
 never able to give any clear account of what the old 
 woman said to her during the time they spent by 
 the stream. She had tried once to give Molly an 
 account of one long winter when the lake was frozen 
 from side to side. Then there was something run- 
 ning in her mind about the transport of pillars in 
 front of the Big House how they had been drawn 
 across the lake by oxen, and how one of the pillars 
 was now lying at the bottom of the lake. That was 
 how Molly took up the story from her, but she 
 understood little of it. Molly's solicitude for the old 
 woman was a subject of admiration, and Molly did 
 not like to take the credit for a kindness and pity 
 which she did not altogether feel. She had never 
 seen anyone dead, and her secret fear was that the 
 old woman might die before she went away to
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN 179 
 
 service. Her parents had promised to allow her to 
 go away when she was eighteen, and she lived in the 
 hope that her aunt would live two years longer, and 
 that she would be saved the terror of seeing a dead 
 body. And it was in this intention that she served 
 her aunt, that she carefully minced the old woman's 
 food and insisted on her eating often, and that she 
 darted from her place to fetch the old woman her 
 stick when she rose to go. When Margaret Kirwin 
 was not in the kitchen Molly was always laughing 
 and talking, and her father and mother often thought 
 it was her voice that brought the old woman out of 
 her room. So the day Molly was grieving because 
 she could not go to the dance the old woman 
 remained in her room, and not seeing her at tea-time 
 they began to be afraid, and Molly was asked to go 
 to fetch her aunt. 
 
 'Something may have happened to her, mother. 
 I daren't go.' 
 
 And when old Margaret came into the kitchen 
 towards evening she surprised everyone by her 
 question : 
 
 ' Why is Molly crying ?' 
 
 No one else had heard Molly sob, if she had 
 sobbed, but everyone knew the reason of her grief; 
 indeed, she had been reproved for it many times 
 that day. 
 
 ' I will not hear any more about it,' said Mrs. 
 O'Dwyer ; ( she has been very tiresome all day. Is 
 it my fault if I cannot give her a gown to go to the 
 dance ?' And then, forgetting that old Margaret 
 could not understand her, she told her that the 
 servants were having a dance at the Big House, and
 
 180 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 had asked Molly to come to it. ' But what can I do ? 
 She has got no gown to go in. Even if I had the 
 money there wouldn't be time to send for one now, 
 nor to make one. And there are a number of 
 English servants stopping at the house ; there are 
 people from all parts of the country, they have 
 brought their servants with them, and I am not 
 going to see my girl worse dressed than the others, 
 so she cannot go. She has heard all this, she knows 
 it. ... I've never seen her so tiresome before.' 
 Mrs. O'Dwyer continued to chide her daughter; but 
 her mother's reasons for not allowing her to go to 
 the ball, though unanswerable, did not seem to 
 console Molly, and she sat looking very miserable. 
 ' She has been sitting like that all day,' said Mrs. 
 O'Dwyer, 'and I wish that it were to-morrow, for 
 she will not be better until it is all over.' 
 
 ' But, mother, I am saying nothing; I'll go to bed. 
 I don't know why you're blaming me. I'm saying 
 nothing. I can't help feeling miserable.' 
 
 ' No, she don't look a bit cheerful,' the old woman 
 said, ' and I don't like her to be disappointed. This 
 was the first time that old Margaret had seemed to 
 understand since she came to live with them what 
 was passing about her, and they all looked at her, 
 Mrs. O'Dwyer and Alec and Molly. They stood 
 waiting for her to speak again, wondering if the old 
 woman's speech was an accident, or if she had 
 recovered her mind. 'It is a hard thing for a child 
 at her age not to be able to go to the dance at the 
 Big House, now that she has been asked. No 
 wonder there is not a smile on her face. I 
 remember the time that I should have been
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN 181 
 
 crying too for a dance, and isn't she the very 
 
 same ?' 
 
 'But, Granny, she can't go in the clothes she is 
 wearing, and she has only got one other frock, 
 the one she goes to Mass in. I can't let my 
 daughter ' 
 
 But seeing the old woman was about to speak Alec 
 stopped his wife. 
 
 ' Let's hear what she has to say,' he whispered. 
 
 ' There's my wedding gown, it's beautiful enough 
 for anyone to wear. It hasn't been worn since the 
 day I wore it, when the bells were ringing, and I 
 went over the hill to be married ; and I've taken 
 such care of it that it is the same as it was that day. 
 Molly will look very nice in it, she will look just as 
 I looked on my wedding day.' 
 
 And they stood astonished father, mother, and 
 daughter for the old woman, ever since she had 
 come to live with them, had kept her wedding gown 
 sacred from their eyes and hands, closing her door 
 before taking it out to give it the air and strew it 
 with camphor. Only once they had seen it. She 
 had brought it out one day and shown it to them 
 as a child might show a toy ; but the moment 
 Mrs. Dwyer put out her hand to touch it, Granny 
 had gone away with her gown, and they had heard 
 her shutting the box it was in. Now she was going 
 to lend it to Molly, so she said, but they fully 
 expected her to turn away and to go to her room, 
 forgetful of what she had said. Even if she were to 
 let Molly put the dress on, she would not let her go 
 out of the house with it. She would change her 
 mind at the last minute.
 
 182 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' When does this dancing begin ?' she asked, and 
 when they told her she said there would be just 
 time for her to dress Molly, and asked the girl to 
 come into her room. Mrs. O'Dwyer feared the girl 
 would be put to a bitter disappointment, but if 
 Molly once had the gown on she would not oblige 
 her to take it off. 
 
 ' In my gown you will be just like what I was 
 when the bells were ringing.' 
 
 She took the gown out of its box herself, the 
 petticoat and the stockings and the shoes. 
 
 ' The old mistress gave me all these. Molly has 
 gotten the hair I used to have, and will look like 
 myself. Aren't they beautiful shoes ? Look at the 
 buckles, and they'll fit her, for her feet are the 
 same size as mine were.' 
 
 Molly's feet went into the shoes just as if they 
 had been made for her, and the gown fitted as well 
 as the shoes, and Molly's hair was arranged accord- 
 ing to the old woman's fancy, as she used to wear 
 her own hair when it was thick and red like a fox's. 
 
 The girl thought that Granny would regret her 
 gifts, and she expected the old woman to follow her 
 into the kitchen and ask her to give back the gown 
 as she was going out of the house. As she stood on 
 the threshold her mother offered her the key; the 
 ball would not be over till five, and Granny said 
 she'd stay up for her. 
 
 ' I'll doze a bit upon a chair. If I am tired I'll 
 lie down upon my bed. I shall hear Molly ; I shan't 
 sleep much. She'll not be able to enter the house 
 without my hearing her.' 
 
 It was extraordinary to hear her speak like this,
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN 183 
 
 and, a little frightened by her sudden sanity, they 
 tried to persuade her to allow them to lock up the 
 house ; but she sat looking into the fire, seemingly 
 so contented that they left her, and for an hour she 
 sat dreaming, seeing Molly young and beautifully 
 dressed in the wedding gown of more than sixty 
 years ago. 
 
 Dream after dream went by, the fire had burned 
 low, the sods were falling into white ashes, and the 
 moonlight began to stream into the room. It was 
 the chilliness that had come into the air that awoke 
 her, and she threw several sods of turf on to the fire. 
 
 An hour passed, and old Margaret awoke. ' The 
 bells are ringing, the bells are ringing,' she said, and 
 went to the kitchen door ; she opened it, and under 
 the rays of the moon she stood lost in memories, for 
 the night of her marriage was just such a night as 
 this one, and she had stood in the garden amid the 
 summer flowers, just as she did now. 
 
 'The day is beginning,' she said, mistaking the 
 moonlight for the dawn, and, listening, it seemed to 
 her that she heard once more the sound of bells 
 coming across the hill. ' Yes, the bells are ringing,' 
 she said ; ' I can hear them quite clearly, and must 
 hurry and get dressed I must not keep him waiting.' 
 
 And, returning to the house, she went to her box, 
 where her gown had lain so many years ; and though 
 no gown was there it seemed to her that there was 
 one, and one more beautiful than the gown she had 
 cherished. It was the same gown, only grown more 
 beautiful. It had passed into softer silk, into a more 
 delicate colour ; it had become more beautiful, and 
 holding the dream-gown in her hands, she sat with
 
 184 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 it in the moonlight thinking how fair he would find 
 her in it. Once her hands went to her hair, and 
 then she dropped them again. 
 
 <I must begin to dress myself; I mustn't keep 
 him waiting.' 
 
 The moonlight lay still upon her knees, but little 
 by little the moon moved up the sky, leaving her in 
 the shadow. 
 
 It was at this moment, as the shadows grew denser 
 about old Margaret, that the child who was dancing 
 at the ball came to think of her who had given her 
 her gown, and who was waiting for her. It was in 
 the middle of a reel she was dancing, and she was 
 dancing it with Mr. Roche, that she felt that some- 
 thing had happened to her aunt. 
 
 ' Mr. Roche,' she said, ' you must let me go away ; 
 I cannot dance any more to-night. I am sure that 
 something has happened to my aunt, the old woman, 
 Margaret Kirwin, who lives with us in the Lodge. 
 It was she who lent me this gown. This was her 
 wedding gown, and for sixty-five years it has never 
 been out of her possession. She has hardly allowed 
 anyone to see it ; but she said that I was like her, 
 and she heard me crying because I had no gown to 
 go to the ball, and so she lent me her wedding 
 gown.' 
 
 ( You look very nice, Molly, in the wedding gown, 
 and this is only a fancy.' Seeing the girl was fright- 
 ened and wanted to go, he said : ' But why do you 
 think that anything has happened to your aunt ?' 
 
 ' She is very old.' 
 
 ' But she isn't much older than she was when you 
 left her.'
 
 THE WEDDING GOWN 185 
 
 ' Let me go, Mr. Roche ; I think I must go. I 
 feel sure that something has happened to her. I 
 never had such a feeling before, and I couldn't have 
 that feeling if there was no reason for it.' 
 
 ' Well, if you must go.' 
 
 She glanced to where the moon was shining and 
 ran down the drive, leaving Mr. Roche looking after 
 her, wondering if after all she might have had a 
 warning of the old woman's death. The night was 
 one of those beautiful nights in May, when the moon 
 soars high in the sky, and all the woods and fields 
 are clothed in the green of spring. But the stillness 
 of the night frightened Molly, and when she stopped 
 to pick up her dress she heard the ducks chattering 
 in the reeds. The world seemed divided into dark- 
 ness and light. The hawthorn-trees threw black 
 shadows that reached into the hollows, and Molly 
 did not dare to go by the path that led through a 
 little wood, lest she should meet Death there. For 
 now it seemed to her that she was running a race 
 with Death, and that she must get to the cottage 
 before him. She did not dare to take the short cut, 
 but she ran till her breath failed her. She ran on 
 again, but when she went through the wicket she 
 knew that Death had been before her. She knocked 
 twice ; receiving no answer she tried the latch, and 
 was surprised to find the door unlocked. There was 
 a little fire among the ashes, and after blowing the 
 sod for some time she managed to light the candle, 
 and holding it high she looked about the kitchen. 
 
 ' Auntie, are you asleep ? Have the others gone 
 to bed?' 
 
 She approached a few steps, and then a strange
 
 186 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 curiosity came over her, and though she had always 
 feared death she now looked curiously upon death, 
 and she thought that she saw the likeness which her 
 aunt had often noticed. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' she is like me. I shall be like 
 that some day if I live long enough.' 
 
 And then she knocked at the door of the room 
 where her parents were sleeping.
 
 THE CLERK'S QUEST 
 
 [OR thirty years Edward Dempsey had 
 worked low down in the list of clerks in 
 the firm of Quin and Wee. He did his 
 work so well that he seemed born to 
 do it, and it was felt that any change in 
 which Dempsey was concerned would be unlucky. 
 Managers had looked at Dempsey doubtingly and 
 had left him in his habits. New partners had come 
 into the business, but Dempsey showed no sign of 
 interest. He was interested only in his desk. 
 There it was by the dim window there were his 
 pens, there was his penwiper, there was the ruler, 
 there was the blotting-pad. Dempsey was always 
 the first to arrive and the last to leave. Once in 
 thirty years of service he had accepted a holiday ; it 
 had been a topic of conversation all the morning, 
 and the clerks tittered when he came into the bank 
 in the afternoon saying he had been looking into the 
 shop windows, and had come down to the bank to 
 see how they were getting on. 
 
 An obscure, clandestine, taciturn little man occupy- 
 ing in life only the space necessary to bend over a 
 desk, and whose conical head leaned to one side as 
 if in token of his humility. 
 187
 
 188 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 It seemed that Dempsey had no other ambition 
 than to be allowed to stagnate at a desk to the end 
 of his life, and this modest ambition would have 
 been realized had it not been for a slight accident 
 the single accident that had found its way into 
 Dempsey's well-ordered and closely-guarded life. 
 One summer's day, when the heat of the areas was 
 rising and filling the open window, Dempsey's 
 somnolescent senses were moved by a soft and suave 
 perfume. At first he was puzzled to say whence it 
 came ; then he perceived that it had come from the 
 bundle of cheques which he held in his hand ; and 
 then that the odoriferous paper was a pale pink 
 cheque in the middle of the bundle. He had hardly 
 seen a flower for thirty years, and could not deter- 
 mine whether the odour was that of mignonette, or 
 honeysuckle, or violet. But at that moment the 
 cheques were called for; he handed them to his 
 superior, and with cool hand and clear brain con- 
 tinued to make entries in the ledger until the bank 
 closed. 
 
 But that night, just as he was falling asleep, a 
 remembrance of the insinuating perfume returned 
 to him. He wondered whose cheque it was, and 
 regretted not having looked at the signature, and 
 many times during the succeeding weeks he paused 
 as he was making entries in the ledger to think if 
 the haunting perfume were rose, lavender, or 
 mignonette. It was not the scent of rose, he was 
 sure of that. And a vague swaying of hope began. 
 Dreams that had died or had never been born floated 
 up like things from the depths of the sea, and many 
 old things that he had dreamed about or had never
 
 THE CLERK'S QUEST 189 
 
 dreamed at all drifted about. Out of the depths of 
 life a hope that he had never known, or that the 
 severe rule of his daily life had checked long ago, 
 began its struggle for life ; and when the same sweet 
 odour came again he knew now it was the scent of 
 heliotrope his heart was lifted and he was over- 
 come in a sweet, possessive trouble. He sought for 
 the cheque amid the bundle of cheques, and finding 
 it, he pressed the paper to his face. The cheque 
 was written in a thin, feminine handwriting, and 
 was signed ' Henrietta Brown,' and the name and 
 handwriting were pregnant with occult significances 
 in Dempsey's disturbed mind. His hand paused amid 
 the entries, and he grew suddenly aware of some 
 dim, shadowy form, gracile and sweet-smelling as the 
 spring moist shadow of wandering cloud, emanation 
 of earth, or woman herself? Dempsey pondered, and 
 his absent-mindedness was noticed, and occasioned 
 comment among the clerks. 
 
 For the first time in his life he was glad when the 
 office hours were over. He wanted to be alone, he 
 wanted to think, he felt he must abandon himself to 
 the new influence that had so suddenly and un- 
 expectedly entered his life. Henrietta Brown ! the 
 name persisted in his mind like a half-forgotten, 
 half-remembered tune ; and in his efforts to realize 
 her beauty he stopped before the photographic dis- 
 plays in the shop windows ; but none of the famous 
 or the infamous celebrities there helped him in the 
 least. He could only realize Henrietta Brown by 
 turning his thoughts from without and seeking the 
 intimate sense of her perfumed cheques. The end 
 of every month brought a cheque from Henrietta
 
 190 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 Brown, and for a few moments the clerk was trans- 
 ported and lived beyond himself. 
 
 An idea had fixed itself in his mind. He knew 
 not if Henrietta Brown was young or old, pretty or 
 ugly, married or single ; the perfume and the name 
 were sufficient, and could no longer be separated 
 from the idea, now forcing its way through the 
 fissures in the failing brain of this poor little 
 bachelor clerk that idea of light and love and 
 grace so inherent in man, but which rigorous 
 circumstance had compelled Dempsey to banish 
 from his life. 
 
 Dempsey had had a mother to support for many 
 years, and had found it impossible to economize. 
 But since her death he had laid by about a hundred 
 and fifty pounds ; he thought of this money with awe, 
 and, awed by his good fortune, he thought how much 
 more he might save before he was forced to leave 
 his employment ; and to have touched a penny of his 
 savings would have seemed to him a sin near to 
 sacrilege. Yet he did not hesitate for a single 
 moment to send Henrietta Brown, whose address he 
 had been able to obtain through the bank books, a 
 diamond brooch which had cost twenty pounds. He 
 omitted to say whence it had come, and for days he 
 lived in a warm wonderment, satisfied in the thought 
 that shi was wearing something that he had seen and 
 touched. 
 
 His ide?l was now by him and always, and its 
 dominion was so complete that he neglected his 
 duties at the bank, and was censured by the 
 amazed manager. The change of his condition was so 
 obvious that it became the subject for gossip, and jokes
 
 THE CLERK'S QUEST 191 
 
 were now beginning to pass into serious conjectur- 
 ing. Dempsey took no notice, and his plans matured 
 amid jokes and theories. The desire to write and 
 reveal himself to his beloved had become imperative ; 
 and after some very slight hesitation for he was 
 moved more by instinct than by reason he wrote a 
 letter urging the fatality of the circumstances that 
 separated them, and explaining rather than excusing 
 this revelation of his identity. His letter was full of 
 deference, but at the same time it left no doubt as 
 to the nature of his attachments and hopes. The 
 answer to this letter was a polite note begging him 
 not to persist in this correspondence, and warning 
 him that if he did it would become necessary to 
 write to the manager of the bank. But the return 
 of his brooch did not dissuade Dempsey from the 
 pursuit of his ideal ; and as time went by it became 
 more and more impossible for him to refrain from 
 writing love-letters and sending occasional presents 
 of jewellery. When the letters and jewellery were 
 returned to him he put them away carelessly, and he 
 bought the first sparkle of diamonds that caught his 
 fancy, and forwarded ring, bracelet, and ear-ring, 
 with whatever words of rapturous love that came up 
 in his mind. 
 
 One day he was called into the manager's room, 
 severely reprimanded, and eventually pardoned in 
 consideration of his long and faithful services. But 
 the reprimands of his employers were of no use, and 
 he continued to write to Henrietta Brown, growing 
 more and more careless of his secret, dropping 
 brooches about the office, and letters. At last the 
 story was whispered from desk to desk. Dempsey's
 
 192 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 dismissal was the only course open to the firm ; and 
 it was with much regret that the partners told their 
 old servant that his services were no longer 
 required. 
 
 To their surprise Dempsey seemed quite unaffected 
 by his dismissal ; he even seemed relieved, and left 
 the bank smiling, thinking of Henrietta, bestowing no 
 thought on his want of means. He did not even 
 think of providing himself with money by the sale 
 of some of the jewellery he had about him, nor of 
 going to his lodging and packing up his clothes, he 
 did not think how he should get to Edinburgh it 
 was there that she lived. He thought of her even 
 to the exclusion of the simplest means of reaching 
 her, and was content to walk about the fields in 
 happy mood, watching for glimpses of some 
 evanescent phantom at the wood's edge wearing a 
 star on her forehead, or catching sight in the wood's 
 depths of a glistening shoulder and feet flying towards 
 the reeds. Full of happy aspiration he wandered, 
 seeking the country through the many straggling 
 villages that hang like children round the skirts of 
 Dublin, and passing through one of these at night- 
 fall, and, feeling tired, he turned into the bar of an 
 inn, and asked for a bit to eat. 
 
 ' You look as if you'd come a long way, Mister.' 
 
 ( I have come a good twenty miles, and I'll have 
 to go a good few more before I reach Edinburgh.' 
 
 f And what might you be going to Edinburgh for 
 if you'll excuse me asking ?' 
 
 1 1 am going to the lady I love, and I am taking 
 her beautiful presents of jewellery.' 
 
 The two rough fellows exchanged glances ; and it
 
 THE CLERK'S QUEST 193 
 
 is easy to imagine how Dempsey was induced to let 
 them have his diamonds, so that inquiries might be 
 made of a friend round the corner regarding their 
 value. After waiting a little while, Dempsey paid 
 for his bread and cheese, and went in search of the 
 thieves. But the face of Henrietta Brown obliterated 
 all remembrance of thieves and diamonds, and he 
 wandered for a few days, sustained by his dream and 
 the crusts that his appearance drew from the pitiful. 
 At last he even neglected to ask for a crust, and, 
 foodless, followed the beckoning vision, from sunrise 
 to sundown. 
 
 It was a soft, quiet summer's night when Dempsey 
 lay down to sleep for the last time. He was very 
 tired, he had been wandering all day, and threw 
 himself on the grass by the road-side. He lay there 
 looking up at the stars, thinking of Henrietta, know- 
 ing that everything was slipping away, and he passing 
 into a diviner sense. Henrietta seemed to be coming 
 nearer to him and revealing herself more clearly ; 
 and when the word of death was in his throat, and 
 his eyes opened for the last time, it seemed to him 
 that one of the stars came down from the sky and 
 laid its bright face upon his shoulder.
 
 ALMS-GIVING 
 
 | S I searched for a penny it began to rain. 
 The blind man opened a parcel, and I 
 saw that it contained a small tarpaulin 
 cape. But the several coats I wore 
 made it difficult to find my change ; I 
 thought I had better forego my charity that day, 
 and walked quickly away. 
 
 ' Eight or nine hours a day waiting for alms is his 
 earthly lot,' I said, and walking towards the river, 
 and leaning on the parapet, I wondered if he recog- 
 nized the passing steps if he recognized my steps 
 and associated them with a penny. Of what use 
 that he should know the different steps ? If he knew 
 them there would be anticipation and disappoint- 
 ments. But a dog would make life comprehensible, 
 and I imagined a companionship, a mingling of 
 muteness and blindness, and the joy that would 
 brighten the darkness when the dog leaped eagerly 
 upon the blind man's knees. I imagined the joy 
 of warm feet and limb, and the sudden poke of the 
 muzzle. A dog would be a link to bind the blind 
 beggar to the friendship of life. Now why has this 
 small blind man, with a face as pale as a plant that 
 194
 
 ALMS-GIVING 195 
 
 never sees the sun, not a dog ? A dog is the natural 
 link, and the only link, that binds the blind beggar 
 to the friendship of life. 
 
 Looking round, I could see that he was taking off 
 his little cape, for it had ceased raining. But in a 
 few weeks it would rain every day, and the wind 
 would blow from the river in great gusts. ' Will he 
 brave another winter ?' I asked myself. ' Iron blasts 
 will sweep through the passage ; they will find him 
 through the torn shirt and the poor grey trousers, 
 the torn waistcoat, the black jacket, and the threads 
 bare overcoat someone's cast-off garment. But 
 he may have been born blind, or he may have 
 become blind; in any case he has been blind for 
 many years, and if he persists in living he will have 
 to brave many winters in that passage, for he is not 
 an old man. What instinct compels him to bear his 
 dark life ? Is he afraid to kill himself ? Does this 
 fear spring from physical or from religious motives ? 
 Fear of hell ? Surely no other motive would enable 
 him to endure his life.' 
 
 In my intolerance for all life but my own I thought 
 I could estimate the value of the Great Mockery, 
 and I asked myself angrily why he persisted in 
 living. I asked myself why I helped him to live. It 
 would be better that he should throw himself at 
 once into the river. And this was reason talking to 
 me, and it told me that the most charitable act I 
 could do would be to help him over the parapet. 
 But behind reason there is instinct, and in obedience 
 to an impulse, which I could not weigh or appre- 
 ciate, I went to the blind man and put money into 
 his hand ; the small coin slipped through his fingers ;
 
 196 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 they were so cold that he could not retain it, and I 
 had to pick it from the ground. 
 
 ' Thankee, sir. Can you tell, sir, what time it is ?' 
 
 This little question was my recompense. He and 
 I wanted to know the time of day. I asked him 
 why he wanted to know the time, and he told me 
 because that evening a friend was coming to fetch 
 him. And, wondering who that friend might be, 
 and hoping he might tell me, I asked him about his 
 case of pencils, expressing a hope that he sold them. 
 He answered that he was doing a nice bit of trading. 
 
 ' The boys about here are a trouble,' he said, ' but 
 the policeman on the beat is a friend of mine, and 
 he watches them and makes them count the pencils 
 they take. The other day they robbed me, and he 
 gave them such a cuffing that I don't think they'll 
 take my pencils again. You see, sir, I keep the 
 money I take for the pencils in the left pocket, and 
 the money that is given to me I keep in the right 
 pocket. In this way I know if my accounts are 
 right when I make them up in the evening.' 
 
 Now where, in what lonely room, does he sit 
 making up his accounts ? But, not wishing to seem 
 inquisitorial, I turned the conversation. 
 
 ' I suppose you know some of the passers-by.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know a tidy few. There's one gentleman 
 who gives me a penny every day, but he's gone 
 abroad, I hear, and sixpence a week is a big drop.' 
 
 As I had given him a penny a day all the summer, 
 I assumed he was speaking of me. And my sixpence 
 a week meant a day's dinner, perhaps two days' dinner! 
 It was only necessary for me to withhold my charity 
 to give him ease. He would hardly be able to live
 
 ALMS-GIVING 197 
 
 without my charity, and if one of his other patrons 
 were to do likewise the world would be freed from a 
 life that I could not feel to be of any value. 
 
 So do we judge the world if we rely on our reason, 
 but instinct clings like a child and begs like a child, 
 and my instinct begged me to succour this poor man, 
 to give him a penny every day, to find out what his 
 condition was, and to stop for a chat every time I 
 gave him my penny. I had obeyed my instinct all 
 the summer, and now reason had intervened, reason 
 was in rebellion, and for a long time I avoided, or 
 seemed to avoid, the passage where the blind man 
 sat for eight or nine hours, glad to receive, but never 
 asking for alms. 
 
 I think I forgot the blind man for several months. 
 I only remembered him when I was sitting at home, 
 or when I was at the other side of the town, and 
 sometimes I thought I made myself little excuses 
 not to pass through the passage. Our motives are 
 vague, complex, and many, and one is never quite 
 sure why one does a thing, and if I were to say that 
 I did not give the blind man pennies that winter 
 because I believed it better to deprive him of his 
 means of livelihood and force him out of life than to 
 help him to remain in life and suffer, I should be 
 saying what was certainly untrue, yet the idea was 
 in my mind, and I experienced more than one twinge 
 of conscience when I passed through the passage. 
 I experienced remorse when I hurried past him, too 
 selfish to unbutton my coat, for every time I hap- 
 pened to pass him it was raining or blowing very 
 hard, and every time I hurried away trying to find 
 reasons why he bore his miserable life. I hurried to
 
 198 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 my business, my head full of chatter about St. Simon 
 Stylites, telling myself that he saw God far away at 
 the end of the sky, His immortal hands filled with 
 immortal recompenses ; reason chattered about the 
 compensation of celestial choirs, but instinct told me 
 that the blind man standing in the stone passage 
 knew of no such miraculous consolations. 
 
 As the winter advanced, as the winds grew 
 harsher, my avoidance of the passage grew more 
 marked, and one day I stopped to think, and ask 
 myself why I avoided it. 
 
 There was a faint warmth in the sky, and I heard 
 my heart speaking quite distinctly, and it said : 
 
 ' Go to the blind man what matter about your ten 
 minutes' delay ; you have been unhappy since you 
 refrained from alms-giving, and the blind beggar can 
 feel the new year beginning.' 
 
 ' You see, sir, I have added some shirt buttons and 
 studs to the pencils. I don't know how they will go, 
 but one never knows till one tries.' 
 
 Then he told me it was smallpox that destroyed 
 his eyes, and he was only eighteen at the time. 
 
 ' You must have suffered very much when they 
 told you your sight was going ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. I had the hump for six weeks.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 'It doubled me up, that it did. I sat with my 
 head in my hands for six weeks.' 
 
 ' And after that ?' 
 
 ' I didn't think any more about it what was the 
 good ?' 
 
 * Yes, but it must be difficult not to think, sitting 
 here all alone.'
 
 ALMS-GIVING 199 
 
 'One mustn't allow oneself to give way. One 
 would break down altogether if one did. I've some 
 friends, and in the evening I get plenty of exercise.' 
 
 ' What do you do in the evenings ?' 
 
 ' I turn a hay-cutting machine in a stable.' 
 
 ' And you're quite contented ?' 
 
 ' I don't think, sir, a happier man than I passes 
 through this gateway once a month.' 
 
 He told me his little boy came to fetch him in the 
 evening. 
 
 ' You're married ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, and I've got four children. They're 
 going away for their holidays next week.' 
 
 ' Where are they going ?' 
 
 ' To the sea. It will do them good ; a blow on 
 the beach will do them a power of good.' 
 
 ( And when they come back they will tell you 
 about it ?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' And do you ever go away for a holiday ?' 
 
 ( Last year I went with a policeman. A gentle- 
 man who passes this way, one of my friends, paid 
 four shillings for me. We had a nice dinner in a 
 public-house for a shilling, and then we went for a 
 walk.' 
 
 ' And this year are you going with the policeman ?' 
 
 ' I hope so, a friend of mine gave me half-a-crown 
 towards it.' 
 
 ' I'll give you the rest.' 
 
 ' Thankee, sir.' 
 
 A soft south wind was blowing, and an instinct as 
 soft and as gentle filled my heart, and I went 
 towards some trees. The new leaves were beginning
 
 200 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 in the high branches. I was sitting where sparrows 
 were building their nests, and very soon I seemed 
 to see farther into life than I had ever seen before. 
 ' We're here/ I said, ' for the purpose of learning 
 what life is, and the blind beggar has taught me 
 a great deal, something that I could not have learnt 
 out of a book, a deeper truth than any book con- 
 tains. . . .' And then I ceased to think, for think- 
 ing is a folly when a soft south wind is blowing and 
 an instinct as soft and as gentle fills the heart.
 
 SO ON HE FARES 
 
 IS mother had forbidden him to stray 
 about the roads and, standing at the 
 garden gate, little Ulick Burke often 
 thought he would like to run down to 
 the canal and watch the boats passing. 
 His father used to take him for walks along the tow- 
 ing path, but his father had gone away to the wars 
 two years ago, and standing by the garden gate he 
 remembered how his father used to stop to talk to 
 the lock-keepers. Their talk turned often upon the 
 canals and its business, and Ulick remembered that 
 the canal ended in the Shannon, and that the barges 
 met ships coming up from the sea. 
 
 He was a pretty child with bright blue eyes, soft 
 curls, and a shy winning manner, and he stood at the 
 garden gate thinking how the boats rose up in the 
 locks, how the gate opened and let the boats free, 
 and he wondered if his father had gone away to the 
 war in one of the barges. He felt sure if he were 
 going away to the war he would go in a barge. And 
 he wondered if the barge went as far as the war or 
 only as far as the Shannon. He would like to ask 
 his mother, but she would say he was troubling her 
 201
 
 202 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 with foolish questions, or she would begin to think 
 again that he wanted to run away from home. He 
 wondered if he were to hide himself in one of the 
 barges whether it would take him to a battlefield 
 where he would meet his father walking about with 
 a gun upon his shoulder. 
 
 And leaning against the gate-post, he swung one 
 foot across the other, though he had been told by his 
 mother that he was like one of the village children 
 when he did it. But his mother was always telling 
 him not to do something, and he could not remember 
 everything he must not do. He had been told not 
 to go to the canal lest he should fall in, nor into the 
 field lest he should tear his trousers. He had been 
 told he must not run about in the garden lest he 
 should tread on the flowers, and his mother was 
 always telling him he was not to talk to the school 
 children as they came back from school, though he 
 did not want to talk to them. There was a time 
 when he would have liked to talk to them : now he 
 ran to the other side of the garden when they were 
 coming home from school ; but there was no place 
 in the garden where he could hide himself from 
 them, unless he got into the dry ditch. The school 
 children were very naughty children ; they climbed 
 up the bank, and, holding on to the paling, they 
 mocked at him ; and their mockery was to ask him 
 the way to l Hill Cottage ' ; for his mother had had 
 the name painted on the gate, and no one else in 
 the parish had given their cottage a name. 
 
 However, he liked the dry ditch, and under the 
 branches, where the wren had built her nest, Ulick 
 was out of his mother's way, and out of the way of
 
 SO ON HE FARES 203 
 
 the boys ; and lying among the dead leaves he could 
 think of the barges floating away, and of his tall 
 father who wore a red coat and let him pull his 
 moustache. He was content to lie in the ditch for 
 hours, thinking he was a bargeman and that he would 
 like to use a sail. His father had told him that the 
 boats had sails on the Shannon if so it would be 
 easy to sail to the war ; and, breaking off in the 
 middle of some wonderful war adventure, some tale 
 about his father and his father's soldiers, he would 
 grow interested in the life of the ditch, in the 
 coming and going of the wren, in the chirrup of a 
 bird in the tall larches that grew beyond the paling. 
 
 Beyond the paling there was a wood full of moss- 
 grown stones and trees overgrown with ivy, and 
 Ulick thought that if he only dared to get over the 
 paling and face the darkness of the hollow on the 
 other side of the paling, he could run across the 
 meadow and call from the bank to a steersman. 
 The steersman might take him away ! But he was 
 afraid his mother might follow him on the next 
 barge, and he dreamed a story of barges drawn by 
 the swiftest horses in Ireland. 
 
 But dreams are but a makeshift life. He was 
 very unhappy, and though he knew it was wrong he 
 could not help laying plans for escape. Sometimes 
 he thought that the best plan would be to set fire to 
 the house ; for while his mother was carrying pails 
 of water from the backyard, he would run away ; but 
 he did not dare to think out his plan of setting fire 
 to the house, lest one of the spirits which dwelt in 
 the hollow beyond the paling should come and drag 
 him down a hole.
 
 204 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 One day he forgot to hide himself in the ditch, 
 and the big boy climbed up the bank, and asked him 
 to give him some gooseberries, and though Ulick 
 would have feared to gather gooseberries for himself, 
 he did not like to refuse the boy, and he gave him 
 some, hoping that the big boy would not laugh at 
 him again. And they became friends, and very soon 
 he was friends with them all, and they had many 
 talks clustered in the corner, the children holding 
 on to the palings, and Ulick hiding behind the 
 hollyhocks ready to warn them. 
 
 ' It's all right, she's gone to the village,' Ulick 
 said. One day the big boy asked him to come with 
 them ; they were going to spear eels in the brook, 
 and he was emboldened to get over the fence, and 
 to follow across the meadow, through the hazels, and 
 very soon it seemed to him that they had wandered 
 to the world's end. At last they came to the brook 
 and the big boy turned up his trousers, and Ulick 
 saw him lifting the stones with his left hand and 
 plunging a fork into the water with his right. When 
 he brought up a struggling eel at the end of the 
 fork, Ulick clapped his hands and laughed, and he 
 had never been so happy in his life before. 
 
 After a time there were no more stones to raise, 
 and sitting on the bank they began to tell stories. 
 His companions asked him when his father was 
 coming back from the wars, and he told them how 
 his father used to take him for walks up the canal, 
 and how they used to meet a man who had a tame 
 rat in his pocket. Suddenly the boys and girls 
 started up, crying, ' Here's the farmer,' and they ran 
 wildly across the fields. However, they got to the
 
 SO ON HE FARES 205 
 
 high road long before the fanner could catch them, 
 and his escape enchanted Ulick. Then the children 
 went their different ways, the big boy staying with 
 Ulick, who thought he must offer him some goose- 
 berries. So they crossed the fence together and 
 crouched under the bushes, and ate the gooseberries 
 till they wearied of them. Afterwards they went to 
 look at the bees, and while looking at the insects 
 crawling in and out of their little door, Ulick caught 
 sight of his mother, and she coming towards them. 
 Ulick cried out, but the big boy was caught before 
 he could reach the fence, and Ulick saw that, big as 
 the boy was, he could not save himself from a 
 slapping. He kicked out, and then blubbered, and 
 at last got away. In a moment it would be Ulick's 
 turn, and he feared she would beat him more than 
 she had beaten the boy, for she hated him, whereas 
 she was only vexed with the boy; she would give 
 him bread and water ; he had often had a beating 
 and bread and water for a lesser wickedness than 
 the bringing of one of the village boys into the 
 garden to eat gooseberries. 
 
 He put up his right hand and saved his right 
 cheek, and then she tried to slap him on the left, 
 but he put up his left hand, and this went on until 
 she grew so angry that Ulick thought he had better 
 allow her to slap him, for if she did not slap him at 
 once she might kill him. 
 
 'Down with your hands, sir, down with your 
 hands, sir/ she cried, but before he had time to let 
 her slap him, she said, ' I will give you enough of 
 bees,' and she caught one that had just rested on a 
 flower and put it down his neck. The bee stung
 
 206 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 him in the neck where the flesh is softest, and he 
 ran away screaming, unable to rid himself of the 
 bee. He broke through the hedges of sweet pea, 
 and he dashed through the poppies, trampling 
 through the flower beds, until he reached the dry 
 ditch. 
 
 There is something frightful in feeling a stinging 
 insect in one's back, and Ulick lay in the dry ditch, 
 rolling among the leaves in anguish. He thought 
 he was stung all over ; he heard his mother laughing 
 and she called him a coward through an opening in 
 the bushes, but he knew she could not follow him 
 down the ditch. His neck had already begun to 
 swell, but he forgot the pain of the sting in hatred. 
 He felt he must hate his mother, however wicked 
 it might be to do so. His mother had often slapped 
 him ; he had heard of boys being slapped, but no 
 one had ever put a bee down a boy's back before ; 
 he felt he must always hate her, and creeping up 
 through the brambles to where he could get a view 
 of the garden, he waited until he saw her walk up 
 the path into the house ; and then, stealing back to 
 the bottom of the ditch, he resolved to get over the 
 paling. A few minutes after he heard her calling 
 him, and then he climbed the paling, and he crossed 
 the dreaded hollow, stumbling over the old stones. 
 
 As he crossed the meadow he caught sight of a 
 boat coming through the lock, but the lock-keeper 
 knew him by sight, and would tell the bargeman 
 where he came from, and he would be sent home to 
 his mother. He ran on, trying to get ahead of the 
 boat, creeping through hedges, frightened lest he 
 should not be able to find the canal ! Now he
 
 SO ON HE FARES 207 
 
 stopped, sure that he had lost it ; his brain seemed 
 to be giving way, and he ran like a mad child up the 
 bank. Oh, what joy ! The canal flowed underneath 
 the bank. The horse had just passed, the barge 
 was coming, and Ulick ran down the bank calling to 
 the bargeman. He plunged into the water, getting 
 through the bulrushes. Half of the barge had 
 passed him, and he held out his hands. The ground 
 gave way and he went under the water ; green light 
 took the place of day, and when he struggled to the 
 surface he saw the rudder moving. He went under 
 again, and remembered no more until he opened his 
 eyes and saw the bargeman leaning over him. 
 
 ' Now, what ails you to be throwing yourself into 
 the water in that way ?' 
 
 Ulick closed his eyes ; he had no strength for 
 answering him, and a little while after he heard 
 someone come on board the barge, and he guessed 
 it must be the man who drove the horse. He lay 
 with his eyes closed, hearing the men talking of 
 what they should do with him. He heard a third 
 voice, and guessed it must be a man come up from 
 the cabin. This man said it would be better to take 
 him back to the last lock, and they began to argue 
 about who should carry him. Ulick was terribly 
 frightened, and he was just going to beg of them 
 not to bring him back when he heard one of them 
 say, ' It will be easier to leave him at the next lock.' 
 Soon after, he felt the boat start again, and when 
 Ulick opened his eyes, he saw hedges gliding past, 
 and he hoped the next lock was a long way off. 
 
 'Now,' said the steersman, e since you are awaking 
 out of your faint, you'll be telling us where you
 
 208 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 come from, because we want to send you home 
 again.' 
 
 'Oh,' he said, 'from a long way off, the Shannon.' 
 ' The Shannon !' said the bargeman. ' Why, that 
 is more than seventy miles away. How did you 
 come up here ?' 
 
 It was a dreadful moment. Ulick knew he must 
 give some good answer or he would find himself in 
 his mother's keeping very soon. But what answer 
 was he to give ? It was half accident, half cunning 
 that made him speak of the Shannon. The steers- 
 man said again, ' The Shannon is seventy miles away, 
 how did you get up here ?' and by this time Ulick 
 was aware that he must make the bargemen believe 
 he had hidden himself on one of the boats coming 
 up from the Shannon, and that he had given the 
 bargeman some money, and then he burst into tears 
 and told them he had been very unhappy at home ; 
 and when they asked him why he had been unhappy, 
 he did not answer, but he promised he would not be 
 a naughty boy any more if they would take him back 
 to the Shannon. He would be a good boy and not 
 run away again. His pretty face and speech per- 
 suaded the bargemen to bring him back to the 
 Shannon ; it was decided to say nothing about him 
 to the lock-keeper, and he was carried down to the 
 cabin. He had often asked his father if he might 
 see the bargeman's cabin ; and his father had 
 promised him that the next time they went to the 
 canal he should go on board a barge and see the 
 cabin ; but his father had gone away to the wars. 
 Now he was in the bargeman's cabin, and he won- 
 dered if they were going to give him supper and if
 
 SO ON HE FARES 209 
 
 he would be a bargeman himself when he grew up 
 to be a man. 
 
 Some miles farther the boat bumped the edge of 
 the bridge, and on the other side of the bridge there 
 was the lock, and he heard the lock gate shut behind 
 the boat and the water pour into the lock ; the lock 
 seemed a long time filling, and he was frightened 
 lest the lock-man might come down to the cabin, for 
 there was no place where he could hide. 
 
 After passing through the lock one of the men 
 came down to see him, and he was taken on deck, 
 and in the calm of the evening Ulick came to look 
 upon the bargemen as his good angels. They gave 
 him some of their supper, and when they arrived at 
 the next lock they made their beds on the deck, the 
 night being so warm. It seemed to Ulick that he 
 had never seen the night before, and he watched the 
 sunset fading streak by streak, and imagined he was 
 the captain of a ship sailing in the Shannon. The 
 stars were so bright that he could not sleep, and it 
 amused him to make up a long story about the 
 bargemen snoring by his side. The story ended 
 with the sunset and then the night was blue all 
 over, and raising himself out of his blanket he 
 watched the moonlight rippling down the canal. 
 Then the night grew grey. He began to feel very 
 cold, and wrapped himself in his blanket tightly, and 
 the world got so white that Ulick grew afraid, and 
 he was not certain whether it would not be better 
 to escape from the boat and run away while every- 
 body slept. 
 
 He lay awake maturing his little plan, seeing the
 
 210 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 greyness pass away and the sky fill up with pink and 
 fleecy clouds. 
 
 One of the men roused, and, without saying a 
 word, went to fetch a horse from the stables, and 
 another went to boil the kettle in the cabin, and 
 Ulick asked if he might help him ; and while he 
 blew the fire he heard the water running into the 
 lock, and thought what a fool they were making of 
 the lock-keeper, and when the boat was well on its 
 way towards the next lock the steersman called him 
 to come up, and they breakfasted together. Ulick 
 would have wished this life to go on for ever, but the 
 following day the steersman said : 
 
 'There is only one lock more between this and 
 our last stopping-place. Keep a look-out for your 
 mother's cottage.' 
 
 He promised he would, and he beguiled them all 
 the evening with pretended discoveries. That cabin 
 was his mother's cabin. No, it was farther on, he 
 remembered those willow trees. Ulick's object was 
 to get as far away from his home as possible ; to get 
 as near to the Shannon as he could. 
 
 ' There's not a mile between us and the Shannon 
 now,' said the steersman. * I believe you've been 
 telling us a lot of lies, my young man.' 
 
 Ulick said his mother lived just outside the town, 
 they would see the house when they passed through 
 the last lock, and he planned to escape that night, 
 and about an hour before the dawn he got up, and, 
 glancing at the sleeping men, he stepped ashore and 
 ran until he felt very tired. And when he could go 
 no farther he lay down in the hay in an outhouse. 
 
 A woman found him in the hay some hours after,
 
 SO ON HE FARES 211 
 
 and he told her his story, and as the woman seemed 
 very kind he laid some stress on his mother's cruelty. 
 He mentioned that his mother had put a bee down 
 his neck, and bending down his head he showed her 
 where the bee had stung him. She stroked his pretty 
 curls and looked into his blue eyes, and she said that 
 anyone who could put a bee down a boy's neck must 
 be a she-devil. 
 
 She was a lone widow longing for someone to look 
 after, and in a very short time Ulick was as much 
 loved by his chance mother as he had been hated by 
 his real mother. 
 
 Three years afterwards she died, and Ulick had to 
 leave the cottage. 
 
 He was now a little over thirteen, and knew the 
 ships and their sailors, and he went away in one of 
 the ships that came up the river, and sailed many 
 tunes round the coast of Ireland, and up all the 
 harbours of Ireland. He led a wild, rough life, and 
 his flight from home was remembered like a tale 
 heard in infancy, until one day, as he was steering 
 his ship up the Shannon, a desire to see what they 
 were doing at home came over him. The ship 
 dropped anchor, and he went to the canal to watch 
 the boats going home. And it was not long before 
 he was asking one of the bargemen if he would take 
 him on board. He knew what the rules were, and 
 he knew they could be broken, and how, and he said 
 if they would take him he would be careful the lock- 
 men did not see him, and the journey began. 
 
 The month was July, so the days were as endless 
 and the country was as green and as full of grass as 
 they were when he had come down the canal, and
 
 212 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 the horse strained along the path, sticking his toes 
 into it just as he had done ten years ago ; and when 
 they came to a dangerous place Ulick saw the man 
 who was driving the horse take hold of his tail, just 
 as he had seen him do ten years ago. 
 
 ' I think those are the rushes, only there are no 
 trees, and the bank doesn't seem so high.' And 
 then he said as the bargeman was going to stop his 
 horse, ' No, I am wrong. It isn't there.' 
 
 They went on a few miles farther, and the same 
 thing happened again. At last he said, ' Now I am 
 sure it is there.' 
 
 And the bargeman called to the man who was 
 driving the horse and stopped him, and Ulick jumped 
 from the boat to the bank. 
 
 ' That was a big leap you took,' said a small boy 
 who was standing on the bank. ' It is well you 
 didn't fall in.' 
 
 'Why did you say that?' said Ulick, 'is your 
 mother telling you not to go down to the 
 canal ?' 
 
 ' Look at the frog ! he's going to jump into the 
 water,' said the little boy. 
 
 He was the same age as Ulick was when Ulick 
 ran away, and he was dressed in the same little 
 trousers and little boots and socks, and he had a 
 little grey cap. Ulick's hair had grown darker now, 
 but it had been as fair and as curly as this little 
 boy's, and he asked him if his mother forbade him 
 to go down to the canal. 
 
 ' Are you a bargeman ? Do you steer the barge 
 or do you drive the horse ?' 
 
 ' I'll tell you about the barge if you'll tell me
 
 SO ON HE FARES 213 
 
 about your mother. Does she tell you not to come 
 down to the canal ?' 
 
 The boy turned away his head and nodded it: 
 
 ' Does she beat you if she catches you here ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no, mother never beats me.' 
 
 ' Is she kind to you ?' 
 
 'Yes, she's very kind, she lives up there, and 
 there's a garden to our cottage, and the name " Hill 
 Cottage " is painted up on the gate-post.' 
 
 ' Now,' said Ulick, ' tell me your name.' 
 
 ' My name is Ulick.' 
 
 ' Ulick ! And what's your other name ?' 
 
 ' Ulick Burke.' 
 
 'Ulick Burke!' said the big Ulick. 'Well, my 
 name is the same. And I used to live at Hill 
 Cottage too.' 
 
 The boy did not answer. 
 
 ' Whom do you live with ?' 
 
 ' I live with mother.' 
 
 ' And what's her name ?' 
 
 ' Well, Burke is her name,' said the boy. 
 
 ' But her front name ?' 
 
 ' Catherine.' 
 
 'And where's your father?' 
 
 ' Oh, father's a soldier ; he's away.' 
 
 ' But my father was a soldier too, and I used to 
 live in that cottage." 
 
 ' And where have you been ever since ?' 
 
 ' Oh,' he said, ' I've been a sailor. I think I will 
 go in the cottage with you.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said little Ulick, ' come up and see mother, 
 and you'll tell me where you've been sailing,' and he 
 put his hand into the seafarer's.
 
 214 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 And now the seafarer began to lose his reckoning ; 
 the compass no longer pointed north. He had been 
 away for ten years, and coming back he had found 
 his own self, the self that had jumped into the water 
 at this place ten years ago. Why had not the little 
 boy done as he had done, and been pulled into the 
 barge and gone away. If this had happened Ulick 
 would have believed he was dreaming or that he was 
 mad. But the little boy was leading him, yes, he 
 remembered the way, there was the cottage, and its 
 paling, and its hollyhocks. And there was his mother 
 coming out of the house, and very little changed. 
 
 ' Ulick, where have you been ? Oh, you naughty 
 boy,' and she caught the little boy up and kissed 
 him. And so engrossed was her attention in her 
 little son that she had not noticed the man he had 
 brought home with him. 
 
 ' Now who is this ?' she said. 
 
 ' Oh, mother, he jumped from the boat to the 
 bank, and he will tell you, mother, that I was not 
 near the bank.' 
 
 ' Yes, mother, he was ten yards from the bank ; 
 and now tell me, do you think you ever saw me 
 before ? . . .' 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 ' Oh, it's you ! Why we thought you were 
 drowned.' 
 
 ' I was picked up by a bargeman.' 
 
 ' Well, come into the house and tell us what you've 
 been doing.' 
 
 ' I've been seafaring,' he said, taking a chair. 
 ' But what about this Ulick ?' 
 
 ' He's your brother, that's all.'
 
 SO ON HE FARES 215 
 
 His mother asked him of what he was thinking, 
 and Ulick told her how greatly astonished he had 
 been to find a little boy exactly like himself, waiting 
 at the same place. 
 
 ' And father ?' 
 
 * Your father is away.' 
 
 'So,' he said, 'this little boy is my brother. I 
 should like to see father. When is he coming back ?' 
 
 ' Oh,' she said, ' he won't be back for another three 
 years. He enlisted again.' 
 
 'Mother,' said Ulick, 'you don't seem very glad 
 to see me.' 
 
 ' I shall never forget the evening we spent when 
 you threw yourself into the canal. You were a 
 wicked child.' 
 
 ' And why did you think I was drowned ?' 
 
 ' Well, your cap was picked up in the bulrushes.' 
 
 He thought that whatever wickedness he had 
 been guilty of might have been forgiven, and he 
 began to feel that if he had known how his mother 
 would receive him he would not have come home. 
 
 ' Well, the dinner is nearly ready. You'll stay 
 and have some with us, and we can make you up a 
 bed in the kitchen.' 
 
 He could see that his mother wished to welcome 
 him, but her heart was set against him now as it had 
 always been. Her dislike had survived ten years of 
 absence. He had gone away and had met with a 
 mother who loved him, and had done ten years' 
 hard seafaring. He had forgotten his real mother 
 forgotten everything except the bee and the hatred 
 that gathered in her eyes when she put it down his 
 back ; and that same ugly look he could now see
 
 216 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 gathering in her eyes, and it grew deeper every 
 hour he remained in the cottage. His little brother 
 asked him to tell him tales about the sailing ships, 
 and he wanted to go down to the canal with Ulick, 
 but their mother said he was to bide here with her. 
 The day had begun to decline, his brother was crying, 
 and he had to tell him a sea-story to stop his crying. 
 ' But mother hates to hear my voice,' he said to him- 
 self, and he went out into the garden when the 
 story was done. It would be better to go away, 
 and he took one turn round the garden and got over 
 the paling at the end of the dry ditch, at the place 
 he had got over it before, and he walked through 
 the old wood, where the trees were overgrown with 
 ivy, and the stones with moss. In this second 
 experience there was neither terror nor mystery 
 only bitterness. It seemed to him a pity that he 
 had ever been taken out of the canal, and he thought 
 how easy it would be to throw himself in again, but 
 only children drown themselves because their mothers 
 do not love them ; life had taken a hold upon him, 
 and he stood watching the canal, though not waiting 
 for a boat. But when a boat appeared he called to 
 the man who was driving the horse to stop, for it was 
 the same boat that had brought him from the Shannon. 
 
 ' Well, was it all right ?' the steersman said. ' Did 
 you find the house ? How were they at home ?' 
 
 ' They're all right at home,' he said ; ' but father 
 is still away. I am going back. Can you take me ?' 
 
 The evening sky opened calm and benedictive, 
 and the green country flowed on, the boat passed by 
 ruins, castles and churches, and every day was alike 
 until they reached the Shannon.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 I 
 
 !? E remembered a green, undulating country 
 3 out of which the trees seemed to emerge 
 like vapours, and a line of pearl-coloured 
 mountains showing above the horizon on 
 fine days. And this was all. But this 
 slight colour-memory had followed him all through 
 his wanderings. His parents had emigrated to 
 Manchester when he was nine, and when he was six- 
 teen he felt that he must escape from Manchester, 
 from the overwhelming dreariness of the brick 
 chimneys and their smoke cloud. He had joined a 
 travelling circus on its way to the Continent, and he 
 crossed with it from Newhaven to Dieppe in charge 
 of the lions. The circus crossed in a great storm ; 
 Ned was not able to get about, and the tossing of the 
 vessel closed the ventilating slides, and when they 
 arrived at Dieppe the finest lion was dead. 
 
 ' Well, there are other things in life besides looking 
 after lions,' he said, and, taking up his fiddle, he 
 became interested in it. He played it all the way 
 across the Atlantic, and everybody said there was 
 no reason why he should not play in the Opera 
 House. But an interview with the conductor dis- 
 217
 
 218 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 pelled some illusions, and when he learnt what 
 would be required of him, he began to lose interest 
 in his musical career. As he stood jingling his 
 pence on the steps of the Opera House he saw a 
 man go by who had come over with him, and at the 
 end of five minutes' talk Ned was asked if he could 
 draw a map according to scale. It would profit him 
 nothing to say no ; he had drawn maps in school. 
 A bargain was struck. He was to get ten pounds 
 for his map. He ordered a table, pinned out the 
 paper, and the map was finished in a fortnight 
 a map of a certain mining district ; and, having 
 nothing to do when it was finished, he thought he 
 would like to see the mine ; the owners encouraged 
 him to go there. He did some mining in the 
 morning, in the evening he played his fiddle, and 
 eventually became a journalist. 
 
 He wandered and wrote and wandered again, until 
 one day, finding himself in New York, he signed an 
 agreement to edit a paper ; but he soon wearied of 
 expressing the same opinions, and as the newspaper 
 could not change its opinions, Ned volunteered to 
 go to Cuba and write about the insurgents. His 
 articles were inflammatory of course, he being an 
 Irishman ; and as soon as America declared war 
 against the Spaniards, being an Irishman he enlisted, 
 and fought so well that he might have become a 
 General if the war had lasted. 
 
 But it was over, and, overpowered by an extra- 
 ordinary dislike to New York, he felt he must travel. 
 He wanted to see Europe again, and remembering 
 the green plain of Meath, he said : ' I'll go to 
 Ireland.'
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 219 
 
 His father and mother were dead, and without a 
 thought of his relatives, he read of Ireland and her 
 Kings out of a book from the library. The book 
 often dropped off his knee, and he fell to think- 
 ing of the green hill of Tara. He had been born 
 not far from Tara, and might as well begin to see 
 Ireland from Tara as elsewhere. 
 
 But two more days would have to pass away before 
 the coast would begin to appear, and, bewitched 
 by memories, he walked up and down the deck 
 whistling ' The Harp that Rang Through Tara's 
 Halls ' ; and so beautifully did he whistle the tune 
 that it seemed to the passengers on board the steamer 
 as if they had never heard it before. He began to 
 remember the old airs, bringing them out one after 
 the other, discovering them phrase by phrase, and 
 often going over a tune a dozen times in search of a 
 single note, but getting it in the end ; and when he 
 stepped out of the train at Kilmessen no song seemed 
 so appropriate to the occasion as ' The Harp that 
 Rang,' but nobody seemed to recognize the air at 
 the station, nor on the road to the village, nor in the 
 village. 
 
 ' They do not seem to recognize their own tunes,' 
 he muttered to himself. But every man and woman 
 he passed was interested in him ; every man and 
 woman he passed admired his braided coat and the 
 folds into which his trousers seemed to drift quite 
 naturally. Every woman said in her heart, ' He is 
 very good-looking,' pondered on his nose, for it was 
 fine and straight and thin, and still more did his 
 moustache, a frizzle of gold, captivate them ; and 
 they liked his eyes, for they were full of smiles,
 
 220 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 and there was a caress in his voice when he asked 
 the women to direct him. Both sexes were con- 
 scious of it as an affectation, but this did not detract 
 from his charm, but on the contrary it seemed to 
 add to it. 
 
 'Yes, sir,' the woman answered him eagerly ; ' if you 
 follow the path it will lead you to the top of the hill.' 
 
 And he passed on, nodding to the cottagers as he 
 passed them, bidding them the time of day in the 
 very manner of the country, which he had already 
 caught although this was only his second day in 
 Ireland, daring already to reprove them for not 
 having any Irish ; he would have liked to have heard 
 the Irish language for the first time on Tara's hill ; 
 but as if to recompense him for the absence of the 
 language, the half-tipsy Squire, lounging on the 
 worn hillside with his bailiffs, withstood his right of 
 way, only allowing him to pass when they discovered 
 him to be an American by his accent, and not a 
 rascally Dublin journalist come down to deny the 
 Squire's right to dig up a monument and throw it 
 into the sea if he were so inclined. 
 
 ' A monument,' Ned said to himself, looking round 
 for King Cormac's statue, and seeing it nowhere ; but 
 feeling the moment was not one for verbal criticism, 
 he listened deferentially to the Squire's drunken 
 utterances, and with some success, for in about two 
 minutes he had fully grasped the fact that certain 
 patriots and journalists were getting up an action 
 against the Squire to prevent him and a friend from 
 excavating the Rath of the Hostages, though they had 
 proved that the Ark of the Covenant would be found 
 there.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 221 
 
 ' The Ark of the Covenant !' Ned repeated, unable 
 to believe his ears. 
 
 'Yes, the Ark of the Covenant/ the Squire re- 
 repeated, 'we're digging for it.' 
 
 In a moment after Ned was forced to believe his 
 eyes, for before him was a great trench some five- 
 and-twenty feet deep, with six men throwing up 
 earth out of it. 
 
 ' A subject for an article, digging for the Ark of 
 the Covenant on Tara's hills,' he said ; and he 
 listened to the Squire trying to tell how the Ark of 
 the Covenant had come to Tara. But the Squire had 
 had too much whisky to tell any story, and it was his 
 friend who volunteered to tell that the Ark had been 
 taken to Egypt by the grandson of the prophet 
 Jeremiah, where it had lain for many years in the 
 possession of Egyptian princesses, one of whom 
 married an Iberian chieftain a man who, though a 
 pagan, was possessed by the instinct of Christianity. 
 Ned wondered what the Ark of the Covenant had to 
 do with Christianity, but he did not press the point, 
 preferring to listen to the tale of the Iberian chieftain 
 who had voyaged round the Mediterranean hugging 
 the shore, bringing the great treasure through the 
 Straits of Gibraltar, along the coasts of Spain and 
 France. He noticed that the Squire listened to his 
 tenant's tale approvingly, and then, as if to give 
 further point to it, the Squire informed Ned that his 
 friend was a great sausage-maker in Limerick, who 
 had worked for half a century accumulating money, 
 sustained always by the hope that by the end of his 
 life he would go to Tara and discover the Ark. 
 
 ' A wonderful slice of human nature is this drunken
 
 222 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 Squire and his friend the sausage-maker/ Ned said 
 to himself, and turning to the sausage-maker he 
 learnt that the legend of the burial of the Ark of the 
 Covenant in Tara was one of the oldest of Ireland's 
 stories. 
 
 ' Godfrey Keating mentions it,' the sausage-maker 
 interjected, and the men walked on together, Ned 
 listening to them amused, for the story seemed to 
 represent to him in some strange way the genius of the 
 Irish people. He could not tell how or why, but he 
 recognized Ireland and himself in the tale if not 
 his present self, at all events some far-distant self. 
 
 * My present self is but a sort of echo of the tale/ 
 he thought, feeling the word ' echo ' to be as near to 
 his meaning as any he could find that morning. 
 
 f And perhaps/ he said, ' this is the very stream/ 
 looking towards the stream that flowed from the well, 
 ' of the Neamhtach or Pearly which Grania crossed 
 when she fled from Tara with Diarmuid, leaving her 
 father, King Cormac, Finn, and his warriors asleep.' 
 All had drunk of the drugged wine except Diarmuid, 
 Caoelte and Usheen. For the old story-teller, 
 Ned reflected, was never minded to tell a senti- 
 mental story, but stories of fated love that ended 
 always in death. Diarmuid and Grania was the 
 most terrible he had ever told. She appears from 
 the first like a sort of luminous poison, a phosphores- 
 cent light spreading outwards, circles widening ever. 
 The wine is not drugged at Tara for true love, for she 
 burns as much for Caoelte and Usheen as for Diar- 
 muid ; and the story-teller gives us to understand 
 that Diarmuid, too, would have refused to break his 
 oath of fealty to Finn if Grania had not put bonds
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 223 
 
 upon him. For seven years Finn followed them 
 along Ireland and across Ireland. As long as there 
 were portents of danger and disaster she was happy ; 
 but when Finn tired of pursuit, and Diarmuid settled 
 down to sheep -farming in Connaught, she wearied of 
 him and never let him have any peace till he sent for 
 Finn. The old story-teller seemed to have always 
 kept before him the fact that Diarmuid was a 
 delightful caprice of her blood, for when crossing a 
 stream perhaps this stream she had said, speaking 
 of the water that had wetted her legs, * You are a 
 great warrior, Diarmuid, but this water is braver than 
 you.' And wondering if the bailiffs knew this very 
 pretty folk-invention, and they living on the spot, 
 Ned told the story to the Squire, who said : 
 
 * It was there he made a woman of her.' And on 
 the spur of the moment invented many ribald jokes, 
 till one of his men, seeing that Ned was annoyed at 
 the master, whispered confidentially that it was not 
 in this stream that Grania had made a mock of Diar- 
 muid, but in a river two days' journey from Tara. 
 
 ' You are telling the story wrong,' the Squire 
 chuckled. 'It was in Connaught that he tupped 
 her ... a barren ewe always hanging after the ram.' 
 
 ' One that would be better out of the flock !' a 
 bailiff chimed in. 
 
 1 A later and a corrupt version of the story,' replied 
 Ned, and his eyes wandered from field to field con- 
 trasting the pale green of the grass with the dark 
 green of the hedges. ' All my cherished memory of 
 Ireland !' he said. ' Trees emerging like vapours, and 
 the same green flowing on always the same, with far 
 away a line of dim hills visible on fine days.'
 
 224 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' The Garden of Eden,' he added, * full of happy 
 herds, and nowhere a curl of smoke from a cottage 
 chimney. How much more beautiful the world is 
 without man ! But is that certain ? Was it not man 
 that made the world that we admire ? And is it not 
 true that soon after his disappearance the water in 
 the choked brooks will overflow and lie stagnant in 
 the fields and briars run out from the hedges ; with- 
 out man the world would become God's wilderness 
 again, and the happy herds that we eat would find 
 no grass anywhere, only scrub. We give them grass, 
 and only ask beefsteaks in return.' 
 
 At that moment his thoughts were interrupted by 
 one of the bailiffs. 
 
 ' This stream, sir, is the one that turned the first 
 water-mill in Ireland, and it was put up by King 
 Cormac to save a beautiful bondmaid from toiling at 
 the quern.' 
 
 ' A very proper thing to do/ he answered, and, 
 fearing further coarse jests from the Squire, he 
 turned the talk without difficulty from women to 
 drink, the day being hot; and the Squire and his 
 attendant apparitors strolled down the hillside 
 towards the inn, the bailiffs entertaining Ned with 
 the enumeration of the different historic places in 
 Meath which they would wish him to visit there 
 were the Druid's shrines of Douth and New Grange. 
 
 ' Only a lot of old stones,' interjected the Squire, 
 ' not worth your while to look at, and both twenty 
 miles from here,' he added, as though he were set on 
 turning Ned from visiting them. 
 
 ' I think I should like to see them. But twenty 
 miles is a long way on a hot day,' Ned answered.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 225 
 
 ' You mustn't be thinking of walking it, sir, for 
 you wouldn't be getting there before nightfall, and 
 sorra a bed in the place for you. You must go back 
 to Dublin.' 
 
 ' Mr. O'Flynn is telling yer right/ whispered one 
 of the bailiffs. ' Go back to Dublin and start from 
 there, and don't be minding what the master says. 
 It's only his talk he'd be sorry enough if you was 
 to lave the country without seeing them.' 
 
 II 
 
 Next day Ned was on his hands and knees 
 crawling through the narrow passage out of the 
 hollow hill of New Grange. And while eating his 
 noonday meal among the thorn bushes that covered 
 the ancient shrine, he said : 
 
 ' Our barbaric ancestors built for posterity. Three 
 thousand years have not changed a single stone, 
 and three thousand years hence this shrine will be 
 much the same, the same as it is to-day.' 
 
 'A shrine outlasts its creed,' he added, rising to 
 his feet ; and while feasting his eyes on the beautiful 
 green country dozing under the sunny sky, he asked 
 himself how it was that he had lived so long out of 
 Ireland unstirred by a single longing for things of 
 long ago. 
 
 ' In America we think it is better to be than to 
 have been. But what is to be ?' he said ; and unable 
 to find an answer to this question, he decided that the 
 readers of his paper would require something more 
 actual than his dreams of the distant peoples that
 
 226 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 had come to New Grange to worship, when the 
 country was all morass and hazel scrub. 'Some 
 human passion and desire,' he reflected, 'must be 
 gotten into this landscape almost empty of human- 
 kind. And thinking how this might be done, he 
 wandered on interested in Ireland's slattern life, 
 touched by the kindness and simplicity of the people. 
 ' Poor people/ he said, ' how touching it is to find 
 them trying to learn their own language, as foreign 
 to them as Latin or Greek.' 
 
 ' The revival of the language will make an article,' 
 he said ; and he was soon considering how he might 
 convey his first impressions of his native land in a 
 series of articles his innate sympathy for Ireland and 
 his long estrangement from her. And conscious of 
 the difficulty of his task, he stopped at every gate to 
 talk with herdsmen, thinking every moment that he 
 would learn the secrets of their lives from them, or 
 at least their opinions regarding the main features of 
 their lives, what they meant when they spoke of 
 striking a blow for Ireland, and their devotion to 
 their Holy Mother the Church. But after every 
 talk he strolled on, saying to himself, ' They are 
 without the secret of utterance, they feel as keenly 
 as we do, but they cannot explain themselves/ and 
 bidding them good-bye he went on a little farther 
 and buttonholed a policeman. But the policeman, 
 like the herdsmen, could only repeat empty formulas. 
 ' The art of revelation has been denied to these 
 people/ he muttered ; and weary of ideas he stopped 
 one evening to admire an old iron gate that had swung 
 on its hinges for at least a century ; and he started 
 musing on the history of the house itself, pleasantly
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 227 
 
 situated in the Dublin mountains, a farmhouse or stead 
 built out of rough stones, only a little hacked with the 
 stonemason's chisel. ' Only one degree removed from 
 a Norman keep/ he said ; and feeling sure he could 
 presume on the owner's goodwill, he peeped into 
 the deep areas also built of great stones and wilding 
 bushes. He had been a rover all his life. Perhaps 
 this was why he liked houses that looked as though 
 they had been built to last for ever. He had acquired 
 no habits, but he liked habits. ' For habits,' he said, 
 as he leaned over the gate, ' tell us whence we have 
 come and what we are. Now the men and women 
 of this house have lain down in their beds and risen 
 from their beds at the same hours generation after 
 generation, and sat down to dinner at the same long 
 oaken table. How very wonderful !' In such a 
 house he, too, might acquire habits. And it seemed 
 to him that he could foresee the parlour with its little 
 horsehair sofa and faded pictures probably dogs 
 going after birds. He'd like to live here if the delight- 
 ful people of the stead would accept him as a lodger ? 
 If they would, what luck, for he could learn Ireland's 
 story here better than in any other house he had seen. 
 The stead had its faults, it was too near Dublin ; 
 Dublin was only ten miles away. But it stood in 
 the midst of a mountain region amongst primitive 
 people, to whom it would be delightful to listen in 
 the evening; and in the morning he would find 
 shepherds among the hills who would instruct him 
 in their folk-lore, under the shade of some scarp. It 
 would be useless to hope for a little Irish ; the old 
 language was dead in this part of the county, which 
 was a pity, else he might have been tempted to
 
 228 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 study it. But it was quite possible that turf was 
 burnt still in large eighteenth-century grates. 
 
 ' You wouldn't like me to go back to America and 
 I never having thrown a sod of turf on the fire ?' he 
 pleaded. ' And I born and bred in the county itself,' 
 he added, 'and my father before me ?' 
 
 He was such a nice young man that Mrs. Grattan 
 felt she could refuse him nothing ; she would send 
 to Dublin for a creel. He would have preferred the 
 creel of turf to have come from the bog, but there 
 did not seem to be any bogs in this part of the 
 country; and, feeling he must not be too exact- 
 ing, he listened with excessive politeness to 
 Mrs. Grattan, who was telling him of the advantages 
 of the country, adorning her description with the 
 names of those who required shooting on the moun- 
 tains and fishing in the rivers. 
 
 ' There are some nice fish in the Liffey, sir, and 
 salmon come up the Liffey.' 
 
 ' I am sorry I neither shoot nor fish,' he answered. 
 ' I am a writer, or to speak more exactly, perhaps, I 
 should say a journalist.' 
 
 A cloud came into Mrs. Grattan's face at the word 
 'journalist,' and he wondered at this cloud and he 
 asked himself if she disliked journalists because she 
 feared to find herself and her house in the news- 
 papers, or had she had a journalist for a lodger who 
 had left without paying his bill ? 
 
 But his talk was so pleasant that the cloud died 
 out of her face, and she listened forgetful that time 
 was passing, and was glad that he liked the vale 
 of the Liffey more than Meath.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 229 
 
 ' No landscape/ he said, ' is really sympathetic to 
 me that hasn't a river in it.' 
 
 But she did not understand the subsequent 
 remark that whereas County Meath was all meat 
 County Dublin was all milk, nor his reluctance to go 
 to Dublin to fetch his trunk, for he had taken his 
 rooms for the summer. 
 
 ' Mrs. Grattan, I should like to pay you a month 
 in advance.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir !' 
 
 The proposal an unwise one rose out of his 
 fear that she might tell him she had let her rooms 
 when he returned from Dublin. But he could not 
 ask her to go to Dublin to fetch his trunk for him. 
 
 ' The walk is a long one/ he said, looking at her 
 inquiringly. 
 
 'You'll be getting a car at Terenure, sir.' He 
 left her thinking he had discovered a real Irish 
 house, dreaming always of the past, of the legends, 
 of the heroes, yet preferring an archbishop to any 
 hero. ' And always paying the priest/ he said to 
 himself a few days afterwards. 'The title of my 
 book shall be A Western Thibet, and it will be 
 finished in three or four months if nothing comes 
 between me and it. I am beginning to understand 
 them milk in one county, meat in another, cheese 
 nowhere ; the Irish have not yet arrived at the 
 cheese stage.' 
 
 ' Do you eat cheese, Mrs. Grattan ?' he asked her 
 when she brought in his mutton chop. 
 
 ' Well, not very often, sir. We're not great cheese- 
 eaters in Ireland.' 
 
 1 Not of late years, but in the old stories cheese is
 
 230 THE UNT1LLED FIELD 
 
 often mentioned. You are the herdsmen of modern 
 times. Your fairs ' 
 
 ' If you are writing about the country, sir, you 
 should go to see one of our fairs. The fair at Corrie 
 is one of the biggest about here.' 
 
 ' When is it ?' 
 
 ' Next week, sir.' 
 
 And at six o'clock next Monday morning he was 
 on his way to Corrie, convinced that the Irish were 
 herdsmen to-day in the same instinctive sense as they 
 were when King Cormac and Finn McColl drank 
 the drugged wine at Tara. 
 
 ' We Americans are so superficial ! We'd set up 
 industries in this beautiful pastoral country which is 
 so pretty in its neglect. We'd tidy up everything. 
 But we'd do well to leave them herdsmen, for their 
 scissors and knives would be the very worst. They 
 would hate smelting, whereas ' 
 
 He stopped to admire, for though he was still 
 some miles from the village, the fair had already 
 begun, buyers having advanced far out into the 
 country so as to anticipate rivals. 
 
 'The finest herdsmen and the finest horsemen,' he 
 muttered to himself, when a gate was held across 
 the road and a boy rode a horse barebacked over it 
 with a rope in its jaws for bridle. ' What they like is 
 a horse,' Ned remarked to himself, 'and a bad rider 
 
 is as rare in Ireland as a bad cook is in France ' 
 
 A great deal of buying and selling was in progress, 
 and at every bid hands were grasped. But the 
 great clapping of hands ceased suddenly and every 
 head was uncovered. 
 
 'The Angelus, sir,' a peasant said in answer to his 
 question ; and as soon as the prayer was over every-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 231 
 
 body bought a pipe from an old woman sitting 
 behind a cockle store, evidently for luck. 
 
 'They can't all have forgotten their pipes, or 
 maybe it is the custom of the country to buy from 
 her.' 
 
 The fair was now in full clamour in the main 
 street. Another street joins the main street, and 
 up and down this Y-shaped village herdsmen were 
 shouting, and whacking their beasts, forcing them 
 backwards until their tails hung over the half-doors 
 of the houses, or forcing them forwards until their 
 noses pressed against the windows ; and not know- 
 ing whither to go, bullock strove against bullock, 
 getting up on each other's backs. To avoid the 
 passing hooves, dogs and cats had been gathered 
 into the houses, but a Buff Orpington, and a very nice 
 chicken too, not happening to escape in time, was 
 trodden on, and thinking no one was watching him, 
 a man picked up the bird and hid it within the lining 
 of his coat. He started shouting immediately after- 
 wards, and up went his stick, and down it came on 
 a white steer. 
 
 ' One gets a chicken and the other a blow,' Ned 
 said, 'such is the way of the world.' ' But who are 
 they ?' he asked. 
 
 Three boon companions evidently they were three 
 well-known characters he judged them to be ; and 
 applying to a passer-by for information, he learned 
 that the giant was Michael Moran. And his eyes 
 followed a great bulk twenty stone weight and six feet 
 six for certain, accoutred in tarpaulins for though 
 the sun shone frequently, the showers were heavy 
 Ned reckoned the giant's boots to be several pounds 
 in weight ; the tarpaulin hat was like a small haycock ;
 
 232 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 and he liked the great round funny face under it, the 
 mouth in it turned up like a new moon. As if aware 
 of the admiration he excited, Michael Moran walked 
 talking and laughing between his admiring disciples, 
 the biggest stick in the fair in the hand of little Patsy 
 Flynn, a face as curious as a ferret's with bunches of 
 red whiskers. 
 
 'And for sartin, the best joke in Connaught at 
 the end of his tongue at this moment !' 
 
 ' And who did you say the third man was ?' 
 
 ' Is it Jimmy Welsh you are asking the podgeen 
 at the other side of Michael ?' 
 
 ' I didn't see him rightly,' Ned answered. * But 
 who is Michael ?' 
 
 ' So you never heard of Michael ?' 
 
 ' I'm a stranger in these parts home from America 
 on a holiday.' 
 
 ' Well, then, when you go back you will be able 
 to be telling them of Michael, the biggest pig-jobber 
 in Connaught, he that buys pigs on one side of the 
 county and sells on the other, making a fine profit ! 
 Now as they'll be wanting to hear of Patsy Flynn 
 and Jimmy Welsh, I'll tell you a story ' 
 
 At that moment Ned's attention was drawn to a 
 woman, tall and strong as a man, dressed in thick skirts 
 and wearing great boots like a drover. She went 
 about brandishing a stick, cursing all those who 
 laughed at her cow, a poor skeleton beast which she 
 had been driving unmercifully up and down the fair 
 since eight in the morning. The tired beast hardly 
 responded to her stick, and everybody was laughing. 
 The cattle-dealers and the herdsmen gathered round, 
 teasing her with threepenny bits. ' The value of the
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 23S 
 
 hide/ they said ; and the success of the fair was when 
 a man asked the poor woman if she would share a bet 
 with him. He would bet any gentleman present 
 half-a-crown that he could read a newspaper through 
 the cow. Would any gentleman present oblige him 
 with the loan of a newspaper ? A friend pulled one 
 from his pocket, and the woman struck at her 
 tormentors and chased them round her cow, and her 
 invective was so vehement and so picturesque that 
 Ned could not help wondering. 
 
 ' As well as the gift of herding, they possess the 
 gift of blasphemy,' he said. And he began to wonder 
 at the patience with which the sellers waited for the 
 buyers, keeping their animals back with raised sticks 
 and shouts when they showed any tendency to stray. 
 But it did not seem to him that much business was 
 being done ; he caught sight of the same animals in 
 the same places as he passed up and down, and it 
 was a relief to see a herd of bullocks driven under 
 an archway. 'These have undoubtedly changed 
 hands,' he said ; and he admired the obstinacy of a 
 red steer that would not enter the yard. 'The 
 animal possibly suspects that he is required for beef- 
 steaks.' He came upon a dozen fat sheep ; and two 
 men, butchers no doubt, were feeling for their 
 ribs through their fleece. ' But the sheep are less 
 suspicious/ he said, and wandered on in search of 
 new material for an article, coming at the end of the 
 town upon two men in carts under a tarpaulin vaunt- 
 ing the merits of old clothes. 
 
 ' Down with the landlords !' cried one, catching 
 sight of Ned, who, feeling he could give back an 
 answer as well as another man, said :
 
 234. THE UNTILLKD FIELD 
 
 ' Now, where would you be buying your old clothes 
 if there were no landlords ? Many's the fine jacket 
 you've got from them maybe you'd like to have a 
 look into my wardrobe.' 
 
 The men looked at him for a moment. 
 
 c I guess you've left most of it over yonder,' said 
 one, for Ned's accent had betrayed him. ' We don't 
 deal in American cloth !' 
 
 A shout of laughter went up, and, feeling he had 
 been outmatched, Ned did not stop again till he 
 came upon some pig-jobbers, dexterous in lifting the 
 pigs into the creels by their hind-legs and their tails, 
 and so quickly that they hadn't time to squeal. 
 
 ' He do be wanting a sup of water, but I can't 
 leave the sheep,' said a herdsman, speaking of his dog. 
 
 ' Then I'll be going and getting him one.' 
 
 The jobber looked at Ned in surprise. 
 
 ' You'll be wanting a drink yourself.' It was then 
 that Ned awoke to the fact that his tongue was like 
 a lump of dried sponge. 
 
 ' A drink !' he cried ; ' anything ! Lemon squash, 
 ginger beer, lemonade !' 
 
 f We have no call for them drinks.' 
 
 1 Then porter, and quickly ! Or spirit John 
 Jameson seven year old.' 
 
 * We have none.' 
 
 ' Porter.' 
 
 ( Will you have it here or shall I bring it into the 
 tap-room ?' 
 
 A seat in a cool tap-room appealed to him ; he 
 had been on his legs since early morning, but such 
 a reek met him on the threshold that he was over- 
 come for a moment.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 235 
 
 ' A fine warm smell, sir/ was the remark of a 
 drover in Ned's ear. ' I can't stand it/ Ned said, 
 and went out, his eye alighting on some forty or 
 fifty calves penned in a corner, a small patch of 
 hair clipped from the left shoulder of every one of 
 them. 
 
 ' The mark of the butchers that have bought them, 
 a couple of Frenchmen who have gone back to 
 Dublin to get their notes changed. It's for them 
 that the fellows in the tap-room do be waiting, 
 drinking the money they have had in advance for 
 the calves, and it's them that can afford to get 
 drunk this morning should they feel disposed, con- 
 sidering the price they got for their bastes, three 
 pounds ten up to four pounds a-piece. A few gallons 
 of porter divided up between them won't be felt.' 
 
 ' Not until the morning/ Ned interjected. 
 
 'Them fellows have heads on them as hard as the 
 rocks on the hill, and a fine price they French 
 butchers will make on the calves for finer I've 
 never laid eyes on if they follows my advice, which 
 is not to wather the bastes ; even if they do be los- 
 ing four or five, they'll be gainers in the end.' 
 
 ' So while the calves are dying of thirst, them that 
 reared them will be drinking !' 
 
 ' Or retching ! For as many as fifteen gallons 
 they've drunk between them, and I doubt if there 
 will be one sober enough among them to count the 
 Frenchmen's money.' 
 
 ' Do you know who that man is the one that's 
 just gone by he that's wearing the straw hat you 
 don't ?' 
 
 ' Well that's Mr. Cronin, one of the biggest dairy-
 
 236 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 men in the county of Dublin, milking more than sixty 
 cows, and with the benefit of spring water at his 
 very door to help him through the winter. You 
 can't but know his house if you come from Tallagh, 
 about a mile down the road, straight as you can go 
 from Mrs. Grattan's. And you've heard tell of his 
 daughter Ellen, the prettiest girl in these parts, if 
 you have no aversion to red hair.' 
 
 ' So that's Cronin/ Ned said to himself, and bid- 
 ding the drover God speed, he started for home, 
 thinking that a girl who is like her father is never 
 quite so interesting as a girl that reminds you of no 
 one you've ever seen before. 
 
 It was about a mile up the road that he heard the 
 sound of wheels. 
 
 ' If you'd like a lift, it is no trouble at all, for 
 don't I be passing Mrs. Grattan's gate ?' 
 
 ' Well, thank you,' he answered, and settled him- 
 self by the side of Mr. Cronin, a plump, elderly man 
 with a long white nose and a small insignificant chin. 
 As soon as Cronin shifted his hat Ned saw that he 
 was bald, and he began to wonder if the fringe of 
 white hair had ever been red hair. ' Children 
 generally inherit their parent's complexion/ he said 
 to himself; and he plied Cronin with questions, 
 hoping he would turn his head, for a profile presents 
 a very incomplete likeness. But Cronin's head re- 
 mained fixed, and Ned began to hope that Ellen did 
 not inherit Cronin's gift of silence. 
 
 Long, level silences, gapped here and there with a 
 remark, represent the conversation meted out to him 
 during the ten miles' drive. Yet he had left no sub- 
 ject untouched ; the cattle were good ; the pigs were
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 237 
 
 better in America the American pig he thought 
 fattened quicker than the Irish. Even that pregnant 
 remark did not succeed in drawing many words from 
 Cronin, and he began to wonder why Cronin had 
 pulled the horse up beside him. It was not for the 
 pleasure of his conversation for certain, but there 
 must be a reason. 
 
 ' Your daughter sometimes goes to Mrs. Grattan's 
 to tea, I am told.' 
 
 ' Yes, and hearing that you played the fiddle she 
 asked about you." 
 
 So that was why he had pulled up the horse. 
 He expected the conversation to drop at this point, 
 but to his surprise Cronin added : ' And as my 
 daughter takes a great interest in music and books, 
 she told me if I was to meet you at the fair, not to 
 pass you on the road without offering you a lift.' 
 
 ' It was very kind of her ; what kind of music does 
 your daughter like ?' 
 
 ' She plays the piano.' Half an hour later Cronin 
 said : ' We're about halfway now,' and the gig rolled 
 on, Ned wondering what sort of a daughter this silent 
 man could have begotten. 
 
 As he was about to pull up his horse in front of 
 Mrs. Grattan's gate, Mr. Cronin said : ' There she is 
 up the road in front of us.' 
 
 It seemed to Ned that it was no more than the 
 merest politeness to ask Mr. Cronin to introduce 
 him to his daughter, but Cronin made no reply ; 
 and while Ned was wondering if he should 
 repeat his request, thinking perhaps that Cronin 
 had not heard him, the gig rolled past Mrs. 
 Grattan's door, and he said to himself, ' He is going
 
 238 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 to introduce me after all. But what a queer man !' 
 And he would have bent his mind still more closely 
 to the study of Cronin if Ellen's back had not engaged 
 his attention at the moment. ' A little woman/ he 
 said to himself; and when the gig stopped, before 
 the first words were spoken, he was deep in admira- 
 tion of the slight, shapely figure with a pointed face, 
 and the head crowned with rich red hair gathered up 
 in combs behind the pretty ears. But it was her eyes 
 that fascinated Ned at the time and ever afterwards ; 
 long after he had bidden her good-bye for ever he 
 saw her turquoise eyes looking at him through a blue 
 veil. 
 
 ' So you did what I told you, father. That was 
 good of you.' Then turning to Ned she said, ' I was 
 afraid father would forget. Mrs. Grattan told me 
 you were going to the fair, and I knew that coming 
 back you would find the way long. . . . Father,' 
 she said, ' you can go on. Mr. Carmady will walk a 
 little way with me.' 
 
 Ned had already begun to think of her as a 
 delightful little person, and the wheels of the gig 
 had not gone round many times when she burst into 
 talk like a bird into song. 
 
 ' I heard from Mrs. Grattan that you are an 
 American, and that you have come here to write 
 about Ireland ; and that was why I wished to make 
 your acquaintance. It seemed to me a pity that 
 you should put anything into your book that would 
 prejudice the people in America against the people 
 at home.' 
 
 ' But I don't intend to write anything that isn't 
 true a book of impressions and memories, that '
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 959 
 
 ' But, Mr. Carmady, from lack of knowledge you 
 may write things that you would regret afterwards.' 
 
 Ned admitted that this was a danger, and they 
 talked of the new forces, Ellen explaining hurriedly, 
 as if anxious to say everything before she reached 
 her gate, that the new Ireland was entirely a Gaelic 
 Ireland, an Ireland that for centuries had sought 
 refuge underground like a river, but was coming up 
 again. 
 
 ' We believe,' she said, ' that we are sufficient in 
 ourselves, and need no ideas from strangers. Our mis- 
 take was that we did not cultivate what was in us.' 
 
 According to Ellen, Ireland contained everything 
 the race could want for many hundreds of years, not 
 only food and wood and stone, but ideas. All the 
 people had to do was to go back to the Gaelic sources, 
 and there they would find an art and literature of 
 their own. Ned listened, amused at her fiery faith. 
 ' One of the ancient Druidesses,' he said, ' born out 
 of due time;' and to draw her on still further he 
 ventured to remind her of the disunion that had 
 always existed. 
 
 ' A quarter is in Rome, a quarter in England, a 
 quarter in America ; and it is out of the remnant of 
 the people at home that you would build a nation, 
 is it ?' 
 
 Ellen again turned her turquoise eyes on Ned's. 
 
 ' You have a great deal to learn,' she said. And 
 they lingered by the gate, talking of the revival of 
 the language, and how the people would find new 
 inspiration in it, Ellen maintaining that if Ireland 
 had not yet achieved any great literary work, it was 
 not because the race was not literary, but because
 
 240 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 it had unfortunately been looking for a long while 
 towards an alien literature. 
 
 He accompanied her to her gate, and just as she 
 was about to bid him good-bye she begged him to 
 come to supper next Sunday, and he returned home 
 thinking of her eyes, her hair and all her person, 
 which, so far as he could judge it under her dress, 
 seemed excellently well shapen. 
 
 Ill 
 
 It was nearly midnight, and he lingered in 
 the avenue listening to a corncrake in the 
 meadows a doleful bird it seemed to him in 
 the dusky night, with a round moon hanging 
 above a line of distant trees. A dog barked in 
 the village, and Ned remembered that Mrs. 
 Grattan had told him that Lizzie Mrs. Cronin's 
 parlour-maid looked upon it as a great treat to be 
 allowed to sleep at home. He had learnt from her 
 that eight or nine lived in the cabin, two or three 
 sleeping in each bed, and they were all sleeping 
 now, huddled together. He suspected that it was 
 the mystery of the silent night that had caused his 
 thoughts to stray to these lowly lives huddled in 
 sleep yonder at the turn of the road. He could 
 just distinguish up in the sky the sluggish roll of 
 the mountains, dim and grey ; and he asked himself 
 if he would like to live in this queer, empty country, 
 accepting its destiny as part of his destiny, the last 
 remnant of barbarous Europe petering out notwith- 
 standing all Ellen might say to the contrary. She 
 was a pretty girl and an interesting girl, and he had
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 241 
 
 not discovered a single insincerity in her, except 
 perhaps her love of music, for she didn't like music ; 
 she only said she did, to please him. Her attempt 
 to accompany him was most unfortunate ; he hadn't 
 been able to go on playing ; and the big girl who 
 had taken Ellen's place at the piano hadn't suc- 
 ceeded much better. Ellen had no doubt been at 
 great pains to learn a little music, but one cannot 
 learn music ; and to rid himself of the memory of 
 his accompanist he felt he would like to play some- 
 thing in this avenue under the elm-trees something 
 of Schubert's ; it seemed to him that he had never 
 played so well, and on turning his head he saw what 
 he had never seen before a lunar rainbow. 
 
 * I like playing to the moon ; a much better 
 audience than yonder.' 
 
 ' Even the silence seems grey,' he added. ' Every- 
 thing is hushed, mountains and meadows, everything 
 except that noisy corncrake.' Again he began to 
 think of the lowly lives huddled in sleep in the 
 village, and the glimmering panes in the square 
 house under the mountains reminded him that 
 behind one of those windows Ellen was probably 
 letting down her red tresses. He wished he were 
 with her, in a way, and began to wonder if he were 
 moving towards some destiny, for if he were not, 
 why had he come into this queer country among 
 these queer people ? Was it chance that had brought 
 him here, or was it that he was going to marry this 
 pretty girl ? It takes two to make a marriage ; but 
 Ned did not doubt that he would be able to marry 
 Ellen if he were so minded, and fell to thinking 
 what kind of a wife she would make, and if he 
 Q
 
 242 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 could love a woman who didn't care for music. ' But 
 it may have been because I was by her. She was 
 nervous ; on another occasion she may play better ; 
 or is it that she has never lived with musical people ?' 
 
 A few weeks later he was glad to escape from her 
 music and walk with her under the trees that grew 
 about the house. The rambling airs bore a delicious 
 sweetness, and while listening to Ellen who was 
 talking about her life in the lonely farmhouse, he 
 wondered whence the sweetness came, but did not 
 dare to interrupt her, and they passed out of the wood 
 towards the garden, the sweetness becoming more 
 intense every minute. At last he saw it a great 
 syringa, large as a house, covered with white blossoms. 
 
 ' Ah, the syringa ... is it you or the syringa that 
 fills the night with fragrance ?' 
 
 She raised her eyes in gratitude, and the scent 
 became so overpowering that they walked into the 
 wood again ; a seat appeared under a beech tree and 
 side by side they sat looking at the markings on the 
 moon. 
 
 The moonlight had taken the blue out of Ellen's 
 eyes and a great deal of the red out of her hair, 
 but her hands drooped prettily as they moved along 
 her fan, and her face was pointed and pretty, and her 
 voice musical ; and her intense faith in Ireland's 
 destiny seemed to have awakened a response in him ; 
 he believed while he was with her that perhaps 
 the twentieth century would reveal to the world 
 Ireland's personality, and that the race would pass 
 out of a pastoral into an artistic period, and perhaps 
 find a great literary period too, now that Ireland had 
 returned to her own language.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 243 
 
 ( Perhaps all she says is true about Ireland/ Ned 
 muttered to himself as he pursued his way down the 
 long avenue. And he began to wonder if he could 
 do as these people do think of Ireland as if she 
 had an independent existence apart from the 
 people in it. That was criticism, and he would try 
 to put criticism behind him and yield himself to 
 Ireland and her language, which he had promised 
 Ellen to learn a promise given after seeing 
 Ellen for the third time ! She had, however, 
 promised to teach him, and on the morrow he was 
 to join a class of which she was the teacher. As 
 soon as the class was over, she would doubtless allow 
 him to accompany her to her gate, and though he 
 might never marry her, though he might never 
 even kiss her, this one thing was sure that he 
 would acquire a knowledge of Ireland's history and 
 her present condition from her ; and with that know- 
 ledge he would be able to write a better book, a 
 deeper book than the one he had intended to write 
 originally. The acquisition of the Irish language 
 would give him a new point of view. But would he 
 persevere and ever learn more than a few words 
 enough to satisfy this red-headed girl ? His love- 
 making, if he were ever to make love to her, would 
 have to be done in English ; of that he felt sure. 
 And he asked himself what would old Cronin say 
 to this learning of Irish, to these evening walks, and 
 the lessons in the afternoon ; for Ellen had said he 
 must do some work out of class-time. 
 
 Mrs. Cronin had been dead many years, and the 
 portrait that hung in the parlour had told Ned that 
 his surmise was right regarding Ellen, whom he had
 
 244 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 supposed from the first time he laid eyes upon her to 
 be the replica of her mother, so unlike was she to her 
 father. Her unlikeness to her father was as marked 
 in her mind as in her body ; Ned had not been to 
 Brookfield many times before he began to suspect 
 that Mr. Cronin entertained no deep belief that any 
 heroic destiny awaited Ireland. His ideas about 
 Ireland were that hers was a homely destiny, beef 
 and mutton and pigs and perhaps butter for England. 
 Ellen left the room indignant, and Ned tried to get 
 Cronin to confide his opinions, but opinions were not 
 characteristic of Cronin : he seemed to have avoided 
 forming any. Ned remarked this, and admired the 
 old man's fortitude, for he was able to live without 
 complaining, almost without thinking, in the habit 
 of the last fifty years ; interested only in his farms 
 and in the price of cattle, now and again giving 
 way to a faint disquietude when he read in the 
 papers some news to the effect that the importation 
 of cattle might lead to a decline in the price of 
 meat. He sometimes indulged in a grumble about 
 his daughter's housekeeping, attributing the badness 
 of the dinner to the Irish language ; all her time 
 was spent upon it ; he did not seem to catch sight of 
 the cloud on his daughter's face ; for he had just cut 
 himself a large piece of cake, and his eyes seemed to 
 say, ' I'll have another piece presently.' 
 
 After dinner they went into the billiard-room, and 
 he noticed there was one thing Ellen did not care 
 to do did not dare to do, and that was to draw Ned 
 from the billiard-table or to take him from the 
 billiard-room when they had ceased playing ; and 
 he guessed the reason his talk amused Cronin, who
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 245 
 
 would have been angry with his daughter if she 
 had suggested that Ned should follow her to the 
 drawing-room. He liked to sit, smoking his pipe, 
 listening to Ned talking and telling of his adven- 
 tures ; how his parents had emigrated to Manchester 
 when he was nine, and how he had felt when he 
 was sixteen that he must escape from the dreariness 
 of brick chimneys and their smoke-cloud. Ned 
 talked with just such gaiety as appealed to this grey, 
 silent man, telling how he had joined a travelling 
 circus on its way to the Continent. Cronin would 
 allude to the story evening after evening, and Ned 
 added to the story from time to time. Sometimes 
 things long forgotten would come into his mind, and 
 he would develop some faint fact into a new story ; 
 but the central fact of the story always remained the 
 same, and it was that that had interested Cronin 
 from the first how Ned had been charged to look 
 after the lions, and to be sure to keep the ventilating- 
 slides open. 
 
 ' There was no use pleading I was ill.' 
 ' And after that what did you do ?' Ellen asked, for 
 she too was interested in the story the first time 
 she heard it, though afterwards her father's mention 
 of it annoyed her. Cronin would sometimes tell the 
 story himself of how Ned had played the fiddle all 
 the way across the Atlantic, and how delighted 
 everybody had been with his playing, somebody 
 saying that he ought to be engaged at an opera- 
 house. Ned's account of how he went to the con- 
 ductor and played for him was always a great 
 success ; and this story was followed by other stories, 
 some humorous, some pathetic. Ned did not fail to
 
 246 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 retail any stories he had heard in America, and he 
 had heard thousands ; and then, finding that he had 
 no success unless he attributed them to himself, he 
 did so. 
 
 ' And what will you be doing now ?' Cronin said. 
 ' I'm afraid you're a rolling stone. You'll never stop 
 here.' 
 
 ' But, father, he is going to stay in Ireland. 
 Ireland wants a new leader, and the leader must come 
 from the outside.' 
 
 Cronin never answered his daughter. He just 
 continued smoking, and later on tried to draw Ned 
 into another story, a favourite one Ned's experiences 
 in Cuba : how one night they had crossed a mountain 
 by a bridle-path. At the top of the mountain they 
 had come to a ledge of rock three feet high, and had 
 to leap their horses one by one, and the enemy 
 might have attacked them any moment. 
 
 Ellen did not begrudge her father his billiards, but 
 after one or two or three games she would have liked 
 him to go to bed and leave Ned free to walk out with 
 her to the end of the avenue : it was only then that 
 she could talk with him alone. But every night her 
 father seemed to stay up later, smoking his pipe in 
 his armchair and shaking his foot, a slightly hysterical 
 movement that she had noticed all her life. One 
 night she asked Ned if he had noticed how her 
 father shook his foot ; the question seemed to 
 advance them in their intimacy, and they laughed 
 heartily over the grey woollen sock. By this time 
 Ned had become part of the household ; the old 
 fellow wanted somebody to come and play billiards 
 with him in the evening, and Ned knew that
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 247 
 
 Cronin would never trouble to ask him what his 
 intentions were regarding Ellen. But he was ask- 
 ing himself this question, for it had become quite 
 clear to him that he would have to do something ; 
 either he would have to ask Ellen to marry him, or 
 he would have to bend over and kiss her on the 
 neck without saying anything, and if she accepted 
 his kisses it would be with a view to matrimony, no 
 doubt. He imagined himself kissing her, and when 
 she turned astonished, his face would remain grave 
 grave and hierarchic, as the priest's after he kisses 
 the altar and turns to the congregation. 
 
 He smiled at his own absurdity, but his smile 
 died away quickly ; for in his sudden inspiration he 
 had discovered himself to be without enough will to 
 run away from Ellen's red hair and her turquoise 
 eyes. And that being so, he concluded that it would 
 be well to go down to Brookfield and make an end 
 of it. Just half a dozen words. He wasn't certain 
 that he could love the same woman always : Ellen 
 was one of those who, once she had fixed her heart 
 upon a man, would not find it easy to console herself 
 with another ; of that he was sure : and he stood a 
 long time asking himself questions to which his heart 
 gave back no single answer. 
 
 His only certainty was that his life had fallen into 
 a great torment. She had written him a letter that 
 morning, and it would have to be answered. But 
 he could not compose one, and it seemed to him that 
 it was easier to go down to Brookfield and tell her 
 why he had not been to see her for some time. His 
 book was always an excuse. But if he went to 
 Brookfield he knew that he would ask her to marry
 
 348 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 him, and he was not sure he wanted to marry her. 
 His mood veered like a gale all the afternoon, and 
 when the clock struck four he put on his hat and 
 walked down the road and stopped, surprised, finding 
 himself at her door. 
 
 IV 
 
 ' Miss Ellen isn't in the house, sir. You'll find her 
 in the garden.' 
 
 It was more agreeable to Ned to find her hi the 
 garden than in the drawing-room. The garden at 
 Brookfield had always interested him, for he had 
 never seen so large a garden or such high walls old 
 red-brick walls, and a view of the Dublin mountains, 
 whose purple wastes contrasted with Ellen's rosery 
 and carnations just coming into bloom. He had 
 found her so often in her garden that he had 
 come to associate her with it ; and he liked to 
 remember that five years ago it was a turnip-field 
 which her father had yielded to her. Her garden 
 was entirely of her own making, the walls excepted. 
 The fruit-trees had been planted by her, and she 
 had designed the walks that followed the walls, and 
 the walk down the middle leading to the mound 
 where the walks branched to the right and left. 
 Green painted posts had been set in a circle, and 
 she had trailed roses from one to the other. Lying 
 farther back came a large plot of grass on which 
 they sometimes had tennis. The romance of the 
 garden was, however, its stream which entered the 
 garden at the right-hand corner and followed the 
 Avail, flowing away at the opposite corner, but a tribu- 
 tary turned at right angles and flowed half-way
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 249 
 
 down the garden, disappearing mysteriously under- 
 ground somewhere about the middle of the garden. 
 The banks of this stream were overgrown with many 
 kinds of shrubs, wild thorn, ash saplings, willow weed 
 and meadow sweet ; and every kind of briar grew 
 there in profusion ; and when some five feet of mud 
 were taken out trout thrived in the ancient piscine, 
 for Brookfield had once been a monastery. And Ned 
 often found Ellen fishing in her garden. 
 
 The day he went to meet her determined to kiss 
 her if the opportunity occurred, she was dressed in 
 a striped muslin variegated with pink flowers ; there 
 were black bows in her hat and black ribbon was 
 round the bottom of her dress. 
 
 ' How pretty she looks against the old wall 
 touched here and there with ivy,' he said ; and when 
 she leaned forward pursuing a trout against the 
 bank with her fishing-net, the grace of the move- 
 ment enchanted him. 
 
 * There's a great big trout,' she said, ' but he is 
 very cunning. He dives and gets under the net. 
 Come and help me to catch him.' 
 
 1 But how am I to help you to catch him ?' 
 ' By going to the gardener and asking him to give 
 you a net.' 
 
 * How stupid of me not to have thought of it !' 
 And Ned ran away to the gardener and came back 
 with a net, thinking that the presence of the 
 gardener was extremely unfortunate, since he had 
 made up his mind to kiss Ellen if the opportunity 
 occurred, and though the garden was large it would 
 be unwise to kiss her unless he were certain that 
 there was nobody about.
 
 250 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Now which side of the stream will you take ?' 
 Ellen said. ' I'll take the side next the wall.' 
 
 There was a path there nearly free from briars, 
 and she held her light summer dress so tightly 
 round her that Ned had an opportunity of admiring 
 her figure ; but he was busy trying to save him- 
 self from falling into the water, for on his side the 
 stream was overgrown not only with briars, but at 
 every moment there were roots of trees protrud- 
 ing from the bank, and it was difficult to make his 
 way through them. Once he very nearly slipped, 
 only saving himself at the last moment ; if he 
 had fallen into the stream his plight would have 
 been ridiculous, and there would be no chance of 
 kissing Ellen. Nor would there be any chance until 
 the trout was caught. So he plied himself to the 
 task, hunting the fish up and down the stream ; but 
 the fish knew how to escape the nets and dived at 
 the right moment. It seemed impossible to tire 
 him out, so many were the hiding-places in which 
 he could rest. 
 
 ' I don't think we shall ever get him,' Ned said. 
 But Ellen was more persevering. 
 
 ' Let us try once more.' 
 
 ' Well, once more.' And they drove slowly up 
 against the bank, Ellen fearing every moment he 
 would jump the net. 
 
 ' Well, we've got him at last,' Ned said, and some- 
 what proud of having caught him they sat down 
 with three fish beside them, panting and gasping, 
 their speckled bellies drying in the sun. Ellen 
 touched the big trout with her parasol. 
 
 ' Would he live if we were to put him back again ?'
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 251 
 
 ' Put him back after all the trouble we have had 
 to get him out !' And they tried to discuss how he 
 would eat. 
 
 ' But Ned, you mustn't put your hand upon my 
 knee.' 
 
 ' Mustn't I, dear ? But you will let me kiss 
 you.' 
 
 ' Are you a Catholic ?' she said, as she turned her 
 face from his. 
 
 ' But what has that got to do with it ?' 
 
 1 If we were married it would be different.' 
 
 ' But what has marriage got to do with my love 
 of you ?' 
 
 ' You see, Ned, I am a Catholic ; if I weren't I'm 
 afraid I'd be very wicked.' 
 
 'Very wicked, Ellen? You very wicked! And 
 what would you do if you weren't a Catholic ? pick 
 pockets ?' 
 
 ' No, I didn't mean that.' And then Ned told her 
 of her sensuousness and how he had observed it in 
 her eyes, in her manner of approaching him. But 
 she denied the truth of this description of herself. 
 
 ' As if you were ashamed of an impulse ! Why, 
 there is nothing so delightful in a woman or in a 
 man !' 
 
 < Oh, Ned ! Don't talk like that. I don't like to 
 hear you say these things. No one has ever kissed 
 me and I am glad of it.' 
 
 ' How is that why are you glad ? Were you 
 never tempted ?' 
 
 ' Aren't you glad, Ned, that I have never kissed 
 anybody else ? But you have kissed many women, 
 I suppose ?'
 
 252 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' A few. But I never wished to kiss anybody as 
 much as I wish to kiss you.' 
 
 ' We have only known each other a month, but 
 I think there was a shadow of you in my thoughts 
 always. Perhaps you think me very foolish.' 
 
 ' Foolish, Ellen ! How could I think you foolish 
 for thinking of me ? I am thinking of my great 
 good fortune that brought me to Ireland. I left 
 Ireland when I was nine, and ever since this green 
 country and you have been floating in my mind.' 
 
 ' I don't think I should have cared for you, Ned, 
 if you hadn't loved Ireland.' 
 
 ' It was our love of Ireland that brought us to- 
 gether interested us in each other, and I have 
 learned to love you much better than I did though 
 I loved you the first time I saw you since I began 
 to learn Irish . . . with you." 
 
 * But Ned, you have made very little progress.' 
 
 'Now that I know you like me I'll make 
 more.' 
 
 ' You promise me ? . . . But you mustn't put 
 your hand upon my knee.' 
 
 ' But the temptation ' 
 
 ' Well, then, let us get up.' 
 
 ' No. Let us remain. Why should we get up ? 
 It's so pleasant here on this green bank/ and he 
 pressed her back and drew her towards him. ' And 
 it's so pleasant to be sitting near you in this sweet 
 garden.' 
 
 e Yes, Ned, it would be pleasant to sit here with 
 you if you didn't make love to me I don 't like it. 
 
 The garden seemed very large, a great square of 
 earth under a grey lustreless sky hanging above the
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 253 
 
 walls, apparently not more than a few feet, and out 
 of this greyness a soft diffused light fell. There was 
 something threatening in the silence, and the heat of 
 the day was like that of a greenhouse. The gardener 
 was too far away for them to hear his spade, but 
 when they listened intently they could hear the 
 gurgle of the stream, and now and then a swallow 
 shrieked as it flew past. 
 
 'Do you know, Ellen, I shall always remember 
 you by your eyes ? They seem to me like turquoises ; 
 you wore a blue veil the day your father brought me 
 home from the fair.' 
 
 She remembered that she had hesitated between 
 a blue and a brown. What had decided her in 
 favour of the blue ? 
 
 In these moments of summer meditation she 
 became to Ned more like a wife than a mistress. 
 As a mistress, this love affair would end in un- 
 happiness. Every woman has her own style, he 
 reflected. Ellen would make an excellent wife, 
 and he would be infinitely happy with her living 
 in this country, learning the Irish language, and 
 becoming a leader of the Irish people. That was 
 her ambition for him. She had said that the 
 people wanted a new leader, and when she said 
 that she was thinking of him, and now he was 
 thinking of himself. Perhaps he was the man 
 that Ireland wanted, and he seemed to love Ellen 
 well enough to marry her. Her Catholicism faded 
 out of his mind ; it was the woman he loved ; 
 it was Ellen's eyes that captured his senses; he 
 must kiss those eyes; he was sure of that, if of 
 nothing else.
 
 254 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 1 Ellen, if we are to be married I may kiss you. 
 But I cannot kiss you here, the gardener is moving 
 about those Jerusalem artichokes. Let us go into 
 the arbour.' j 
 
 Ellen did not answer, and all the way down the 
 path Ned wondered if she would follow him into the 
 arbour or refuse to do so at the last moment. 
 
 ' Ned, are you sure that you love me ?' she said, 
 stopping at the entrance of the arbour, overcome by 
 a sense of sudden delight. 
 
 'Yes, I am quite sure.' 
 
 ' Then I'll let you kiss me.' 
 
 And the moment he put his arm about her waist 
 she fell back upon his shoulder, and when their lips 
 met she closed her eyes. 
 
 'Ned, you mustn't kiss me like that,' she cried, 
 struggling from him. ' Let me go !' And then, 
 catching sight of Ned's disappointed face, she added : 
 1 It will be very different when we are married, dear.' 
 
 ( It's so pleasant in this arbour,' he began, and 
 then he felt if he were going to marry Ellen he would 
 gain more by obedience to her wishes than he would 
 by contravening them. She was of the wifely 
 type. 
 
 ( You don't answer me. You love me well enough 
 to marry me, don't you ?' 
 
 ' Should I want to kiss you, Ellen, if I didn't ?' 
 
 ' Ned, I am not a fool, but I love you, and very 
 dearly, and you will not deceive me ? You will not 
 make me regret ? You will not treat me badly in 
 any way, though you are not a Catholic, and I'm 
 afraid, Ned, you never will be ?' 
 
 'But you do me great injustice. Never have I
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 255 
 
 done any harm to anybody in my life and never 
 shall.' 
 
 ' Not willingly, Ned. No not willingly, but we 
 are so different, and a month ago we didn't know 
 each other, and now you mean so much to me. Isn't 
 it strange ?' 
 
 ' But what will your father say ?' 
 
 'Father will say nothing you know he won't, 
 Ned. He likes you as much as I do.' 
 
 ' And he likes trout for his supper, too. We have 
 forgotten the fish, Ellen. I'll run back for them.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Grattan, I have gotten some news which I 
 think will surprise you. I think I am going to 
 marry Miss Cronin. . . . But you don't look 
 surprised.' 
 
 ' Well, no, sir ; you see you and she have been 
 a great deal about together, and there was no reason 
 only there'll be many a sore heart in the country 
 for many a day, for there wasn't a young man who 
 wasn't looking after Miss Ellen, her fine fortune, and 
 her pretty red hair. . . .' 
 
 ' Yes, it's of her red hair I am thinking.' 
 
 And then they talked of Mr. Cronin, who would 
 not withhold his consent, but would give Ellen as 
 many thousand pounds as she asked him, for she 
 had always led him by the nose. 
 
 ' But, Mrs. Grattan, do you think she will lead me 
 by the nose ?' 
 
 ' Well, I wouldn't be saying that, sir but there is 
 no knowing. She has always had her way with
 
 256 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 everybody she met. But you'll be wanting your 
 tea.' 
 
 It is very exciting to think that one's life has been 
 decided, for marriage is a great decision, and Ned 
 could neither read nor write, and, feeling he must 
 talk to somebody, he went into Mrs. Grattan's 
 kitchen and questioned her about Ellen ; and he 
 learnt that before she had taken up with politics she 
 had been a great scholar, and sitting on the kitchen 
 table he swung his legs, wondering how it was that 
 Ellen had never told him she knew Latin. 
 
 'There's somebody at the door. You'll excuse 
 me, I must go to it,' and she came back saying it 
 was Miss Ellen, and for friendliness they all had tea 
 in the kitchen. 
 
 ' So you heard the news, Mrs. Grattan ? Ned has 
 told you and aren't you surprised ?' 
 
 ' Well, no then, I'm not. It always seemed to me 
 from the very first that you two were suited to each 
 other.' 
 
 ' You'll never tell me any more that we're not 
 suited, will you ?' Ned interrupted. 
 
 ' No, not if we have Mrs. Grattan's approval. She 
 knew me when I was a little girl.' And Ellen spoke 
 about James, Mrs. Grattan's second son, whose 
 health did not allow him to live in Ireland, but who 
 was doing well at the Cape, and of many other 
 family matters which Ned knew nothing about, 
 until he began to feel bored and went to the 
 window. 
 
 ' Father says you are to come back to supper, Ned. 
 You must come back, for we shall have one of the 
 trout.'
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 257 
 
 ' And it would be unlucky if I didn't share it 
 with you.' 
 
 As they walked down the road, Ellen said : ' As 
 our love began in Ireland, we might go for a tour 
 round Ireland when we're married, and see the 
 places that Ireland loves best.' 
 
 He had seen Tara, but there was no reason why 
 he shouldn't see it again ; and he would like to see 
 it in company with Ellen, and point out to her the 
 Rath of the Hostages and the Rath of Grania, and 
 from Tara they would go to the Druid altars. 
 
 ' And we'll creep into them together through 
 the Druid stones.' 
 
 The abbey of Clonmacnoise was not very far away, 
 and from Clonmacnoise they would go to Cashel to 
 see Cormac's chapel. There was St. Kevin's bed at 
 Glendalough to be seen, but Killarney they would 
 avoid. The Aran islands tempted them more, for 
 that was Gaelic Ireland, and all along the shores of 
 the Irish lakes there were ruins of chieftain castles 
 and of monasteries, and on the lake islands ruins of 
 hermits' cells and beehive huts to be seen some- 
 where, and many books to be read. 
 
 And glutted with literature they went forth after 
 their marriage, and all the autumn was spent dream- 
 ing amid crumbling stones of a past that shall never 
 be again, nor anything like it, unless, as Ellen said, 
 the ancient language of the Gael should be revived 
 and bring back to Ireland other tales of heroism 
 and chivalry. It was all vision and dream, but none 
 the worse for that. The world has a course to 
 pursue, and it follows it irrespective of our desire. 
 And very much interested at least in the surface
 
 258 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 of his mind with Ireland's past, Ned yielded him- 
 self entirely to Ellen's enthusiasm, much, he thought, 
 to his father-in-law's dissatisfaction ; for he could 
 not help thinking, and it amused him to think, that 
 the old fellow liked him better before he had begun 
 to learn the Irish language, and had joined the new 
 political movement which in Ellen's opinion was 
 going to regenerate Ireland. 
 
 ( But I remember, father, when you used to sit 
 up till twelve o'clock talking of Parnell.' 
 
 Ci-onin growled a little and lay still farther back 
 in his armchair; he crossed his legs and shook his 
 foot from time to time, puffed at his briar-root, and 
 spoke no more till Ellen went up to bed. Then he 
 grew more communicative, venturing to remark that 
 it was difficult to understand what her idea was in 
 wishing to furnish another house on the other side 
 of Dublin when she had this one to live in. Ned 
 was of the same mind as Cronin, and admitted to 
 the old fellow that he would much rather stop at 
 Brookfield than live in a small house on the other 
 side of Dublin. 
 
 ' Where there won't be a billiard-room.' 
 
 Ned kept his countenance, though he was tempted 
 to smile, for he knew that Cronin was thinking he 
 would have to fall back upon the parson for his 
 evening billiards, and the parson's playing had never 
 been to his liking ; he always moved his ball. As 
 soon as the conversation turned on the new politics, 
 in his brief, silent way Cronin tried to dissuade Ned 
 against them. But Ned was bitten by the idea of 
 political leadership. The new movement had taken 
 hold of the country, and the country would go with
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 259 
 
 it, so it was said, if a leader were to come forward ; 
 and what was wanted was a young man that the 
 people knew nothing about, who would voice the 
 new ideas for them : for the people were weary of 
 the older school of politics, everything would have to 
 be begun afresh. And Ned seemed to himself to be 
 just the man that the new movement required. He 
 wasn't hampered with a past, that was a great point 
 in his favour. He was a good speaker, that was 
 another point in his favour. He was energetic, that 
 was a third point in his favour. He was a man of 
 private means Ellen could always get what money 
 she liked from her father that was another point 
 in his favour. And with so many points in one's 
 favour one goes ahead in Irish politics. 
 
 ' All the same, you'll find she'll be leading you by 
 the nose,' the old man muttered at the end of a long 
 silence. ' I have invested five thousand pounds in 
 foreign securities in her name, so that you may be 
 free to advocate whatever policy you may judge best 
 for old Ireland, but it will be Ellen the voice of 
 Jacob, the hand of Esau.' 
 
 ' Do you think she will lead me ?' And Ned 
 looked interrogatively across the hearthrug, and 
 admitted he would prefer to live in the old seven- 
 teenth-century stead, so much did he like the great 
 walls and the black mahogany sideboard. He 
 hoped to lie with Ellen one night in the four-poster 
 that Cronin had slept in for the last thirty years 
 without ever thinking it a beautiful thing. He 
 indulged his fancy both of them, of course, would 
 wear nightcaps. She would look very dainty in 
 one of those frilled caps of old time, but he was
 
 260 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 not certain about his own nightcap, though he 
 had begun to cultivate the appearance that seemed 
 to him in harmony with the stead, instructing his 
 tailor that his trousers were to be several inches 
 wider in the leg than the present fashion allowed, 
 and drawn in at the ankles. 
 
 ' Peg-tops ?' the tailor had asked, surprised. 
 
 ' Yes, peg-tops,' he had said, ' and the coat is to be 
 braided.' He ordered a bunch of cravats in the style 
 of the 'sixties. As his moustache was not in keeping 
 with his clothes, he had intended to shave it. But 
 to-day was not the day for shaving, and as Ellen liked 
 the feel of it when she kissed him, he thought it 
 would be a pity if she were not allowed to enjoy it, 
 however reprehensible her taste for it might be. 
 And, whistling an old tune, he pondered his side- 
 whiskers, at present but little bunches ; the two 
 gentlemen that hung in varnished maplewood frames 
 in the drawing-room at the Cronins' wore larger 
 bunches. His whiskers would grow like theirs, and 
 he refused to shave them, though there was no 
 longer any hope of persuading her to remain in 
 Tallagh. 
 
 Ellen's excuse for leaving Brookfield was that her 
 father's politics were Unionist, and would compromise 
 Ned. He could not see why his father-in-law's sins 
 should be visited on him, but Ellen had her way in 
 the end, as her father had prophesied she would. 
 
 ' We don't mean to desert you, father.' 
 
 ' But the last train is at ten, so there will be no 
 time for a game of billiards after dinner.' 
 
 ' Father, you are only thinking of your billiards ; 
 I am thinking of his political career.' And Ned
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 261 
 
 remembered these words some six months later, 
 for as he was hurrying away to catch the train she 
 stopped him at the door. 
 
 1 But, Ned, you won't say anything against religion 
 I know you won't ; but I beg of you not to say 
 anything against the priests you promise me ?' 
 
 ' I promise you, Ellen ; but Ireland will remain the 
 same old lady she has always been until ' 
 
 ' Until religion is done away with.' 
 
 f No, not religion, Ellen, but priests. I can't help 
 laughing when they pass me in the street. Of all 
 the comic inventions, a priest well, he takes the 
 cake, Ellen !' 
 
 ' If you knew, Ned, how such remarks distress me, 
 I'm sure you wouldn't make them, for I believe that 
 you love me.' 
 
 ' Of course I love you, Ellen, and shall love you 
 till your hair turns grey.' 
 
 ' Only tUl then, Ned ?' 
 
 ' Well, we won't discuss that question now, 
 Ellen ; for if I don't start at once, I shall miss my 
 train . . . and I shall have to walk quickly.' 
 
 ' But I'm going to the station with you.' 
 
 ' Well, that will be nice. . . . But do you feel 
 well enough for so long a walk ?' 
 
 The morning seemed to Ned to be one of the 
 most beautiful he had ever known, and he was sure 
 there was not a pleasaiiter road in all Ireland, so 
 wide, so smooth, and shaded by trees, just the kind 
 of road he liked ; and Ellen was the pleasantest of 
 companions, always sympathetic, always grave and 
 slow of speech, for she thought carefully, and she 
 knew Ireland so well that she was often able to call
 
 262 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 his attention to a point which he might with advan- 
 tage set forth in the meeting. She was always say- 
 ing that he exaggerated the value of her suggestions, 
 but Ned did not believe that this was so. The most 
 she would admit was that she was in touch with 
 contemporary politics and contemporary ideas a 
 pretty fair pilot; and without a pilot he admitted 
 he would have no chance of keeping off the rocks 
 of the treacherous shore of Irish politics. 
 
 ' No good will come of attacking the priests 
 And then, dear, think of the grief it would bring 
 to me !' And such a look of distress came into 
 her face that he determined never to speak of the 
 priests again as magicians at least, not in her 
 presence. 
 
 ' Nobody can help having opinions, Ellen ; all we 
 can do is to refrain from expressing opinions that 
 give pain to others.' 
 
 'But I should like you to be yourself, Ned. I 
 hate the thought that you are surrendering any of 
 your opinions for my sake.' 
 
 ' You are worth it. Good-bye, darling.' 
 
 As he sat watching the landscape regrets fleeted 
 past that both by circumstances and by his promises 
 to Ellen he was prevented from raising the one ques- 
 tion in Ireland that seemed to him to be worth 
 raising. But Ellen was worth the sacrifice. And 
 without sacrifice we should not be able to appre- 
 ciate the divinity of our idol. On his return from 
 the meeting he would find her waiting for him at 
 the station, a smile in her eyes, her parasol 
 aslant, and they would saunter down the fine stretch 
 of road shaded with trees, talking of their mutual life
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 263 
 
 amid calm pasturages decorated with cows lying in 
 golden lights amid the long shadows. 
 
 His life had hitherto been but disorder, and he 
 was captivated by the order of his house ; his affec- 
 tions had been disordered too now there was order 
 in them, and it was still quite an adventure for him 
 to walk into the dining-room with his wife on his 
 arm and to see the four candlesticks on the table 
 with pink shades, and the two tall parlour-maids with 
 trained steps and looking so distinguished in their 
 white caps and aprons. 
 
 VI 
 
 ' Won't you come round the garden ?' 
 
 She knew that he cared very little for flowers, 
 but she always hoped to win his love for her 
 garden. 
 
 ' If you would only work in the garden a little, 
 Ned, you'd soon begin to distinguish between 
 honesty and rocket.' 
 
 'Well, Ellen, I can tell the difference if you 
 give me time to think ; you always have to think 
 whether a sonata is by Beethoven or Mozart I 
 don't. Now which prelude is this ?' And he began 
 to whistle. 
 
 ' I'll tell you when we get into the house. I can 
 tell better if I hear it on the instrument. Now look 
 at these flowers and tell me what they are.' 
 
 ' Give me time give me time, and I'll work it 
 out. . . . Monkshood.' 
 
 ' No, delphinium.' 
 
 'Now, Ellen, I wish you wouldn't call larkspur
 
 264 THE UNT1LLED FIELD 
 
 delphinium. All the beauty of the flowers goes once 
 you change their lovely English names to Latin 
 ones.' 
 
 Ned was often in doubt whether the flowers he 
 was looking at were columbines or Canterbury bells 
 both names were beautiful, but Canterbury bells 
 by far the more beautiful. 'Canterbury is the 
 beautifullest of names, and bells are always beautiful, 
 especially on Sunday morning; it is delicious to 
 hear them choiring over an English landscape.' 
 
 ' Why not over an Irish ?' 
 
 Ned admired the instinct which drew her from 
 flower to flower, for she seemed to divine the 
 wants of every flower and to know where she 
 would find the caterpillars and the snails. She 
 carried a basket on her arm into which she put 
 these gnawing insects. It was not a basket of 
 ( Indian woof,' and she did not tell Ned to carry the 
 insects into distant woods ' far aloof.' Her sensibil- 
 ities were not so fine as Shelley's, and she was 
 content to let Ned trample upon the caterpillars, 
 that had eaten up the hollyhocks. 
 
 ' In another month the poppies will be over every- 
 thing/ she said, ' and my pansies are beautiful. See 
 these beautiful yellow pansies ! But you're not look- 
 ing at my garden.' 
 
 ' Yes, I am taking it all in, but I was thinking just 
 then of that apple-tree, there is no finer one in 
 Ireland, it is as large as a house ; the branches shoot 
 straight out making as it were a little roof; and 
 when there is the moon, yellow as a nectarine among 
 the boughs ' 
 
 ' And only by comparing one thing with another
 
 265 
 
 do you seem to be able to appreciate Nature. If 
 you think the blue of the lobelia reminds you of my 
 eyes, try to remember its name.' 
 
 'To-night the moon is much farther away than 
 when it lay ' 
 
 ( Like a nectarine among the boughs of an apple- 
 tree.' 
 
 ' Now the moon is quite different, sailing away up 
 there in icy scorn.' 
 
 * Much purer.' 
 
 ' Nevertheless, I didn't kiss you that night.' 
 
 ' But you'll kiss me to-night/ and she raised her 
 face to his. 
 
 ' And which moon do you like the better ? The 
 cold spiritual moon or the nectarine moon ?' 
 
 f My dear Ned, the moon is never like a nectarine 
 the moon is just the moon.' 
 
 'And nothing but the moon, whereas you have 
 a soul.' He put his arm about her waist; they 
 passed from the garden through the wicket, moved 
 by a desire to see the long fields and the woods 
 sloping down to the shore. 
 
 * Only the grey sky,' he said, ' with the fleeting 
 moon in it, and a great stream of white light striking 
 across the sea past the last rocks of that lonely little 
 headland. How small the world is compared with 
 the sky to-night !' 
 
 'But the earth is always small compared to the 
 sky.' 
 
 ' Not always, Ellen.' 
 
 And they turned their faces up the grey hillside, 
 going up a little path which led them past a ruined 
 church and over a stream which was difficult to
 
 266 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 cross, the stepping-stones being placed crookedly. 
 A little farther on they stopped to admire a group of 
 three lonely ash-trees, and he wondered if Ellen was 
 as sensible as he to the mystery of the cattle moving 
 through the furze. ' They seem,' he said, ' nearer 
 the earth than human beings are.' And he asked 
 Ellen to sympathize with him in the idea that there 
 are not many things in the universe, but one thing 
 divided indefinitely. And when they had seated 
 themselves on a Druid stone their talk drifted from 
 themselves to Ireland, to the time that the primitive 
 races had assembled round the very stone on which 
 they were sitting for some rite ; and Ned listened, 
 hearing a long story from Ellen's lips, feeling all the 
 while that he had always aspired to a grave, well- 
 mannered woman who was never ridiculous, and 
 despite her superstitions she was not ridiculous. 
 
 ' We shall always think the same do you not feel 
 that ?' 
 
 ' You're thinking,' she said, ' of America ; thinking 
 that if you go there you'll come back with different 
 ideas about Ireland and about me. Isn't that what 
 you were thinking ?' 
 
 ' In a way one doesn't like to break the spell, 
 and I feel that a spell is upon me.' 
 
 ' Ned, you mustn't give way to superstition. You 
 must do what you think right.' 
 
 ' But I don't know that I think any one thing 
 more right than another.' 
 
 ' Yes, you do, Ned.' 
 
 ' What I am considering is the hardship it imposes 
 upon me to leave you at such a time. We have 
 been married hardly more than a year, and I am
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 267 
 
 asked to leave you, for if I go to America it will be 
 for at least three months for four, perhaps.' 
 
 ' Of course, if you thought that you would think 
 of any other woman, that you would not be faithful 
 to me and faithful to Ireland, dear ' 
 
 ' My dear Ellen, there is no question of that. I 
 am thinking of myself and yourself.' 
 
 f If you succeed in America you will come back 
 the first man in Ireland.' 
 
 ' Even so what is that to me or you ? It would 
 be more natural for you to be sorry I am going.' 
 
 ' I am sorry you are going, of course, Ned ; but 
 if you come back a great success I shall be very 
 glad.' 
 
 'You will be very lonely.' 
 
 ' Very likely . . . but, Ned, I shall not be looking 
 very well for the next two months.' 
 
 ' You mean on account of the baby ? The next 
 few months will be a trying time for you, and I 
 should like to be with you. Would you like to go 
 into the house now ?' 
 
 ' No, dear, the night is very beautiful,' and, pass- 
 ing through the wicket, they sat down to rest on the 
 seat under the apple-tree. 
 
 ' But you don't look as if you wished me to stay.' 
 
 ' Yes, Ned, I do I shall miss you. Of course, it 
 will be very lonely here without you, but perhaps it 
 will be better. When you come back, I shall have 
 got back my figure, and perhaps you will like me 
 better than ever.' 
 
 ' You have so little confidence in my love, Ellen, 
 that you only wish me to see you when you are 
 looking . . . charming.'
 
 268 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' It seems to me, Ned, that if a woman wishes to 
 retain a man's love when she marries such a man as 
 you, he must only see her when ' 
 
 * But that isn't like you at all. My dear Ellen, 
 you're crying ! What is the meaning of these tears ?' 
 
 ' I don't know, Ned. It is foolish of me, and 
 under this apple-tree, too, where we have spent so 
 many pleasant hours.' 
 
 'In about six years there will be one who will 
 appreciate the tree as we have never appreciated 
 it. I can see the little chap running after the 
 apples.' 
 
 ' But, Ned, it may be a girl.' 
 
 ' Then it will be like you, dear.' 
 
 Ned shook the boughs, and their apple-gathering 
 seemed portentous. 
 
 ' The sound of apples falling in the dusk and a 
 new life coming into the world.' 
 
 ' But you're sorry to leave me ?' she answered, 
 conscious of some estrangement, as she divined that 
 he was glad he had obtained her consent to go to 
 America. 
 
 ' Of course, I'm sorry to leave you, but you say it 
 is my duty to go and I suppose it is, though for 
 the moment I am not conscious of any duty but you.' 
 They walked into the house together, Ned a little 
 unhappy, because he felt he was not as sincere with 
 Ellen as he wished to be. 
 
 VII 
 
 He was thinking in Chicago that there is no end 
 to politics, when a knock came to the door a 
 telegram from home.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 269 
 
 'A new life has come into the world/ he said. 
 And though it does cost a shilling a word, they 
 might have let me know how she is ! There is 
 no answer,' he said to the boy, and fell to thinking 
 of her gem-like eyes, her pretty oval face, and her 
 red hair scattered about her pillow. At first he 
 was not certain whether the baby was lying by the 
 side of the mother, but now he saw his child, and 
 thrilled with a sense of wonder for birth and death 
 never cease to be wonderful. ' Never,' he said ; and 
 he marvelled at his vision, so clear was it. He could 
 see his wife and child in the room he knew so well, 
 the curtains with the fruit pattern upon them, the 
 pale wallpaper with roses climbing up a trellis, and 
 pretty blue ribbons intervening between each line 
 of roses. He knew the odour of the room well, 
 and the sensation of the carpet ; he could see the 
 twilight, and the bulk} 7 nurse passing to and fro, 
 and began to wonder if his child were like him or 
 like his mother probably like both, and then his 
 eyes went to the clock. The notes of his speech 
 were upon the table ; but he found great difficulty 
 in rousing himself out of his chair ; it was so pleasant 
 to lie there, thinking of his wife, of his home, 
 of his child. And it did not seem as if he could 
 speak at a meeting that night. 
 
 As he considered the wording of the telegram he 
 must send to the chairman, he saw his wife take the 
 baby and put it to her breast, and her breast was 
 very dear to him. He had often thought of Ellen as 
 a beautiful marble very rarely as a mother. But 
 he was due at the meeting in about twenty minutes ; 
 the notes of his speech lay on the table ; he gathered
 
 270 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 them up, put them in his pocket, and drawing a 
 sheet of paper towards him he began a letter to 
 his wife. He wished to tell her ... he sought for 
 turns of phrases that would veil his thought be- 
 comingly from himself and from Ellen. But he 
 must tell her that she would find no difficulty in 
 getting goat's milk at the foot of the Dublin moun- 
 tains, or a peasant woman. ( The curve of your breast 
 is worth all the world to me,' he was about to write, 
 but he decided that it would be better to omit all 
 bodily appreciations, and closed his letter. No 
 sooner was it posted than he was beset by qualms 
 of conscience, and he went to the meeting wonder- 
 ing what Ellen would think of his letter, fearing 
 it would shock and trouble her ; she would re- 
 member his admiration of her with pleasure, but she 
 would consider the rights of the child. 
 
 He was beset by uneasy thought during the next 
 few days, and when the tenth day came the day 
 his letter would probably be handed to her he was 
 thinking how he might remedy his mistake by 
 telegram. He refrained fortunately. A telegram 
 would have added to her distress, which was already 
 very great. She had been suckling her baby for 
 several days before Ned's letter arrived. It had 
 given her pleasure to suckle her baby, and Ned's 
 order that she should pass her child on to another 
 and consider her personal charm for him affrighted 
 her, and she could not restrain her tears. Her tears 
 flowed again ; and when she told the nurse her 
 husband's wishes, the nurse was sorry that Mrs. 
 Carmady had been troubled, for she was still very 
 weak. At that moment the child began to cry for
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 271 
 
 milk ; Ellen put him to her little cup-like breast, 
 and as he drew it, tears fell upon him. The doctor, 
 however, did not think there was anything strange 
 in Ned's letter, even thought she had suckled her 
 baby long enough, and spoke with so much assur- 
 ance that Ellen was soothed. But he had not 
 left her very long before she felt that she must 
 have theological opinion as well, and scribbled a 
 letter to Father Brennan, asking him to come to 
 see her as soon as he conveniently could. He did 
 not, however, side with her against the doctor ; he 
 even refused to express any opinion on the subject, 
 whether a mother was justified in suckling her child 
 herself or in passing it over to a foster-mother. It 
 was entirely a question for the doctor, and if the 
 doctor advised such a course, she would be wrong 
 not to follow it. 
 
 Ellen felt she had been misunderstood, and 
 tried to tell the priest that Ned's letter had been 
 inspired by his admiration of her breasts, but the 
 priest either would not or could not understand, 
 and this troubled her ; she burst into tears again, 
 and the nurse came in and said she had spoken 
 enough this afternoon. The priest bade her good- 
 bye, and the doctor came soon after. There was some 
 whispering, and Ellen guessed that he had brought 
 a foster-mother with him ; she wept again, and 
 turned her head aside so that she might not see her 
 baby fix his lips on the foster-mother's breast. But 
 very soon the wet-nurse was accepted, and cheer- 
 fully ; the priest had told her that she had better 
 follow the doctor's orders, and glancing down her 
 chemise she wondered if she were the same as before.
 
 272 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Nurse, what do you think ?' 
 
 The nurse assured her that she could perceive no 
 difference, but when they put on her stays it was 
 quite clear that she had grown stouter. ' I'm quite 
 a little mother.' The nurse said her figure would 
 come back all right, and she hoped Ned would not be 
 disappointed with her. She did not expect him for 
 a month, and in a month she would be able to meet 
 him as slight and graceful as she had ever been. 
 He liked her in light dresses, so she chose a pretty 
 flowered dress and tied it with a blue sash. ' I 
 never wore so becoming a hat,' she said ; and stood 
 at the end of the platform, waiting for the train to 
 come up. 
 
 Ned was in one of the end carriages, and she 
 would have liked him to jump out of the carriage 
 into her arms ; the first kiss was, however, none the 
 worse for the little delay, and they walked on in 
 silence, unable to speak, so intense was their happi- 
 ness ; it welled up and overflowed when Ned stopped 
 at the corner of the road to gather some honeysuckle, 
 and pinned the blossoms into his wife's gown ; and 
 then, while admiring the gown, the hat, and her 
 pretty red hair, he remembered the letter he had 
 written in answer to her telegram. 
 
 ' I've had many qualms about the letter I wrote 
 you in answer to your telegram. After all, a child's 
 right upon the mother is the first right of all. I 
 wrote the letter in a hurry, and hardly knew what I 
 was saying.' 
 
 ' We got an excellent nurse, Ned, and the boy is 
 doing very well.' 
 
 ' So you said in your letters. But after posting
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 273 
 
 my letter I said to myself : " If it causes me trouble 
 how much more will it cause her !" ' 
 
 1 Your letter did trouble me, Ned. I was feeling 
 very weak that morning and the baby was crying for 
 me, and I didn't know what to do, so I sent up a 
 note to Father Brennan, asking him to come and see 
 me, and he came down and told me that I was quite 
 free to give my baby to a foster-mother. The 
 sanction of the Church, Ned . . .' 
 
 ' The sanction of the Church ! What childish 
 nonsense is this ?' he said. ' The authority of a 
 priest. So it was not for me, but because a 
 priest ..." 
 
 < But, Ned, there must be a code of morality, and 
 these men devote their lives to thinking out one 
 for us.' 
 
 She was charming in her flowered dress, and she 
 had not forgotten to wear a blue veil ; but her beauty 
 could not crush the anger out of him, and she never 
 seemed farther from him not even when the 
 Atlantic divided them. 
 
 ' Those men devote their lives to thinking out a 
 code of morality for us ! You submit your soul to 
 their keeping ; and what remains of you when you 
 have given over your soul ?' 
 
 1 But, Ned, why this outbreak ? You knew I was 
 a Catholic when you married me.' 
 
 ' Yes, and I'm sorry, Ellen, for losing my temper. 
 But it is only in Ireland that women submit them- 
 selves, body and soul. It is extraordinary! It is 
 beyond human reason !' 
 
 They walked on in silence, and Ned tried to 
 forget that his wife was a Catholic.
 
 274 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' Shall I go upstairs and see the baby, or will you 
 bring him down ?' 
 
 'I'll bring him down.' 
 
 And it was a great lump of white flesh with blue 
 eyes and a little red down on its head that she 
 carried in her arms. 
 
 ' And now, Ned, forget the priest and admire your 
 boy !' 
 
 ' He seems a beautiful boy and healthy and sleepy.' 
 
 ' I took him out of his bed, but he never cries. 
 Nurse said she never heard of a baby that didn't 
 cry. Do you know I'm sometimes tempted to pinch 
 him to see if he can cry ?' 
 
 She sat absorbed, looking at the baby, and she was 
 so beautiful and so intensely real at that moment 
 that Ned began to forget that she had given the child 
 out to nurse because the priest had told her that 
 she might do so without sin. 
 
 ' I called him after you, Ned. It was Father 
 Stafford who baptized him.' 
 
 ' So he has been baptized !' 
 
 ' He wasn't three days old when he was baptized.' 
 
 ' Of course, he could not have gone to heaven if 
 he hadn't been baptized.' 
 
 ' Ned, I don't think it kind of you to say these 
 things to me. You never used to say them.' 
 
 'I am sorry, Ellen. I'll say no more, and I am 
 glad it was Father Stafford who baptized him. He 
 is the most sensible priest we have. If all the clergy 
 were like him I should find it easier to believe.' 
 
 ' But religion has nothing to do with the clergy. 
 It is quite possible to think the clergy foolish, and 
 yet to believe that the religion is the true one.'
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 275 
 
 ' I like the clergy far better than their religion, 
 and believe them to be worthy of a better one. I 
 like Father Stafford, and you like having a priest to 
 dinner let us ask him.' 
 
 She liked clerical gossip, and she told him that the 
 new church was finished, and that Biddy heard the 
 saints singing in the window. 
 
 ' So now we have a local saint.' 
 
 ' Yes, and miracles.' 
 
 ' But do you believe in miracles ?' 
 
 ' I don't know. I shouldn't like to say. One 
 isn't obliged to believe in them !' 
 
 ' I'm sure you would enjoy believing in Biddy.' 
 
 ' Oh, Ned ! how aggressive you are and the very 
 day you come back!' 
 
 ' If I am, I'm sorry. Come, sit upon my knee, and 
 forget your priests and all that concerns them, and 
 everything except me, and in return I shall forget 
 all but the cream colour and delightful roundness of 
 your neck.' 
 
 As she came to Ned the faint cloud of resentment 
 which still lingered in her face provoked his laughter, 
 for he guessed what was passing in her mind. 
 
 ' You wouldn't have me different, but you would 
 prefer me not to speak about priests ?' 
 
 ' No, darling, you shouldn't use the word " priest," 
 but " religion " you confuse the two. But this is 
 not the moment for theological discussion.' 
 
 She did not know whether she hated him or loved 
 him, and the thought crossed his mind that there 
 was something of the religious prig in her but no 
 matter and this depreciation was swept away, for 
 he found her the same enticing and .winning sen-
 
 276 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 suality as he had left in Ireland when he went away 
 to America. 
 
 It flattered him to watch her passionate nature 
 overcome her prejudices, and he assured her next 
 morning, as she stepped out of her bath, that she had 
 lost none of her beauty that her baby had robbed 
 not a line of it. She would have preferred him not 
 to have spoken of the baby, but she was glad to think 
 that she had lost nothing in his eyes, and that morn- 
 ing he was so much in love with her that he glanced 
 down her newspaper and read of Ireland's fidelity to 
 her religion, her devotion to her priests, without a 
 muttered word. He read of the profession of Irish 
 nuns in France, of Kilmessan Cathedral bazaar, of 
 meetings at which the chair was always taken by 
 a worthy priest or a brilliant young curate, and of the 
 old Irish castle and its domain that had just become 
 ecclesiastical property, without anger, for his mind 
 was filled with memories of his wife's beauty ; he 
 could not get her out of his head, and after breakfast 
 they walked round the garden, their arms linked, she 
 boring him a little with her flowers, for he was think- 
 ing of the misfortune that the post had brought to 
 him. It seemed hard to leave her the very first day, 
 but he must go to Dublin. He would return in the 
 evening, but he didn't want to be separated from 
 her, though the separation was no more than a few 
 hours. 
 
 ' I shall look forward to see you at the station,' he 
 said ; and at six o'clock they walked down the broad, 
 sunny road once again, thinking of the love-night 
 that awaited them ; and for three months the mould 
 of her body absorbed him, till, surprised at his con-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 277 
 
 stant worship of one idol, he began to look upon 
 himself as a perfect lover, living in a tranquil isle of 
 contentment, blue and waveless seas surging around 
 its shores, gentle breezes rocking its groves, breezes 
 that would never again wax and veer. As a man in 
 complete health forgets death for a while and then 
 remembers suddenly that the day of his death is 
 certain to come, he asked himself as he hurried to 
 the station in a moment of supreme content if Ellen's 
 beauty would ever cease to give him pleasure. The 
 question interested him, and he asked himself if it 
 were possible that she whom he loved so utterly, 
 who meant so much to him, at whose least touch he 
 trembled, would become to him more trite and 
 commonplace than any other woman. Of course it 
 was possible. The mind is always remoulding, 
 remaking the body, and Ellen's mind seemed less 
 interesting than it used to be ; she was becoming 
 more and more a slave to the priest ; we go forward 
 or go back she was retrograde, and in ten years, 
 
 all her beauty dead, she would become But he 
 
 didn't like to think what she would become. 
 
 It might be argued that her religion was her own 
 concern, but it was his too, for it afflicted him ; it 
 always had, and now there was a reason why the 
 affliction should lie upon him very heavily. He was 
 thinking of his little son, who would be sent to 
 confession presently in about five years the break - 
 ing-in would begin. But in five years their love- 
 story would be over and done, and he would be able 
 to resist her. A little frightened at the thought, 
 he began to think instead of what he would say 
 at the meeting. And it was at this meeting he
 
 278 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 became conscious of the missionary within him, and 
 returned home thinking of his political work rather 
 than of his wife. ' A man's heart must be in his 
 work if he is to do it well/ she said, and tried to 
 get Ned to tell her about his hopes for the fulfilment 
 of his projects. But he dropped from particular 
 into general terms, and spoke of social organization 
 and the like, and she felt a little disappointed that 
 he did not take her into his confidence. It would 
 have pleased her to hear him express his old regrets 
 at leaving her when he went away next morning, but 
 he went away quite cheerfully, and she returned to 
 her house remembering his complaints of the long- 
 drives on outside cars and the tedium of his evenings 
 in inn parlours. 'He no longer objects to inn 
 parlours,' she said ; and on his return she asked him 
 to tell her of the beds he had slept in, and was 
 surprised to hear him describe them all as excellent. 
 ' And the food ?' she would venture to ask. ' The 
 food was all right the Irish inn is improving.' She 
 kept herself from saying, though the words came to 
 her lips, ' Improved within the last three months.' 
 ' But I am delighted to get home,' he said, putting 
 his arm about her, as if he had guessed her thoughts. 
 
 ' Where is baby ?' 
 
 She liked him to be fond of his baby, but 
 
 ' Baby is asleep.' 
 
 ' Let us go into the garden and show me your 
 flowers.' 
 
 His astuteness annoyed her, and after dinner she 
 took up her sewing, for he was too tired to talk to her 
 about his work. She could see that he was watch- 
 ing her ; and after watching her for some little
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 279 
 
 while he went to the piano, and she wondered how 
 he could care to play Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, 
 hour after hour Bach all the old masters. ' How is 
 it, Ned,' she said, ' you never seem to talk to me 
 now ?' He answered that the music rested his brain. 
 
 ' But, darling, do you think I am neglecting you ? 
 It isn't true come and sit upon my knee.' 
 
 The request to come and sit upon his knee angered 
 her, for it seemed to her that her husband was aware 
 that a change had come into their lives, and she did 
 not know if she were glad or sorry he did not come 
 to her room that night. 
 
 One day she asked him at what he was smiling, 
 and he answered quite candidly : 
 
 'At my own good fortune in having this house 
 to return home to, and a beautiful wife to kiss when 
 I return. My life is infinitely agreeable ; you have 
 made it so, Ellen, and from end to end. 
 
 ' Don't you understand what I mean ?' he asked, a 
 little annoyed at her unresponsiveness. ' I just ask 
 you, how could a man be else than pleased ? Never 
 was there a more beautiful summer than the one we 
 are coming to the end of. And this morning is 
 beautiful enough to make anybody happy. The 
 sunlight is bewitching don't you love the sun, Ellen?' 
 He saw that she was annoyed, and half guessed the 
 cause of it, and to revenge himself he pretended not 
 to see her clouded face. ' Such a contrast to the 
 day,' he said to himself. ' Everything,' he con- 
 tinued, ' seems to have been done for us. You are 
 the prettiest woman in County Dublin, and I don't 
 think there is a prettier house, or a prettier dress 
 than the one you are wearing.'
 
 280 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' God has been very good, it is true.' 
 ' Well, am I not giving Him thanks ?' 
 ' You seem to look upon me and your house like a 
 little work of art planned out by yourself a work of 
 which you are not a little proud/ she answered, 
 laughing. 
 
 ' You think/ he replied, much amused, ' that I 
 look upon our house as a sort of larder, and you as a 
 dainty morsel.' 
 
 ' I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Ned.' 
 ' The idea was yours that as soon as I have had 
 a snack I put the cover down and go away saying, 
 " Now that is all right that is safe for another 
 week." ' 
 
 The train came in ; he recalled the angry look he 
 had seen gather in her face ; and the newspaper 
 dropped on his knees. . . . He knew that she read 
 his speeches, and if she read them she must have 
 noticed their anti-clerical tone. True, he was not 
 well reported, the most important parts of his 
 speeches were omitted, and for these omissions he 
 looked upon the reporters and editors as his friends, 
 for he was still in love with his wife, and felt that 
 the sensual knot was not yet untied not even 
 loosened, and that many a month would have to pass, 
 perhaps years, before he would find himself in the 
 open air of the world, free again. If she read his 
 speeches this freedom might come to him at once, 
 for woman though she was and a passionate one into 
 the bargain he felt sure that his opinions, as soon 
 as they were fully realized by her, would cleave 
 their love as a hatchet cleaves the wood. He had 
 tried to live without opinions for her sake, and
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 281 
 
 had failed ; his little son would fall into the priest's 
 maw the whole country was in it and he remem- 
 bered how years ago he had watched a snake trying 
 to swallow a frog. The frog seemed to acquiesce, 
 but when half of his body was down the snake's 
 gullet he began to bestir himself and had managed 
 to escape. The snake renewed the attack the next 
 day -and many succeeding days, the frog escaping 
 always at the last moment ; but a day came when 
 the weary frog delayed a little too long and Ned 
 saw him disappear. He was sorry for him, just as 
 he was now sorry for the poor people that the 
 priests were swallowing body and soul. Ned told 
 the story in his speech and the parable was under- 
 stood by some. 
 
 He had an anti-clerical backing in the towns, and 
 one day spoke so plainly that he felt it would be 
 better to tell Ellen what he had said than to allow 
 her to read his speech unprepared. But if he 
 were to tell her she would not come upon his knee ; 
 and if he did not tell her, she would read the report 
 of his speech, and she might not even come to the 
 station to meet him or accompany him to the station 
 in the morning. 
 
 * I'm afraid our lives are at a crisis,' he said, 
 looking out of the window. 
 
 But she was waiting for him on the platform, and 
 looked so pretty as she stood in the sun, her parasol 
 aslant, that he began to regret he had not postponed 
 his attack on the priests. 
 
 His greetings were always cordial, but this even- 
 ing she thought his greeting more cordial, more 
 affectionate ; it was more like the Ned she re-
 
 282 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 membered the Ned that she knew. But he did 
 not take her in his arms, though there was 
 nobody about, and while she wondered at his 
 indifference, she noticed that he was answering her 
 perfunctorily. 
 
 ' What is the matter, dear ? I hope you are not 
 disappointed.' 
 
 ' No, the meeting was well enough. There was a 
 great number of people present, and my speech was 
 well received.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that,' she said. ' But what is the 
 matter, Ned ?' 
 
 'Nothing. I was thinking about my speech. I 
 hope it will not be misunderstood. People are so 
 stupid, and some will understand it as an attack on 
 the clergy, whereas it is nothing of the kind.' 
 
 ' Well,' she said, ' if it isn't, it will be different 
 from your other speeches.' 
 
 < How is that ?' 
 
 'All your speeches lately have been an attack 
 upon the clergy, direct or indirect. I dare say many 
 did not understand them, but anyone who knows 
 your opinions can read between the lines.' 
 
 f If you had read between the lines, Ellen, you 
 would have seen that I have been trying to save the 
 clergy from themselves. I am only pleading for the 
 harmless and the necessar} r laity.' 
 
 ' You see, Ned, I am hardly more to you now than 
 any other woman. You come here occasionally to 
 spend a day or two with me. Our married life has 
 dwindled down to that. You play with the baby 
 and you play the piano, and you write your letters. 
 I don't know what you are writing in them. You
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 28S 
 
 never speak to me of your ideas. I know nothing 
 of your politics.' 
 
 ' I haven't spoken about politics much lately, Ellen, 
 because I thought you had lost interest in them. 
 
 'I've lost interest in nothing that concerns you. 
 I've not spoken about politics because I know 
 quite well that my ideas don't interest you any 
 longer. You're absorbed in your own ideas. You 
 sleep now in the spare room. We are divided, body 
 and soul.' 
 
 ' But I sometimes come to see you in your room, 
 Ellen/ 
 
 ' Sometimes,' she said sadly, ' but that isn't my idea 
 of marriage, nor is it the custom of the country, nor 
 is it what the Church wishes.' 
 
 ' I think, Ellen, you are very unreasonable, and 
 you are generally so reasonable.' 
 
 ' Well, don't let us argue any more,' she said. 
 ' We shall never agree, I'm afraid.' 
 
 ' If I had only known it was going to turn out so 
 disagreeable as this,' Ned said to himself, ' I should 
 have held my tongue.' And he was sorry for having 
 displeased Ellen, so pretty did she look in her white 
 dress and her hat trimmed with China roses ; and 
 though he did not care much for flowers, he liked to 
 see Ellen among her flowers ; he liked to sit with 
 her under the shady apple-tree. The hollyhocks 
 were making a fine show up in the air, and hoping 
 the garden would distract her attention from his 
 ideas, he led her across the sward to their seat. 
 But instead of speaking to him about the flowers, 
 as was her wont, she asked him if he would like to 
 see the child.
 
 284 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' I've kept him out of bed thinking you might like 
 to see him.' 
 
 ' Yes/ he said, ' go fetch the baby and I will shake 
 the boughs and he'll run after the apples.' 
 
 ' Differences of opinion arise/ he said to himself, 
 ' for the mind changes and desire wanes, but the 
 heart is always the same. And what an extraordinary 
 bond a child is/ he added, seeing Ellen leading the 
 little boy across the sward. 
 
 The quarrels of the day died down, the evening 
 grew more beautiful under the boughs, and this 
 intimate life round their apple-tree was strangely 
 intense, and it grew more and more intense as the 
 light died. Every now and then the child came to 
 show them an apple he had picked up, and Ned said : 
 ' He thinks he has found the largest apples that 
 have ever been.' The secret of their lives seemed 
 to approach, and at every moment they expected to 
 hear it. An apple fell with a thud, the stars came 
 out, the tired child came to his mother and asked to 
 be taken on her lap. Ned carried his son, now half 
 asleep, into the house, and they undressed him to- 
 gether, having forgotten, seemingly, their differences 
 of opinion. 
 
 But after dinner, when they were alone in the 
 drawing-room, their relations grew strained again. 
 Ned wanted to explain to Ellen that his movement 
 was not anti- clerical, but he could see she did not 
 wish to hear. He watched her take up her work, 
 and wondered what he could say to persuade her, 
 and after a while he went into his study, fetched his 
 book, and very soon forgot Ellen. But she had not 
 forgotten him, and seeing that his love for her had
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 285 
 
 been absorbed by the book, she stuck her needle in 
 her work, folded it up, and put it into the work- 
 basket. 
 
 ' I am going to bed, Ned.' His face told her that 
 he had returned from a world in which she had no 
 part. ' You prefer your book to me. Good-night.' 
 
 She had never spoken to him so rudely before. 
 But there was no use going after her, he didn't wish 
 to go after her, and obedient to his humour he 
 turned to the piano. He hadn't heard any music 
 for days, and, like a thirsty man to a well-head, he 
 turned to Bach. The piano would reach her bed- 
 room ! Well, if it did he hadn't played Bach for 
 weeks, and he wanted to play Bach. He knew the 
 piano would annoy her . . . would keep her awake. 
 But sleep was far from her eyes. It annoyed her 
 that he should go to the piano the moment she left 
 him, and that he should play Bach ; for he knew that 
 Bach did not interest her; and had it not seemed 
 undignified to do so, she would have sent down word 
 that she would be obliged if he would stop playing. 
 
 As she undressed she lost control over herself, and 
 lying in bed it seemed to her that Ned had hidden 
 himself in a veil of kindness and good humour, and 
 that the man she had married was a man without 
 moral qualities ; a man who would leave her without 
 resentment, without regret, who would say ' Good- 
 bye ' to her as to some brief habit. 
 
 She could hear Bach's interminable twiddles, and 
 they exasperated her nerves ; she wept through many 
 preludes and fugues ; and later she must have heard 
 the fugues in a dream ; for, when the door opened (it 
 passed over the carpet softly) she started out of a
 
 286 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 doze, and heard Ned saying he hoped the piano had 
 not kept her awake. She heard him lay the candle 
 on the table, and come over to her bedside, and, 
 leaning over her, he begged her to turn round and 
 speak to him. 
 
 ' My poor little woman, I hope I have not been 
 cross with you this evening.' 
 
 She turned away petulantly. But he took her 
 hand and held it, and whispered to her, and gradually 
 tempted her out of her anger, and taking some of her 
 red hair from the pillow, he kissed it. She still kept 
 her head turned from him, but she could not keep 
 back her happiness, and at last, raising herself up in 
 the bed, she said : ' Oh, Ned, do you still love me ?' 
 And when he came into bed, she slipped down so 
 as to lie upon his breast, and they fell asleep thinking 
 of the early train he would have to catch in the 
 morning. But this was their last fit of happiness, 
 for next day she was guilty of a great indiscretion 
 she went into Ned's study to see what the time was. 
 She was curious, too, to know what were the books 
 Ned was always reading, but she thought she could 
 go into the study without looking at the books. She 
 fixed her eyes on the clock, trying to keep her eyes 
 from the bookcase. But in spite of herself she looked. 
 The books were there ; they had been thrust so far 
 back that she could not read the name of the writer. 
 Well, it did not matter ; she did not care to know 
 the name of the writer Ned's room interested her 
 more than the books. There was his table covered 
 with his papers, and the thought passed through her 
 mind that he might be writing the book he had 
 promised her not to write. What he was writing
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 287 
 
 was certainly for the printer, for he was writing on 
 only one side of the paper and one of these days 
 what he was writing would be printed ; but it would 
 not be right or honourable for her to look into her 
 husband's private papers, and she hoped she would go 
 out of the study without reading them. 
 
 The papers in her hands were his notes for the 
 book he was writing, and the title caught her eye : 
 A Western Thibet. ' So he is writing the book he 
 promised not to write,' she said, and her shame at 
 her act was swallowed up in the remembrance that 
 it was her money that was supporting the agitation. 
 They were rich now : her father was dead, all his 
 money had come to her, and she had let Ned do what 
 he liked. She had not cared what happened as long 
 as she kept his love but he no longer loved her. 
 Two thousand a year of her money was being spent 
 in robbing the people of Ireland of their religion ! 
 Maybe thousands of souls would be lost and through 
 her fault. 
 
 Ellen feared money as much as her father had 
 loved it. 
 
 ' Good Heavens !' she murmured to herself. ' What 
 am I to do ? Father Brennan will tell me.' And 
 every moment the temptation to confide her secret 
 became more imperative. She could confide her 
 secret to the priest in confession without betraying 
 Ned. But if the priest told her she must withdraw 
 her money from Ned, her marriage was a broken one, 
 and Ned's career would be broken. . . . And it was 
 she who had brought him into politics. She had 
 often spoken of her money in order to induce him to 
 go into politics, and now it was her money that was
 
 288 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 forcing her to betray him. She had not thought of 
 confession in her present difficulty as a betrayal, but 
 it was one and a needless one. Father Brennan 
 could only tell her to withdraw her money, yet she 
 must consult the priest nothing else would satisfy 
 her. She lacked courage where Ned was concerned, 
 and Father Brennan's advice would give her courage. 
 So soon as she told Ned that she could give him no 
 more money, she would have to tell him she was 
 acting on the priest's advice, for she could not go on 
 living with him and not tell him everything. A 
 secret would poison her life, and she had no difficulty 
 in imagining how she would remember it ; she could 
 see it stopping her suddenly as she crossed the room 
 when she was thinking of something quite different. 
 Her confession to Father Brennan would be easy 
 compared with her confession to Ned. She did not 
 think he would ever love her again. To lose his 
 love might be the cross that God laid upon her, and 
 not to be weak and contemptible in the eyes of God 
 was what she had to think of. The love of one's 
 husband is of this world and temporary, but the love 
 of God is for eternity. . . . All things are in the 
 will of God. And it was God who had sent her into 
 Ned's room. She had been compelled. And now 
 she was compelled again. It was God that was send- 
 ing her to the priest ; for we are but puppets in 
 the hands of God ; and she prayed she might be 
 reconciled to His will, only daring to implore His 
 mercy with one ' Our Father,' and one ' Hail Mary.' 
 Further imploration would be out of place : she must 
 not insist too much : God was all wisdom, and knew 
 her need better than she. But she would learn from
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 289 
 
 the priest if the love of her husband might be 
 spared her, and she hoped she would be reconciled 
 to His will, even if her child should be taken from 
 her. 
 
 During Mass the life of her soul seemed to her to 
 become real, in fact the only reality, and she thought 
 that her confession would be a long one ; but on her 
 knees before the priest her soul seemed to vanish, 
 and all her interesting scruples and phases of thought 
 dwindled to almost nothing she could not put her 
 soul into words, and was ashamed of keeping the 
 priest waiting. But the matter on which she had 
 come to consult him had put words out of her 
 head. 
 
 ' I am not certain that what I am going to tell 
 you is a sin, but I consider it as part of my con- 
 fession/ she said at last, and it was with great 
 difficulty that she told him how she had given Ned 
 her money and allowed him to apply it without 
 inquiring into the application. ' Since my child was 
 born I have not taken the interest I used to take in 
 politics. I don't think my husband is any longer 
 interested in my ideas, and now he has told me that 
 some kind of religious reformation is necessary in 
 Ireland.' 
 
 ' When did he tell you that ?' 
 
 ' Yesterday. I went to the station to meet him, 
 and he told me as we walked home. For a long 
 time I believed him ; I don't mean that he told me 
 falsehoods ; he may have deceived himself. Any- 
 how he used to tell me that though his agitation 
 might be described as anti-clerical, no one could 
 call it anti-religious. But this morning something
 
 290 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 led me into his room, and I looked through his 
 papers. I dare say I had no right to do so, but I 
 did.' 
 
 'And you discovered from his papers that his 
 agitation was directed against religion ?' 
 
 Ellen nodded. 
 
 'I cannot think of anything more unfortunate,' 
 said the priest. 
 
 Father Brennan was a little fat man with small 
 eyes and a punctilious, deferential manner, and his 
 voice was slightly falsetto. 
 
 ' I cannot understand how your husband can be so 
 unwise. I know very little of him, but I didn't 
 think he was capable of making so grave a mistake. 
 The country is striving to unite itself, and we have 
 been uniting, and now that we have united Ireland, 
 or very nearly, it appears that Mr. Carmady has come 
 from America to divide us again. What can he gain 
 by these tactics ? If he tells the clergy that the 
 moment Home Rule is granted an anti-religious 
 party will rise up and drive them out of the country, 
 he will set them against Home Rule, and if the 
 clergy are not in favour of Home Rule who, I would 
 ask Mr. Carmady, who will be in favour of it ? And 
 I will ask you, my dear child, to ask him I suggest 
 that you should ask him to what quarter he looks for 
 support.' 
 
 ' Ned and I never talk politics ; we used to, but 
 that is a long time ago.' 
 
 ' He will only ruin himself. But I think you said 
 you came to consult me about something.' 
 
 'Yes. You see a very large part of my money 
 is spent in politics, and I am not certain that I
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 291 
 
 shouldn't withdraw my money. It's for that I have 
 come to consult you.' 
 
 Ellen had been addressing the little outline of the 
 priest's profile, but when he heard the subject on 
 which she had come to consult him he turned, and 
 she saw his large face, round and mottled. A little 
 light gathered in his wise and kindly eyes, and Ellen 
 guessed that he had begun to see his way out of the 
 difficulty, and she was glad of it, for she reckoned 
 her responsibility at a number of souls. The priest 
 spoke very kindly, he seemed to understand how 
 difficult it would be for her to tell her husband that 
 she could not give him any more money unless he 
 promised not to attack the clergy or religion, but 
 she must do so. He pointed out that to attack one 
 was to attack the other, for the greater mass of 
 mankind understands religion only through the 
 clergy. 
 
 ' You must not only withdraw your money,' he 
 said, ' but you must use your influence to dissuade 
 him.' 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said Ellen, ' that when I tell him 
 that I must withdraw my money, and that you have 
 told me to do so ' 
 
 ' You need not say that I told you to do so.' 
 
 ' I cannot keep anything back from my husband. 
 I must tell him the whole truth,' she said. 'And 
 when I tell him everything, I shall not only lose any 
 influence that may remain, but I doubt very much if 
 my husband will continue to live with me.' 
 
 ' Your marriage was a love-marriage.' 
 
 ' Yes, but that is a long time ago. It is four years 
 ago.'
 
 292 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 ' I don't think your husband will separate himself 
 from you, but even so I think ' 
 
 ' You will give me absolution ?' 
 
 She said this a little defiantly, and the priest 
 wondered ; and she left the confessional perplexed 
 and a little ashamed, and very terrified. 
 
 There was nothing for her to do in Dublin ; she 
 must go home and wait for her husband. He was 
 not coming home until evening, and she rode her 
 bicycle home wondering how the day would pass, 
 thinking the best time to tell him would be after 
 dinner, when he left the piano. If he were very 
 angry with her she would go to her room. He 
 would not go on living with her, she was sure of 
 that, and her heart seemed to stand still when she 
 entered the house, and saw the study-door open 
 and Ned looking through the papers. 
 
 ' I have come back to look for some papers,' he 
 said. ' It is very annoying. I have lost half the 
 day.' And he went on looking among his papers, 
 and she could see that he suspected nothing. ' Do 
 you know when is the next train ?' 
 
 She looked out the train for him, and she could 
 see that he suspected nothing, and after he had 
 found the papers he wanted they went into the 
 garden. 
 
 She talked of her flowers with the same interest as 
 she had done many times before, and when he asked 
 her to go for a walk with him on the hill she con- 
 sented, although it was almost unbearable to walk 
 with him for the last time through the places where 
 they had walked so often, thinking that their lives 
 would move on to the end unchanged ; talking of
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 293 
 
 Irish history, their eyes resting on the slender out- 
 lines of Howth. 
 
 1 1 shall be back in time for dinner. You will wait 
 dinner a little for me. I may have to come back by 
 a later train.' 
 
 They walked down the hill together, Ned bid 
 ding her good-bye at the garden-gate, saying she 
 had walked enough that day, and she feeling the 
 moment was at hand. 
 
 ' But, Ned, why are you going to Dublin ? You're 
 only going to see people who are anti-Catholic, who 
 hate our religion, who are prejudiced against it.' 
 
 ' But,' he said, ' why do you talk of these things ? 
 We have got on very much better since we ceased to 
 discuss politics together. We're agreed in every- 
 thing else.' 
 
 She did not answer for a long while, and then she 
 said : 
 
 ' But I don't see how we are to avoid discussing 
 them, for it is my money that supports the agita- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' I never thought of that. So it is. Do you wish 
 to withdraw it ?' 
 
 ' You are not angry with me, Ned ? You won't 
 think it mean of me to withdraw my money ? How 
 are you going to go on without my money ? You see 
 I am wrecking your political career.' 
 
 ' Don't give it another thought, dear. I shall be 
 able to get on without it.' 
 
 ' May I go to the station with you ?' 
 
 ' If you like, only let us talk of something else. 
 Everyone's conscience is his own law, and you must 
 act accordingly.'
 
 294 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 She trotted by his side, and begged him not to 
 laugh at her when he said that to be truly logical 
 she should turn him out of the house, or at least 
 charge him for his board and lodging. 
 
 The intonation of his voice laid her heart waste ; she 
 felt she was done for, and she walked home repeating 
 the words, ' I am done for.' 
 
 As she passed through her garden she saw that her 
 flowers were dying for want of water ; but she could 
 not do much work, and though the cans were heavy, 
 they were not as heavy as her heart. She sat down 
 under the apple-tree and remembered her life. Her 
 best days were her school-days. Then life was be- 
 ginning. Now it seemed to her nearly over, and she 
 only five-and-twenty. She never could take the same 
 interest in politics as she had once taken, nor in books. 
 She felt her intelligence had declined. She was 
 cleverer as a girl than as a woman. 
 
 Ned was coming home for dinner, and some time 
 that evening she would have to tell him that she had 
 read his manuscript. She would have liked to meet 
 him at the station, but thought it would be better 
 not to go. The day wore away. Ned was in his 
 best humour, and when she told him why she did 
 not go to the station to meet him, he said it was 
 foolish of her not to have come, for there was nothing 
 he liked better than to stroll home with her in the 
 evening. 
 
 ' I like Brennan,' he said, throwing himself back in 
 his chair. ' He is a clever man. Brennan knows as 
 well as I do there's too much money spent upon 
 religion in Ireland. But tell me, did he tell you 
 explicitly that you should give me no more money ?'
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 295 
 
 Yes. But, Ned- 
 
 ' No, no ! I am not in the least angry,' he said. 'I 
 shall always get money to carry on my politics. But 
 what a game it is ! And, I suppose, Ellen, you con- 
 sult him on every detail of your life ?' 
 
 Her admission that Father Brennan had taken 
 down books and put on his spectacles delighted him. 
 
 'Taking down tomes!' he said. 'Splendid! Some 
 of these gentlemen would discuss theology with God. 
 I can see Father Brennan getting up : " Sire, my 
 reason for entering the said sin as a venial sin 
 
 Very often during the evening the sewing dropped 
 from her hands, and she sat thinking. Sooner or 
 later she would have to tell Ned she had read his 
 manuscript. He would not mind her reading his 
 manuscript, and though he hated the idea that any- 
 one should turn to a priest and ask him for his in- 
 terpretation regarding right and wrong, he had not, 
 on the whole, been as angry as she had expected. 
 
 At last she got up. ( I am going to bed, Ned.' 
 
 1 Isn't it very early ?' 
 
 ' There is no use my stopping here. You don't 
 want to talk to me ; you'll go on playing till mid- 
 night.' 
 
 ' Now, why this petulancy, Ellen ? I think it 
 shows a good deal of forgiveness for me to kiss you 
 after the way you have behaved.' 
 
 ' I sought Father Brennan's advice under the seal 
 of confession, that was all.' 
 
 ' You don't believe, I suppose, that a priest ever 
 breaks the seal of confession ? There are plenty 
 of indirect ways in which he can make use of the 
 information he has gotten from you.'
 
 296 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 f You have not yet heard how it happened, and 
 perhaps when you do you will think worse of me. I 
 went into your room to see what books you were 
 reading. There was no harm in looking at a book ; 
 but you had put the books so far into the book- case 
 that I couldn't see the name of the author. I took 
 up the manuscript from the table and glanced 
 through it. I suppose I oughtn't to have done 
 that ; a manuscript is not the same as a book. And 
 now good-night.' 
 
 He knew she did not expect him to come to 
 her room that night ; and all of a sudden he be- 
 came aware that the sensual coil was broken : and 
 if he did not follow her now to her room, she 
 would understand that it was broken. They had 
 come to the end of the second period, and there are 
 three a year of mystery and passion, and then some 
 years of passion without mystery. The third period 
 is one of resignation. The lives of the parents pass 
 into the children, and the mated journey on, carry- 
 ing their packs. Seldom, indeed, the man and the 
 woman weary of the life of passion at the same time, 
 and turn instinctively into the way of resignation, 
 like animals. Sometimes it is the man who turns 
 first, sometimes it is the woman. In this case it was 
 the man. He had his work to do, and Ellen had her 
 child to think of, and each must be at his or her task 
 henceforth. And each had a different task. She 
 had thrown, or tried to throw, his pack from his 
 shoulders. She had thwarted him, or tried to thwart 
 him, and he grew angry as he thought of what she 
 had done. She had gone into his study and read his 
 papers ; she had then betrayed him to the priest.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 297 
 
 And he lay awake thinking how he had been deceived 
 by Ellen ; thinking that he had been mistaken ; that 
 her character was not the noble character he had 
 imagined. But at the bottom of his heart he was 
 true to the noble soul that religion could not ex- 
 tinguish nor even his neglect. 
 
 She said one day : ( Is it because I read your 
 manuscript and told the priest that you would not 
 come to my room, or is it because you are tired 
 of me ?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you ; and, really, this conversation 
 is very painful. I am engaged upon my work, and I 
 have no thoughts for anything but it.' 
 
 Another time, when he came from the piano and 
 sat opposite to her, she raised her eyes from her sew- 
 ing and sat looking at him, and then, getting up 
 suddenly, she put her hands to her forehead, and said 
 to herself : { I will conquer this/ and she went out 
 of the room. 
 
 And from that day she did not trouble him with 
 love. She obtained control over herself, and he 
 remembered a mistress who had ceased to love him, 
 and whom he had persecuted a long while with 
 supplications. * She is at one with herself always,' 
 he said, and he tried to understand her. ' She is 
 one of those whose course through life is straight, 
 and not zigzag, as mine is.' He liked to see her 
 turn and look at the baby, and he said : ' That love 
 is the permanent and original element of things, it 
 is the universal substance;' and he could trace 
 Ellen's love of her child in her love of him ; these 
 loves were not two loves, but one love. And when 
 walking one evening through the shadows, as they
 
 298 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 spoke about the destiny we can trace in our lives, 
 about life and its loneliness, the conversation verged 
 on the personal, and she said, with a little accent of 
 regret, but not reproachfully : 
 
 ' But, Ned, you could not live with anyone, at least 
 not always. I think you would sooner not live with 
 anyone.' 
 
 He did not dare to contradict her ; he knew that 
 she had spoken the truth ; and Ned was sorry he 
 was giving pain to Ellen, for there was no one that 
 he would have liked to please better. He regretted 
 that his course was zigzag, and he regretted that 
 such a fate should have befallen Ellen. ' I am not 
 the husband that would have suited her,' he said. 
 And then, after a moment's reflection, 'I was her 
 instinct ; another would not have satisfied her in- 
 stinct ; constancy is not everything. It's a pity I 
 cannot love her always, for none is more worthy of 
 being loved.' 
 
 They became friends ; he knew there was no 
 danger of her betraying him again. Her responsi- 
 bility ended with her money, and he told her how 
 the agitation was progressing. 
 
 ' Oh, Ned, if I were only sure that your agitation 
 was not directed against religion I would follow you. 
 But you will never believe in me.' 
 
 ' Yes, 1 will believe in you. Come to Dublin with 
 me come to the meeting. I'd like you to hear my 
 speech.' 
 
 ( I would like to hear you speak, Ned ; but I don't 
 think I can go to the meeting.' 
 
 They were on their way to the station, and they 
 walked some time without speaking. Then, speaking
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 299 
 
 suddenly and gravely, as if prompted by some deep 
 instinct, Ellen said : 
 
 ' But if you fail, Ned, you will be an outcast in 
 Ireland, and if that happens you will go away, and 
 I shall never see you again.' 
 
 ' Do you think that will happen can happen f' 
 
 ' You know it can happen, Ned. I hope it never 
 will.' 
 
 The train came up to the station ; he bade her 
 good-bye, and set himself down in a seat to consider 
 his speech for the last time. 
 
 ' I shall say everything. The moment is ripe ; and 
 the threat to hold out is that Ireland is becoming a 
 Protestant country. Catholics are leaving because 
 there is no joy in Ireland.' 
 
 He went through the different sections of his 
 speech, introducing the word 'joy.' Is Ireland going 
 to become joyous ? The little stations went by, and 
 the train rolled into Harcourt Street. He called 
 a car. 
 
 He was speaking at the Rotunda on the depopula- 
 tion question, and he said that this question came 
 before every other question. Ireland was now con- 
 fronted with the possibility that in five-and-twenty 
 years the last of Ireland would have disappeared 
 in America. There were some who attributed the 
 Irish emigration to economic causes ; that was a 
 simple and obvious explanation, one that could be 
 understood by everybody ; but these simple and 
 obvious explanations are not often, if they are ever, 
 the true ones. The first part of Ned's speech was 
 taken up with the examination of the economic 
 causes, and proving that these were not the origin
 
 300 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 of the evil. The country was joyless ; man's life 
 is joyless in Ireland. It will be said that the Irish 
 are too poor to pay for pleasure, but they are not 
 too poor to spend fifteen millions a year upon 
 religion. He was the last man in the world who 
 would say that religion was not necessary, but 
 if he were right in saying that numbers were 
 leaving Ireland because Ireland was joyless, he was 
 right in saying that it was the duty of every Irish- 
 man to spend his money in making Ireland a joyful 
 country. He was speaking now in the interests of 
 religion. A country is antecedent to religion. To 
 have religion you must first have a country, and if 
 Ireland was not made joyful, Ireland would become 
 a Protestant country in about twenty-five years. In 
 support of this contention he produced figures, show- 
 ing the rate at which the Catholics were emigrating. 
 But not only were the Catholics emigrating those 
 who remained were becoming nuns and priests. As 
 the lay population declined, the clerics became 
 more numerous. ' Now,' he said, ' there must be a 
 laity. It is a very commonplace thing to say, but 
 this very commonplace thing is forgotten or ignored, 
 and I come here to plead to-day for the harmless 
 and necessary laity.' He knew that these words 
 would get a laugh, and that the laugh would get 
 him at least two or three minutes grace, and these 
 two or three minutes could not be better employed 
 than with statistics, and he produced some astonish- 
 ing figures. These figures were compiled, he said, 
 by a prelate bearing an Irish name, but whose 
 object was to induce Irishmen and Irishwomen to 
 leave Ireland. This would not be denied, though
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 301 
 
 the pretext on which he wished Irish men and 
 women to leave Ireland would be pleaded as justi- 
 fication. 'But of this I shall speak/ Ned said, 
 ' presently. I want you first to give your attention 
 to the figures which this prelate produced, and with 
 approbation. According to him, there were ten 
 convents and one hundred nuns in the beginning 
 of the century, now there are twelve hundred con- 
 vents and twenty thousand nuns. The prelate thinks 
 that this is a matter for us to congratulate ourselves 
 on. In view of our declining population I cannot 
 agree, and I regret that prelates should make such 
 thoughtless observations. Again, I have to remind 
 you of a fact that cannot be denied, but which is 
 ignored, and it is that a celibate clergy cannot con- 
 tinue the population, and that, if the population be 
 not continued, the tail of the race will disappear in 
 America in about twenty-five years. . . . Not only 
 does this prelate think that we should congratulate 
 ourselves on the fact that while the lay population 
 is decreasing the clerical population is increasing, 
 but he thinks that Ireland should still furnish foreign 
 missions. No doubt the conversion of the world is 
 a noble work, but my point is that Ireland has done 
 her share in this noble work, and that Ireland can 
 no longer spare one single lay Irishman or cleric 
 or any Irishwoman. If the foreign mission is to be 
 recruited, it must be recruited at the expense of 
 some other country.' 
 
 Father Murphy stood a little distance on his right, 
 a thick-set man, and as the sentences fell from Ned's 
 lips he could see that Father Murphy was preparing 
 his answer, and he guessed what Father Murphy's
 
 302 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 answer would be like. He knew Father Murphy to 
 be an adroit speaker, and the priest began in a low 
 key, as Ned had expected him to do. He began by 
 deploring the evils of emigration, and Mr. Carmady 
 deserved their best thanks for attracting popular 
 attention to this evil. They were indebted to him 
 for having done this. Others had denounced the 
 evil, but Mr. Carmady 's eloquence had enabled him 
 to do so as well as, perhaps even better than, it had 
 been done before. He complimented Mr. Carmady 
 on the picturesque manner in which he described 
 the emptying of the country, but he could not agree 
 with Mr. Carmady regarding the causes that had 
 brought about this lamentable desire to leave the 
 fatherland. Mr. Carmady's theory was that the Irish 
 priests had succeeded in inducing men to refrain 
 from the commission of sin. Mr. Carmady did not 
 reproach the priests with having failed ; he re- 
 proached them with having succeeded. A strange 
 complaint. The cause of the emigration, which we 
 all agreed in deploring, was, according to Mr. Car- 
 mady, the desire of a sinless people for sin. A strange 
 accusation. The people, according to Mr. Carmady, 
 were leaving Ireland because they wished to indulge 
 in indecent living. Mr. Carmady did not use these 
 words ; the words he used were ' The joy of life/ 
 but the meaning of the words was well known. 
 
 ' No race,' he said, ' had perhaps ever been libelled 
 as the Irish race had been, but of all the libels that 
 had ever been levelled against it, no libel had ever 
 equalled the libel which he had heard uttered 
 to-day, that the Irish were leaving Ireland in search 
 of sin.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 303 
 
 ' They had heard a great deal about the dancing 
 girl, and, according to Mr. Carmady, it would seem 
 that a nation could save itself by jigging.' 
 
 ' He is speaking very well, from his point of view/ 
 said Ned to himself. 
 
 Father Murphy was a stout, bald-headed man, with 
 small pig-like eyes, and a piece seemed to have been 
 taken from the top of his bony forehead. He was 
 elegantly dressed in broadcloth, and he wore a gold 
 chain, and he dangled his chain from time to time. 
 He was clearly the well-fed, well-housed cleric, who 
 was making, in this world, an excellent living of his 
 advocacy for the next, and Ned wondered how it 
 was that the people did not perceive a discrepancy 
 between Father Murphy's appearance and the 
 theories he propounded. 'The idealism of the 
 Irish people,' said the priest, 'was inveterate/ and 
 he settled himself on his short legs and began his 
 peroration. 
 
 Father Murphy was followed by a young curate, 
 and the curate began by saying that Mr. Carmady 
 would be able to defend his theories, and that he 
 had no concern with Mr. Carmady' s theories, though, 
 indeed, he did not hear Mr. Carmady say anything 
 which was contrary to the doctrine of our 'holy 
 religion.' Father Murphy had understood Mr. Car- 
 mady 's speech in quite a different light, and it 
 seemed to the curate that he, Father Murphy, had 
 put a wrong interpretation upon it ; at all events 
 he had put one which the curate could not share. 
 Mr. Cai'mady had ventured, and, he thought, very 
 properly, to call attention to the number of churches 
 that were being built, and the number of people
 
 304 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 who were daily entering the orders. He did not 
 wish to criticize men and women who gave up their 
 lives to God, but Mr. Carmady was quite right when 
 he said that without a laity there could be no 
 country. In Ireland the clergy were apt to forget 
 this simple fact that celibates do not continue the 
 race. Mr. Carmady had quoted from a book written 
 by a priest, in which the distinguished author had 
 said he looked forward to the day when Ireland 
 would be one vast monastery, and the curate agreed 
 with Mr. Carmady that no more foolish wish had 
 ever found its way into a book. He agreed with 
 Mr. Carmady that a real vocation is a rare thing. 
 No country had produced many painters or many 
 sculptors or many poets, and a true religious vocation 
 was equally rare. Mr. Carmady had pointed out 
 that, although the population had diminished, the 
 nuns and priests had increased, and Father Murphy 
 must hold that Ireland must become one vast monas- 
 tery, and the laity ought to become extinct, or he 
 must agree with Mr. Carmady that there was a point 
 when a too numerous clergy would overbalance the 
 laity. 
 
 The curate's argument was taken up by other 
 curates, and Ned began to see he had the youth of 
 the country on his side. 
 
 He was speaking at the end of the week at 
 another great meeting, and received even better 
 support at this meeting than he had done at the 
 first, and he returned home wondering what his wife 
 was thinking of his success. But what matter ? 
 Ireland was waking from the great sleep of Catholi- 
 cism, and at the next parish it seemed as if the
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 305 
 
 impossible were going to happen and that the Gael 
 was going to be free. 
 
 The curates had grievances, and he applied him- 
 self to setting the inferior clergy against their 
 superiors, and at meetings he told the curates that 
 they were no better than ecclesiastical serfs : the 
 parish priests dozed in comfortable armchairs and 
 drank champagne, but the curates lived by the 
 wayside and ate and drank very little and did all 
 the work. 
 
 One day at Maynooth it was decided that curates 
 had legitimate grievances, and that the people had 
 grievances that were likewise legitimate, and at this 
 great council it was decided that the heavy marriage 
 fees and the baptismal fees demanded by the priests 
 should be reduced, and it seemed as if the clergy 
 were going to be defeated. But an indiscretion on 
 Ned's part gave them the victory. In a moment of 
 excitement he was unwise enough to quote John 
 Mitchel's words, 'That the Irish would be free long 
 ago only for their damned souls.' A priest wrote 
 to the newspapers pointing out that after these 
 words there could be no further doubt that it 
 was the doctrine of the French Revolution that 
 Mr. Carmady was trying to force upon a Chris- 
 tian people. A bishop wrote saying that the words 
 quoted were fit words for anti-Christ. After that 
 it was difficult for a priest to appear on the same 
 platform, and the curates whose grievances had 
 been redressed deserted, and the fight became an 
 impossible one. 
 
 Very soon Ned's meetings were interrupted ; dis- 
 agreeable scenes began to happen, and his letters
 
 306 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 were not admitted to the newspapers. A great 
 solitude formed about him. 
 
 ' Well/ he said, one evening, ' I suppose you have 
 read the account in the paper of my ignominous 
 escape ? That is what they called it.' 
 
 'The wheel,' Ellen said, 'is always going round. 
 You may be at the bottom now, but the wheel is 
 going round, only there is no use opposing the 
 people in their traditions, in their instinct. . . . And 
 whether the race is destined to disappear or to con- 
 tinue, it's certain that the last Gael will die a 
 Catholic.' 
 
 ' And the Red Indian will die with the scalp at 
 his girdle.' 
 
 ' We won't talk about religion, we'll talk about 
 things we are agreed upon. I have heard you say 
 yourself that you would not go back to America 
 again that you never enjoyed life till you came 
 here.' 
 
 ' That was because I met you, Ellen.' 
 
 ' I have heard you praise Ireland as being the most 
 beautiful and sympathetic country in the world.' 
 
 ' It is true that I love these people, and I wish I 
 could become one of them.' 
 
 ' You would become one of them, and yet you 
 would tear them to pieces because they are not what 
 "ou want them to be.' 
 
 VIII 
 
 He used to go for long walks on the hills, and one 
 day, lying in the furze amid the rough grass, his eyes 
 following the course of the ships in the bay, he 
 remembered his book, A Western Thibet.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 807 
 
 ' Every race/ he said, ' has its own special genius. 
 The Germans have or have had music ; the French 
 and Italians have or have had painting and sculpture ; 
 the English have or have had poetry ; the Irish had, 
 and, alas! they still have their special genius 
 celibacy ! There is as little free love in Ireland as 
 there is free thought. Men have ceased to care for 
 women, and women have ceased to care for men. 
 Nothing thrives in Ireland but the celibate, the 
 priest, the nun, and the ox.' He laughed a little, 
 and turning on his side and stroking the warm grass 
 with his hand he remembered how the passion of 
 love, the direct inspiration of all the world's art, has 
 been degraded in Ireland, how it has been reduced 
 to the mere act of begetting children. 
 
 ' There are no bastards in Ireland,' he said. ' And 
 bastards are the outward sign of inward grace. That 
 which tends to weaken life is the only evil, that 
 which strengthens life is the only good. Nor is there 
 any intellectual passion ; there is not even religious 
 passion, only religious formula. 
 
 ' Ellen said that the last Gael would die a Catholic, 
 and she's right. He will die clinging to the cassock 
 of a priest. But why should I lament ? What has 
 he ever done ? The Tara brooch and the Cross of 
 Cong and Cormac's Chapel have never been excelled, 
 but Ireland stopped there and suddenly. It seemed 
 as if God had intended the Gael to do something, 
 but had changed His mind ; that change happened 
 in the tenth century, and since then the Gael has 
 produced an incredible number of priests and police- 
 men, some of the finest prize-fighters, and a few 
 clever lawyers, but nothing more serious. A kindly
 
 308 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 sympathetic fellow, that everyone likes, that I love 
 dearly, and that I came to save. But he would not 
 listen. Every one knows his destiny, and the Gael 
 knows his and it is to disappear.' 
 
 His eyes followed the course of the ships in the 
 bay, and he said : 
 
 1 Was it accident or my own fantastic temperament 
 that brought me back from Cuba, and for what 
 purpose was I brought back ? To climb half-way up 
 the lamp-post and to be pulled down by the leg. All 
 Irish saviours have been pulled back perhaps all 
 saviours are pulled back, and yet I'm unwilling to 
 believe that accident brought me back to Ireland 
 and involved me in the destiny of Ireland for no 
 purpose.' 
 
 He did not need to take the book from his 
 pocket, he knew the passage well, and repeated it 
 word for word while he watched the ships in the bay. 
 
 ' We were friends, and we have become strangers 
 one to the other. Ah, yes ; but it is so, and we do 
 not wish to hide our strangerhood, or to dissemble 
 as if we were ashamed of it. We are two ships, 
 each with a course and a destination ; and our ways 
 may draw together again and we may make holiday 
 as before. And how peacefully the good ships used 
 to lie in the same harbour, under the same sun ; it 
 seemed as if they had reached their destination, and 
 it seemed as if there was a destination. But soon 
 the mighty sway of our tasks laid on us as from of 
 old, sundered and drove us into different seas and 
 different zones ; and it may be that we shall never 
 meet again, and it may be that we shall meet and 
 not know each other, so deeply have the different
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 309 
 
 seas and suns changed us. The law that is over us 
 decreed that we must become strangers one to the 
 other ; and for this we must reverence each other 
 the more, and for this the memory of our past friend- 
 ship becomes more sacred. Perhaps there is a vast 
 invisible curve and orbit, and our different destina- 
 tions and ways are parcel of it, infinitesimal segments. 
 Let us uplift ourselves to this thought ! But our 
 life is too short and our sight too feeble for us to be 
 friends, except in the sense of this sublime possi- 
 bility. So let us believe in our stellar friendship, 
 though we must be enemies on earth.' 
 
 ' A deep and mysterious truth/ he said, 'and I 
 must go I must go my Irish life is ended. There 
 is a starry orbit, and Ireland and I are parts of it, 
 and we must believe in our stellar friendship, though 
 we are enemies upon earth.' 
 
 He wandered on, admiring the large, windless 
 evening and the bright bay. Great men had risen 
 up in Ireland and had failed before him, and it were 
 easy to account for their failure by saying they were 
 not close enough to the tradition of their race, that 
 they had just missed it, but some of the fault must 
 be the fault of Ireland. . . . The anecdote varies, 
 but substantially it is always the same story : the 
 interests of Ireland sacrificed to the interests of 
 Rome. 
 
 There came a whirring sound, and high overhead 
 he saw three great birds flying through the still air, 
 and he knew them to be wild geese flying south. . . . 
 
 War had broken out in South Africa : Irishmen 
 were going out to fight once again ; they were going 
 to fight the stranger abroad when they could fight
 
 310 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 him at home no longer. The birds died down on 
 the horizon, and the sea lay before him, bright and 
 beautiful, with ships passing into the glowing dusk, 
 and among the hills a little mist was gathering. 
 He remembered the great pagans who had wandered 
 over these hills before scapulars and rosaries were 
 invented. His thoughts came in flashes, and his 
 happiness grew intense. He had wanted to go, and 
 the birds had shown him where he might go. His 
 instinct was to go ; he was stifling in Ireland : ' A 
 mean, ineffectual atmosphere,' he said, ' of nuns and 
 rosaries.' 
 
 A mist was rising, and the lovely outlines of 
 Howth reminded him of pagan Ireland. ' They're 
 like music,' he said, and he thought of Usheen and 
 his harp. ' Will Usheen ever come again ?' he said. 
 ' Better to die than to live here.' The mist thick- 
 ened he could see Howth no longer. 'The land 
 is dolorous/ he said, and, as if in answer to his words, 
 the most dolorous melody he had ever heard came 
 out of the mist. ' The wailing of an abandoned 
 race,' he said. ' This is the soul-sickness from which 
 we are fleeing.' And he wandered about, calling to 
 the shepherd, and the shepherd answered, but the 
 mist was so thick in the hollows that neither could 
 find the other. After a little while the shepherd 
 began to blow his flute again ; and Ned listened, 
 and repeated the melody over and over again to 
 himself as he walked home, and the moment he 
 entered the drawing-room he said to Ellen, ' Don't 
 speak to me ; I am going to write something down, 
 and this is what he wrote :
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 311 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 J r i J j j 
 
 * A mist came on suddenly, and I heard a shepherd 
 playing this folk-tune. Listen to it. Isn't it like
 
 312 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 the people ? Isn't it like Ireland ? Isn't it like 
 everything that has happened ? It is melancholy 
 enough in this room, but no words can describe its 
 melancholy on a flute played by a shepherd in the 
 mist. It is the song of the exile ; it is the cry of 
 one driven out in the night into a night of wind 
 and rain. It is night, and the exile on the edge of 
 the waste. It is like the wind sighing over bog- 
 water. It is a prophetic echo and final despair of 
 a people who knew they were done for from the 
 beginning. A mere folk-tune, mere nature, raw and 
 unintellectual ; and these raw folk-tunes are all that 
 we shall have done ; and by these, and these alone, 
 shall we be remembered.' 
 
 ' Ned,' she said at last, ' I think you had better go 
 away. I can see you're wearing out your heart 
 here.' 
 
 ' Why do you think I should go ? What put that 
 idea into your head ?' 
 
 ' I can see you are not happy.' 
 
 ' But you said that the wheel would turn, and that 
 what was lowest would come to the top.' 
 
 ' Yes, Ned ; but sometimes the wheel is a long time 
 in turning, and maybe it would be better for you to 
 go away for a while.' 
 
 ' Perhaps ; yes, for a while. It was wild geese, 
 Ellen, that put the idea of going to Africa to fight 
 for the Boers into my head.' 
 
 ' You're going to fight for the Boers, Ned ?' 
 
 ' I am going to Africa. You said that the ' wild 
 geese ' went to fight the stranger abroad when they 
 could fight him at home no longer. You told me 
 how they went after the siege of Limerick. Do you
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 313 
 
 remember the night you told me the story sitting on 
 the Druid stones ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I remember.' 
 
 'And I was thinking of Ireland and her ruin 
 on the hill when I heard a whirring sound, and 
 the wild geese flew through the stillness, going 
 south.' 
 
 ' You want to follow them, Ned ? And the desire 
 to go is as strong in you as in the wild geese ?' 
 
 ' Maybe ; but I shall come back, Ellen.' 
 
 ' Do you think you will, Ned ? How can you, if 
 you go to fight for the Boers ?' 
 
 ' There's nothing for me to do here. I want new 
 life. It was you who said that I should go.' 
 
 ' For five years you have been devoted to Ireland, 
 and now you and Ireland are separated like two 
 ships.' 
 
 ' Yes, like two ships. Ireland is still going Rome- 
 wards, and Rome is not my way.' 
 
 ' You are the ship, Ned, and you came to har- 
 bour in Ireland. But you and I are like two ships 
 that have lain side by side in the harbour, and 
 now ' 
 
 ' And now what, Ellen ? Go on.' 
 
 ' It seemed to me that we were like two ships ?' 
 
 ' That is the very thing I was thinking on the 
 hills. The comparison of two ships rose up in my 
 mind on the hill, and then I remembered a passage.' 
 
 And when he had repeated it, she said : 
 
 ' So there is no hope for us on earth ? We are 
 but segments of a starry curve, and must be content 
 with our stellar friendship. But, Ned, we shall 
 never be enemies on earth. I am not your enemy
 
 314 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 and never shall be. So we have nothing to think 
 of now but our past friendship. The memory of our 
 past is all that remains ? And it was for that 
 you left America after the Cuban War? There 
 is our child. You love the little boy, don't you, 
 Ned?' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said. ' I love the little boy. . . . But 
 you'll bring him up a Catholic. You'll bring him up 
 to love the things that I hate.' 
 
 ' Let there be no bitterness between us to-night, 
 Ned dear. Let there be only love. If not love, 
 affection at least. This is our last night.' 
 
 1 How is that ?' 
 
 ' Because, Ned, when one is so bent upon going, 
 as you are, it is better he should go at once. I give 
 you your freedom. You can go in the morning, or 
 when you please. But remember, Ned, that you can 
 come back when you please that I shall always be 
 glad to see you.' 
 
 They went upstairs and looked for some time 
 on the child, who was sleeping. Ellen took him out 
 of his bed, and she looked very pretty, Ned thought, 
 holding the half-awakened child, and she kept the 
 little quilt about him so that he might not catch 
 cold. 
 
 He put his hands into his eyes and looked at his 
 father, and then hid his face in his mother's neck, 
 for the light blinded him, and he wished to go to 
 sleep. 
 
 ' Let me put him back in his bed,' Ned said ; and 
 he took his son and put him back, and he kissed him. 
 As he did so, he wondered how it was that he could
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 315 
 
 feel so much affection for his son, and at the same 
 time desire to leave his home. 
 
 ' Now, Ned, you must kiss me ; and do not think 
 I am angry with you for going. I know you are dull 
 here, that you have got nothing further to do in 
 Ireland, but it will be different when you come 
 back.' 
 
 ' And is it possible that you aren't angry with me, 
 Ellen, for going ?' 
 
 ' I am sorry you are going, Ned in a way ; but I 
 should be more sorry to see you stay here and learn 
 to hate me." 
 
 One thing Ireland had done for him, and for that 
 he would always be grateful to Ireland Ireland had 
 revealed a noble woman to him ; distance would 
 bring a closer and more intimate appreciation of 
 her. 
 
 ' You are very wise, Ellen. But why did you read 
 that manuscript ?' 
 
 ' Do you think the reading of the manuscript would 
 have made any difference ?' 
 
 ' You think, Ellen, that the reading of the manu- 
 script was but the surface of our lives.' 
 
 He left early next morning before she was awake 
 in order to save her the pain of farewells, and all 
 that day in Dublin he walked about, possessed by the 
 great joyful yearning of the wild goose when it rises 
 one bright morning from the warm marshes, scenting 
 the harsh north through leagues of air, and goes 
 away on steady wing-beats. But he did not feel he 
 was a free soul until the outlines of Howth began to 
 melt into the grey drift of evening. There was a
 
 316 THE UNTILLED FIELD 
 
 little mist on the water, and he stood watching the 
 waves tossing in the mist, thinking that it were well 
 that he had left home. If he had stayed, he would 
 have come to accept all the base moral coinage in 
 circulation ; and he stood watching the green waves 
 tossing in the mist, at one moment ashamed of 
 what he had done, at the next overjoyed that he 
 had done it. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BILLING AKD SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 E?? DEC 1 : 
 
 . nPnn 
 
 1968 
 
 
 
 BECDoc 
 
 f 11988 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 APT 
 
 571 
 
 
 
 Wl 
 
 > 
 
 
 
 
 *! 
 
 
 
 RECP -iW 
 
 ^T^ 
 
 l -1 1971 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 JUN ^ 4 ; 
 
 374 
 
 
 REITD ji 
 
 N 15 1974 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.A.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000 881 290 1