“Of course,” said Elizabeth.
“Excellent,” said Raoul, staring at the ground and beginning to look really relieved for the first time since he had heard of the attack on Ahearn. “I think this is most extraordinary.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Elizabeth suspiciously.
“It means,” said Raoul, “that I have been given a most unexpected card to play. It could only be Destiny that has given me this card.”
Chapter XXVI
Raoul had to leave his carriage on the road and walk the remaining two miles to Father Kelly’s stone hut, across very difficult country. There was a rough lane for half a mile. It was bound by stone fences and so narrow that he had to walk sideways, in order to avoid having his clothes torn by the briars that grew in profusion along the sides. Then he came to a holy well, over which a mass of tattered rags had been hung by devout people. The lane ended there. He crossed a stile on to a wild slope that rose very steeply to the summit of Manister Head. There was only a faint track winding upwards through granite boulders and clumps of gorse. He fell several times, owing to the short grass being slippery after a long period of dry weather. Such was his eagerness to see Father Francis that he never once paused to take breath before reaching the top of the mountain.
The hut was in the centre of a flat space, that reached out from the edge of the cliffs for about two hundred yards. The sea lay more than six hundred feet below. A flock of sea birds had been dozing on the cliff top when Raoul appeared. They rose into the air, making a great cackle. Disturbed by the sound, Father Francis came to the door of his hut and looked around him. He started on catching sight of Raoul. Then he rushed back into the hut again without saying a word.
Raoul advanced at a leisurely pace across the open space. He was dressed in a belted tweed jacket, cord knee breeches, worsted stockings, half boots and a peaked cap. This was more or less the costume worn by country gentlemen when out shooting. Yet it made him look even more outlandish than did his buckled shoes and his black cloak. The truth is, of course, that individuals of arresting personality look most “different” when they try to look commonplace.
The cone-shaped hut was twelve feet high and thirty feet in circumference at the base. The wall was remarkably well preserved, considering that it was more than two thousand years old and made with uncut stones that did not fit very well. There was neither window nor chimney. The door was five feet high and narrowed slightly towards the top. A fairly large man could pass without touching its sides.
“Come no farther,” the priest said from within the hut when Raoul approached, “until you tell me what brought you here.”
Raoul halted and said:
“I came to ask a favour.”
“In that case,” said Father Francis, “you may go at once. I won’t grant your favour.”
“You must at least allow me to tell you what it is,” said Raoul.
“They brought me news of Bodkin’s death yesterday,” said the priest.
“The favour I came to ask,” said Raoul, “concerns others. I ask nothing for myself.”
“My first impression was right,” said the priest. “You are an evil man.”
“We are all evil,” said Raoul, “judged by the standard of perfection.”
“You have a glib tongue,” said the priest. “That’s why you are so dangerous.”
“I beg of you to hear me,” said Raoul.
“Go away,” the priest shouted. “I have my soul to save.”
Raoul sighed and folded his arms on his chest. There was silence for a long time.
“Are you gone?” the priest called out from within.
Raoul smiled and then walked on tip-toe to one side. He put his fingers to his beard and waited. The priest came out of the hut after a little while and looked all round. Seeing Raoul, he became very angry.
“So you are still here,” he cried. “Didn’t I tell you to go?”
He approached Raoul aggressively. He was in his shirt-sleeves and his trousers were tied at the waist by a piece of rough string. He had got very haggard during the past weeks. There was hardly a scrap of flesh on his dark face.
“I insist on speaking to you, face to face,” Raoul said firmly. You must be patient with me. You know very well that I wouldn’t insult your privacy in this brutal way without good reason.”
“Very well, then,” the priest said, coming abruptly to a halt. “Say what you have to say quickly.”
“First of all,” said Raoul, “allow me to apologise for causing you pain.”
“You are shameless,” said the priest in disgust. “You drive a poor sinner to his death and then you apologise.”
“I’m not apologising for driving him to his death,” said Raoul.
“For what then?” said the priest.
“For not explaining to you why I acted as I did,” said Raoul. “You see, I thought you and I understood one another that day we shook hands in my study.”
“I didn’t understand you that day,” said the priest. “I do now. I know now what sort of man you are.”
“Indeed!” said Raoul, beginning to get heated. “What sort of a man am I?”
“You’d destroy the whole of humanity for the sake of proving a theory correct,” said the priest. “In other words, you are completely inhuman. The only really strong impulse in you is curiosity. Nowadays, it is fashionable to call that kind of curiosity intellectual speculation. Innumerable crimes are committed in its name. To me, though, it is no less contemptible than the curiosity of a village woman, who peeps through a crack in a door at something scandalous. The worst evil of all is inhumanity, to do wicked things in cold blood, to have no sympathy with sinners or with those who suffer.”
“You do me an injustice,” said Raoul. “I’m not in the habit of defending myself. That I do so now is because it is not I who am accused. You are really denouncing the right of the people to sit in judgment on those who sin against them.”
“You are playing with words as usual,” said the priest.
“I assume full responsibility for Bodkin’s death,” said Raoul. “I knew he would kill himself if you were removed from his house. Indeed, I got worried when the days passed and he delayed taking the final and inevitable step.”
“That is a monstrous admission,” said Father Francis.
“I deny that,” said Raoul. “When a nation is conquered it loses the right to administer justice over its territory. The conqueror alone imposes his will by force. Therefore, there is no justice. Why? Justice is the discipline necessary for maintaining the nation’s moral and racial health. The conqueror, on the other hand, uses it simply as a means of debasing the moral and physical condition of the enslaved nation.”
“What are you driving at?” said the priest irritably. “I asked you to be quick. Stop beating about the bush.”
“An enslaved nation is forced to find means other than the traditional ones,” said Raoul, “for imposing its will on defaulters.”
“I see,” said the priest. “You are trying to put me in a false position. I don’t object to punishment. It is to torture I object.”
“All punishment is torture,” said Raoul, “unless it is imposed in a moment of passion. Legal punishment is always deliberate and in cold blood.”
“Punishment becomes torture,” shouted the priest, “only when it gives pleasure to those who impose it.”
“So you really believe that the manner of Bodkin’s death gave me pleasure,” said Raoul.
“I do,” said the priest. “What was the favour you came to ask?”
Raoul remained silent for some time, looking at the ground.
“My daughter is getting married,” he said at length, “and wishes to become a Catholic. I came to ask your help in preparing her reception into the Church.”
“Who is the man?” said the priest suspiciously.
“Michael O’Dwyer,” said Raoul. “I hoped you would honour me by staying at Manister Lodge as my guest, while inst
ructing Lettice in Catholic dogma.”
“That’s not really why you came,” said the priest.
The two men now looked one another straight between the eyes. Then Raoul sighed, shrugged his shoulders and began to walk away. Father Francis barred his advance.
“Now that you are here,” said the priest angrily, “I insist that you tell me the real reason for your coming.”
“Let me pass,” said Raoul. “The truth would only make you more unhappy.”
“I insist,” said the priest.
“Very well,” said Raoul. “The people stoned my servant today in the village because of Bodkin’s suicide and your eviction from your quarters in the tavern. When my daughter and Michael announced …”
“You want to use me as a shield,” said Father Francis.
“It was a shabby thing to do,” said Raoul.
“Say no more,” said Father Francis, stepping aside. “Go your way.”
Raoul bowed and then walked away briskly. The priest stood motionless for a while, with his back to Raoul. Then he suddenly uttered a loud cry and turned round. Raoul halted. He also turned.
“Forgive me,” cried Father Francis as he came running with outstretched arms. “Forgive my rudeness.”
“My dear friend,” said Raoul, also stretching out his hands and speaking with deep emotion, “it is I who beg forgiveness.”
“No, no,” cried Father Francis, as they clasped hands. “It is I who have been unjust and poor in spirit.”
He kissed Raoul’s hand with reverence. Then the two men put their hands on each other’s shoulders and smiled happily.
“This is a great moment,” Raoul said.
“I’ll gladly come to live at your house,” said Father Francis.
“From now on,” cried Raoul exultantly, ‘I’m certain that we’re going to understand one another.”
“I was jealous of you,” Father Francis said. “I got jealous when O’Dwyer began to be influenced by you. I have been sulking in my tent ever since, finding fault with everything you did.”
“From now on,” said Raoul, “you are going to be a tower of strength to me.”
“Come into the house,” Father Francis said, “while I put my things together. Then I’ll come with you.”
He took Raoul by the arm and they walked towards the hut.
“I have a stool for you to sit on,” the priest continued, looking towards Raoul as he walked, “and there is a cup of milk that a neighbour woman gave me this morning. Oh! The people are very kind to me. They come from far away with presents for me. I feel ashamed of myself for taking half the things they bring. All I have to give them in return is my blessing. What good is the blessing of a terrible sinner like myself? Oh! Indeed, I’m a terrible sinner for having deserted the people at a time like this. From now on, though, I’m going to do my share, shoulder to shoulder with Michael and yourself. I’ll not be mean or whinging any more. Stoop down now and enter, in God’s name. It’s dark inside, but I have a small piece of candle that I’ll light for you.”
After the two men had passed into the hut, the gulls settled once more on the brink of the cliff. Soon there was a long white row of them standing there in silence, like soldiers on parade, high above the sea.
Chapter XXVII
Late that afternoon, Julia McNamara saw Father Francis go through the village in Raoul’s carriage, on the way to Manister Lodge. As if on purpose to annoy her, Raoul drove past her father’s house at a snail’s pace. Peering down from her bedroom window on the second floor, she saw the two men in earnest conversation. They had their heads close together like bosom friends. She also saw the priest’s belongings on the carriage floor. That made it clear to her that he was going to be Raoul’s guest at the Lodge.
She threw herself face downwards on her bed and wept bitterly for some time after they had passed. Then she stopped crying and stared at the wall fixedly for more than an hour, with the tips of her fore-fingers between her teeth. Her mind was void of thought most of that time. Now and again, however, she realised poignantly that the reconciliation between Raoul and Father Kelly would surely spoil her plan for turning the people against the St. George family. She drove her teeth sharply into the flesh of her fingers whenever this thought tormented her.
The village carpenter came into the shop next morning, to buy nails and timber, while she was serving behind the counter. He was a red-haired man called O’Rourke. He had a very gloomy disposition, due to being afflicted with a club foot. That morning, however, he looked gay and excited. Julia became curious to know what had roused such a surly fellow.
“Were you left a fortune?” she said.
“No, then,” said O’Rourke, “but I heard that a black sheep is returning to God’s fold and sure that’s great news any morning.”
“What black sheep would that be?” Julia said.
“Mr. St. George sent for me this morning,” O’Rourke said, “and asked me to mend his summer-house. It’s that small wooden building that’s been lying in ruins for years, down by the sea at the western end of the Lodge grounds. He said Father Kelly is going to live there, as soon as I get the roof and the floor put in order. When I was leaving, Annie Fitzpatrick invited me into the kitchen for a cup of tea. She told me that Mr. St. George wanted to give Father Kelly the best room at the Lodge, but that the holy man himself preferred to be in the summer house, where he’d have more freedom to do penance at any hour of the day or night that came into his head, without having to take other people into consideration and with little or nothing in the way of furniture to bother him. But that’s only the toe-nail of what she told me.”
He leaned across the counter towards Julia and added in a dramatic whisper:
“The black sheep that’s returning to God’s fold, Annie said, is no less a person than Miss Lettice. She’s going to become a Catholic as soon as Father Kelly has finished teaching her the catechism. Then she’ll marry Michael O’Dwyer. Glory be to God, isn’t that powerful news?”
Julia fell down in a faint. She had to be taken upstairs and put to bed. She remained prostrate for three days, refusing to touch any solid food and unable to get even a wink of sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes through exhaustion, acute remorse of conscience caused her to become wide awake at once. She absolutely refused to see a doctor.
“I’d rather die,” she said, “than have a man lay hands on any part of me.”
On the morning of the fourth day, her parents were astonished to see her come downstairs for breakfast, humming a gay tune.
“I want to have the wedding as soon as possible,” she said to them.
“Lord save us, child,” her mother said, “but I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, on account of the way you behave. Ever since you agreed to marry Jim Clancy, you have refused to discuss a date for the wedding. Now you want to have it at once.”
“Leave her alone, woman,” Bartly cried excitedly. “Say nothing for fear she might change her contrary mind.”
He ran out of the house without waiting to put on his hat. He consulted Clancy and the parish priest. They both agreed to have the wedding on Tuesday of the following week.
“It’s settled now,” Bartly said in triumph on his return home. “You’ll get married this time, Julia, even if I have to kick you on the knees and back you into the church like an obstinate horse.”
“Have no fear,” Julia said. “I’m going to carry my cross without complaint.”
The village people were intensely annoyed by her behaviour during the six days that preceded the wedding. They all knew of her hopeless love for O’Dwyer. Yet they saw her go abroad with a radiant smile on her face, just as if her most tender dreams were about to come true. She spent long hours each evening on her knees by the altar rails in the parish church, gazing in rapture towards the statue of the Blessed Virgin.
“The conceit of her,” they said, “pretending that she’s happy, when we know well that Jim Clancy is poison to her.”
It was
not through vanity that Julia behaved like that. Just as she had feared, when she saw Father Francis go to the Lodge, the people had veered away from her and returned to Raoul. The very same crowd that stoned Ahearn at her instigation was now ready to stone herself. Such extreme fickleness was merely a sign that the popular frenzy had reached its climax. The lovelorn creature understood it to be the work of the Devil. So she was joyously offering her broken heart strings to God as a holocaust, in order to frustrate the Devil’s plans.
As she went to the altar on her wedding day, those present in church whispered to one another that they had never seen a happier bride. They certainly had never seen a lovelier one. During the ceremony, she made the responses in a clear and fervent tone, as if every fibre of her being were in complete accord with her promise to love Clancy. It was only when he took her in his arms that she was seen to stiffen and go pale. She quickly recovered. Again she looked radiant as she walked back to the village on her husband’s arm, at the head of the procession.
Late that night, according to the custom still prevalent, her mother and two aunts took her upstairs while the wedding feast was still in progress. They undressed and bathed her. When she was tucked into bed, they gave her a glass of strong wine, sprinkled holy water on her face and left the room on tip-toe. She lay motionless for a little while, listening to the rain that had just begun to fall outside on to the dusty square and to the faint sound of fiddle music that reached her from the parlour. Then she heard a roar of tipsy laughter and there were heavy footsteps on the stairs. She gasped and sat up rigidly against the pillows. The ecstasy of martyrdom forsook her. She fully realised the horror of the fate that she had brought upon herself.
Presently the door was thrown open and her husband came into the room. He was a young man of splendid form, tall, with broad shoulders, kind blue eyes, rosy cheeks and curly yellow hair. He was noted in the district for his good nature and his shyness. He closed the door after him very gently and came to the foot of the bed. He stood there for a little while, with a broad grin on his bucolic face, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, he took a crushed flower from the buttonhole of his new black suit. He twirled the stem around and around between his fingers. Then he came to the head of the bed and offered it to Julia. She was staring at the ceiling with parted lips, as if unaware of his presence. She made no movement to accept the flower. His face slowly darkened. Presently, he stepped back a pace, threw the flower angrily to the ground and cursed under his breath. He began to undress hastily. When he was stripped to his small shirt, he locked the door, put out the light, got into bed and possessed her with utmost violence.
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