CHAPTER XVI. THE POWER OF HATRED.
While these things were going on, the Rector of Templemore, a truly unhappy man, was hurrying back as fast as ever he could to his home. He hardly thought at all of the Mostyns. He had left them in very good hands. Jane Faithful was well known to produce extraordinary results. But it was the thought of sending his child, his darling, he might almost say his best beloved, away from him for three long months, which tortured the Rector's brave heart.
How could he live without her? And in addition to the fact of his own loneliness he felt anxious about Maureen. He had left his dear little girl in a queer state of mind. He had left her with an expression on her sweet face which he had never seen there before.
Maureen had had a moral shock; Maureen had had a mental shock. The Rector dreaded he knew not what. Was that lovely nature to be overthrown, was that sweet soul to go down, down in future, instead of soaring up, as the lark rises to his heaven of blue? The Rector could scarcely believe that Felicity was the right place for Maureen, and yet he had promised to propose the matter to her; and if she agreed to it, to part from his little bright darling for three long months. He felt quite aged and desperately weary.
As he drove up to Templemore on the evening of the second day of his journey, he was met by Dominic. He heard the voices of the other children chattering merrily as they were taken off to bed, but there was no sound of Maureen's voice to greet his ears.
"Father," said Dominic, "there is no use in hiding things. Maureen is gone!"
"My God," said the Rector. He pressed his hand to his heart. It gave him a stab like a knife.
"Don't take on, dad; please don't take on. She has not done anything desperate. She has simply gone away."
"Tell me everything, my son. Are you positive that the—the child is safe?"
"Yes," said Dominic; "there is no mystery about it. She is quite safe."
"Then she has gone to the Colonel," said the Rector in a relieved voice. "Good, I thought she might do that. She is wonderfully fond of 'dear Colonel,' as she calls him."
"No, no; she has not gone to Colonel Herbert. She has certainly been very queer, and although I tried to talk to her and cheer her all I could, she hardly replied and did not take the least interest in anything. Then yesterday morning she came to me with her plans. Her darling little face was as white as death, but terribly determined, and that strange light which does not come from God, father, was still in her eyes, and it—it sort of haunted me; but she spoke gently, just as she used to speak—the harshness had left her dear voice—it was only, father, that I could not bear to look at her eyes. You know how lovely they used to be. Well, she had settled everything all by herself, and told me that she had sent Garry with Fly-away back to Colonel Herbert. She said she had written a line to him asking him to keep the horse until he heard from her again; and if he never heard, she hoped he would not sell Fly-away. Then she said to me, 'Dominic, I am not good, and I cannot stay in the house with good people. I may get right again. I don't feel like it just now; so as I have money enough, I have arranged my plans. You know old Pegeen has a sister called Grace Connor, and she has a little bit of a cabin in the wilds of Kerry. I am going to stay with Grace, who is deaf, and won't worry me at all, and if ever, ever I feel better, Dominic, you'll be sure I'll come flying home. But not now, for I'm not fit for this dear home. Take great care of Uncle Pat. I won't leave him a message, for I am not, not good enough; but he'll understand.'
"Well, father," continued Dominic, "that's all; and Pegeen took her herself to Grace Connor, and Pegeen has returned with her eyes almost blinded from crying, for she does so love our Maureen."
The Rector of Templemore, tired as he was, went straight to the kitchen to interview Pegeen. He found the poor woman in the deepest distress, but more than inclined to pour out her troubles into the sympathetic ears of her dearly loved master.
"Ah! thin, worra the day, and sorra the day," she sobbed. "But there, masther dear, the wean is safe enough. Grace, own sister to meself, is poor, and mighty poor entirely, but at the very laste, she's clane. Ye could ate yer vittles off the floor, so to shpake; and Grace won't worrit the poor lamb, seeing by the affliction of the Almighty that she is as deaf as a stone."
The Rector thanked Pegeen very kindly, with that gentle courtesy which was his prerogative. He then went into the dining-room and told Dominic what he intended to do.
Owing to the Rector's increase of fortune he was now able to send all his children to first-rate schools, and although Dominic was a little old to enter Rugby, yet the whole thing had been arranged, and by the headmaster's consent he was to stay there for three years, when he hoped to get a good scholarship if possible for his father's own college, Balliol.
The boy was full of talent and loved the thought of the life which stretched before him. He was particularly manly for his age and really looked more than his sixteen years; but when the Rector went on to explain Jane Faithful's remarkable decision, Dominic O'Brien turned a little pale.
"I think we must put off Rugby until after Christmas," he said. "It won't do to leave you alone in this house, dad. Denis and Kitty will of course go back to school. You will necessarily be alone. I cannot leave you. What is more, I won't leave you."
"Good boy," said the Rector. "From what you say you seem to think that Maureen will go to Felicity."
"At the present moment I feel certain she will go," said Dominic, "but of course one cannot be sure of anything. You must let me stay with you, dad."
"Dominic, I cannot! God knows I have done enough to injure my poor children, but now that the chance has arrived, I do not intend to throw your young life away. The headmaster will not let you go to Rugby unless you join at the autumn term. It is all arranged, my lad; pray don't torture me any further."
"I wish I needn't, but I'm afraid I must. I will gladly give up Rugby. You can get me a tutor here and we'll work for a scholarship for old Balliol. I am not so ignorant as you think me, dad; but my first duty is to you."
"Suppose we ask Maureen what she thinks," replied the Rector.
"Ah, well, I'll do what she wishes. But I know what she'll say. Father, you look physically fit to drop. Let me take you to your room."
"I am going to see Maureen by the earliest train to-morrow," said the Rector. "So, perhaps, you are right, my son, and I'd better lie down and try to take what sleep I can."
Unknown to his father, Dominic slipped into Maureen's little bedroom. He even left the door between that room and his father's slightly ajar. Thus he was on the watch, for he was far too anxious to sleep at all that night. But the Rector, worn out with sorrow, slept and had horrible dreams. He was awakened from one, worse than any other, by a light hand touching him on the shoulder, and there stood Dominic with a little tray of tea and bread and butter in his hand.
"You must get up, dear old Gaffer," he said. "The phaeton will be round in less than half an hour. Pegeen has given me full directions as to the whereabouts of her sister's cottage. I am going with you—you know that, of course."
"Yes, Dominic, my boy."
The Rector sipped his tea, which was fragrant and good, ate his bread and butter, and was on the way to Kingsala in time to catch the very first train, which would leave that fashionable and quaint resort at half-past eight in the morning. Dominic secured first-class tickets for himself and his father. They had to endure the usual tiresome wait at the Half-way House, but presently the train from Bradley steamed in, the travellers took their places, and by-and-by, to their great relief, found themselves in the city of Cork.
It was considered a very noble city by Dominic's young eyes, but the Rector had been further afield. He knew what to do now, and exactly how to proceed. Dominic watched his father intently. He had a time-table in his pocket and discovered that the first train to Mallow, on the Blackwater, did not start until half-past twelve o'clock. At Mallow they would have to change and get into one of the slow-going trains which proceed to Kerry.
"Father," said the boy, "we have lots of time. You've got to eat."
"I did eat. You brought me something to my room."
"A cup of tea and a little bread and butter," replied Dominic. "Oh, dad, I'm awfully hungry. Let's go to Baker's in the Mall and have a right good meal."
The Rector certainly could go hungry himself, not having the slightest appetite, but he would not allow such a proceeding on the part of his son, so to Baker's they went, that shop of great renown, where they had coffee of the richest, and different sorts of slim cakes, cut thin like wafers and buttered hot; and then each partook of a large plate of delicate, pink Limerick ham. It must be owned that the boy enjoyed his food, and it must be owned also that the Rector at least partook of his; whether he tasted it or not is another matter. They then took an outside car and drove to the station, from which, if they so wished, they could take a train to Dublin city, but from which they could also get to Mallow, that most lovely old-world town on the borders of the county Cork. They passed the swift-flowing waters—well might they be called the Blackwater, so dark and deep, yet clear, were all their depths. They then had a tiresome wait for a train for Kerry.