CHAPTER XVIII. THE PEAK OF DESOLATION WHERE GOD WAS.
The Rector paced up and down in front of Grace Connor's little cabin. The Rector's heart was sorely burdened. The stars in their courses, the moon as she came up in the heavens, had no effect upon him. Dominic had gone in search of Maureen. It was impossible to say a word to Grace. Her deafness was of that stony sort that no words could break. She lived in a world of silence—a world of silence absolute and complete.
Grace Connor was not an unhappy old woman. The Silences around her, the Everlasting Hills which surrounded her, gave to this withered old body a strange sensation of peace. She saw immediately that the Rector was troubled, but it was impossible for her to help him. She therefore did not try. She looked at Dominic with the admiration all women had for the brave lad, and when he spoke of Maureen, hoping that his clear young voice would penetrate through the unbroken stillness, she understood him sufficiently to point outwards, and to smile in a vague and yet comforting manner. Then she busied herself, preparing all she could in the way of refreshments for the Rector, the young maid, and the boy.
Pegeen had provided her with eatables and with money to buy more. In her early days Grace had also been quite a famous cook, so now she prepared eggs and bacon and she made coffee in her ancient coffee pot, coffee of the very best description. She laid her little table with a snowy but coarse cloth, and put the coffee on the hob to keep hot, and then she waited with folded hands. She was accustomed to waiting, she had waited for so many long years now. She saw the Rector pace backwards and forwards outside the cabin. She herself personally was not at all troubled. She was sure the young maid would soon come back, but she could not convey this certainty which dwelt in her mind to Mr. O'Brien, for it was only very occasionally she spoke. In fact she had almost lost the power of speech in that stony silence in which she dwelt. She stood and contemplated her own work, her spotless kitchen, nothing forgotten, for the welfare of the hungry wanderers. They would soon be here; she was certain on that point.
But the Rector was not certain. His troubles affected him in a most intense way. A kind of black sorrow had descended on him, the like of which he had never even imagined. As the night grew darker the feelings in his breast became more intense. Suddenly, as they reached a certain pitch of untold agony, the deaf old woman came up and touched him on the sleeve. Her eyes were very bright, and her face full of unfathomable peace.
"Masther," she said, "pray! 'Our Father,' masther."
In an instant the Rector was on his knees, tears were streaming from his eyes. He prayed aloud the prayer of all prayers, and it seemed as though Grace understood him, for she joined her words to his in a kind of rapture. Her cracked old voice sounding the note of hope through life's despair.
The moment the prayer had come to an end, the old woman went back into the cottage and began busily preparing the supper. To judge by her movements, she seemed not to have a moment to lose; time was hurrying her on, forcing her forward; she broke the new-laid eggs into the frying pan and put the bacon with them. She knew her cooking would be good of the good; and while she was so busy the Rector walked a little farther and saw clearly through the summer night two figures coming to meet him—a boy and a girl. The boy's strong young hand and arm were round the girl's waist. They were walking very quickly. Suddenly the girl saw the Rector, made one quick bound away from her companion, and in a flash of time, was at the Rector's side. Her arms were round his neck and her eyes, sweet as of old, but now also triumphant, were looking into his.
"Uncle Pat—Uncle Pat—I left the evil things at the bottom of the Peak of Desolation, and the dear beloved God has come back to me, and his angels have kissed Maureen, and Maureen is happy—oh so happy again. Uncle Pat, do you know I am desperately hungry!"
"My child!" said the Rector. He could scarcely breathe for a minute, from a sense of exhaustion and relief; then Grace's face appeared at the door of the cabin.
"Supper," she muttered; and she disappeared within.
Was there ever in all the wide world a meal enjoyed like that meal, for all three were faint with exhaustion, and the old smile was in Maureen's eyes—the old smile, but altered. It was a smile of triumph now as well as joy. She had gone through her severe battle, and come out rejoicing.
That night the Rector and the two children slept as best they could in Grace's cabin. She herself disappeared; nobody knew where she went; she left them the little cabin to themselves. She went out, leaving everything in spotless order.
"Breakfast—marning—seven," she remarked, and then she vanished.
Maureen was herself, yet not her old self, but at least she was her old self in her tender care for others. She insisted on Uncle Pat and Dominic lying down side by side on the deaf old woman's bed, and she herself put a pillow under her head and lay on the floor in the kitchen. Thus the short remainder of the night passed.
Early in the morning a breakfast very similar to supper was prepared by Grace with the help of Maureen. Grace gazed very hard at the child.
"Ye've got a differ on ye," and she pointed to her own two eyes.
Maureen nodded.
"It war the mountains," said Grace.
Maureen nodded again.
Immediately after breakfast, the Rector paid the old woman a handsome sum for her services, and he, Maureen, and Dominic went back to Templemore. Maureen was quiet and pale, but the happy light still filled her eyes, and nothing else mattered. Nothing else truly, although the Rector knew he had a task before him. He had got his darling back; she was safe. The awful shock to her reason was averted, but, yes, according to his promise, he must lose her or give her the opportunity of leaving him.
When they got to Templemore, Maureen rushed into the kitchen and hugged Pegeen.
"Look in my eyes, Pegeen," she said.
"Glory be to the Vargin," said Pegeen, "I thought mayhap it might be so, and now ye'll look afther the masther, blessed man."
"Of course," replied the child.
As she went from the kitchen to the dining-room, she sang a few lines of that glorious song, too well known to be repeated—"My heart is like a singing-bird."
She saw Dominic and his father anxiously talking together. She went and stood in front of them, her whole face lit up with sweetness.
"Oh, Dominic," said the Rector, "I feel as if I couldn't do it."
"Father dear, you must—you know you must."
"Well, then, leave us alone, lad. I can do it best when Maureen and I are alone."
Maureen looked in astonishment at the man and the boy, then she drew a chair close to her Uncle's side.
"Must I—must I talk of the dreadful past?" she asked.
"No, my sweet, my own. It is of the future I have to converse with you."
"Something is troubling you, Uncle Pat."
"A good bit, mavourneen."
"Well," said Maureen, "had we not better have it out? It will be off your mind then, and rest assured of one thing, that nothing can make Maureen unhappy now."
"You blessed darling. But I fear still, Maureen, I am a selfish old man, and I—I don't want to part with you."
Maureen did turn a trifle paler than usual.
"Part with me?" she said.
"Yes, that's the trouble. Now listen! Give me your dear little hand to hold."
Maureen immediately put both of her hands into the Rector's.
"Now speak, Uncle Pat."
"Well, my darling, it's this. I took the Mostyns away from here after their evil behaviour. I did not tell you where I was taking them, but I knew of a certain school in the midland counties of England, which is kept by a relation of mine. Her name is Jane Faithful, and she has as a rule a little over forty girls in her school. It is a school where naughty and troublesome girls have been sent from time to time, and from time to time have returned to those who belonged to them, completely altered—in short, penitent. I don't know what her system is, but I imagine that at least at first it is somewhat severe. I took the girls to her school and told her their whole story, then she made a strange request. She said she had often naughty girls in her school, but none to compare with the Mostyns for badness, for cruelty and downright wickedness. She said she would not undertake these girls unless you—YOU, Maureen—went to her for three months. She would treat you, my child, as an honoured guest and take every care of you; and I—I was broken-hearted, but I told her that if you consented I would not say nay. Maureen, I would let you go. This is an awful trouble to me, my colleen."
"Why, Uncle Pat," cried Maureen. "Isn't it just perfectly glorious. How I have my chance. I can fold my love round those poor girls. They shall get inside my heart of hearts. Oh, Uncle Pat, this is indeed a sign that God has forgiven me. Uncle Pat, darling, I am more than glad to go. How could I do otherwise? Having hated—oh, how I hated—do I not now equally love? Write to that lady at once, Uncle Pat, to say I'm coming, and three months will pass swiftly, and who knows but I may bring them back to you, changed and altered in all respects."
"Maureen, I haven't a word to say. Of course you must go, dearest. This is the will of God."
"Shall I go to-morrow?" asked Maureen. "We might send a wire to-night."
"So soon, child of my love?"
"Yes, Uncle Pat; for they want me even more than you do; and, what's more, you are not to come with me."
"I must. You are not to take that long journey alone."
"Dom will take me. Dom is a splendid traveller, but now there is a great deal to do. May I find Dom? I want to speak to him."
Dominic, who was lingering restlessly about, not far from the bed of periwinkles, was quickly by Maureen's side.
"So the father has told you, Maureen."
"Yes, and of course I'm going, Dom, but he, he must not travel any more. He's just played out. I want you to take me to that school, Dom, dear old boy; but first I want to write a note to 'dear Colonel,' and we can send it by one of the grooms. He must wait for an answer. Then I wish to send a wire to-night to Mrs. Jane Faithful, to tell her I am going."
"You are in a great hurry to leave us, Maureen."
The girl looked at her cousin rather sadly.
"After all, even you don't quite understand," she said. "How can I leave them in misery a day longer if I can help it."
"But you——" began the boy.
Maureen's little hand closed his lips.
"Don't say the word—don't—don't. Only I will tell you now that by the exceeding greatness of my hatred so also is the depth and passion of my love."
"You are like no one else, Maureen," said Dominic.
He went away soberly and gravely. He had not ventured to tell Maureen, in her present mood, that he was obliged on account of this arrangement to give up Rugby for good, that those glorious years of schoolboy life in one of the greatest public schools were to be denied him. He knew well, only too well, that it was impossible for his father to be left alone. Well, it could not be helped.
But Maureen was looking at him with an intense light in her eyes.
"Boykins, what's troubling ye, avick?"
"Oh, nothing, darling, nothing."
"Boy, there is. Out with it to Maureen this minute."
"It's only this. I'm just so beastly selfish. I did so want to go to Rugby, and the Headmaster says he will not take me unless I join the school at the autumn term, which is close at hand now. I felt somehow as though it was such a golden chance. I can't help saying it, Maureen; I did look forward to it. But I ask you, dearest and best, can I leave the old man alone with his trouble—alone, quite alone—with only servants to see after him?"
"To be sure, you can't; it would be impossible," said Maureen. "Look here, Dom, somehow I feel in riotous spirits. I won't write that letter to 'dear Colonel.' I'll go to see him instead."
"I don't pretend to understand you, Maureen."
"You must have patience, boykins. Can I have any kind of trap? Otherwise I'll walk."
"Yes, I think I can get you a trap," said Dominic.
"Then say nothing to your father but get it quickly."
Soon Maureen, accompanied by one of the grooms, was seated in a shabby little two-wheeled cart and was herself driving a rough colt over the country roads towards Rathclaren.
Now if there was a miserable man to be found in a beautiful place at that moment, it was "dear Colonel." Maureen's letter, the return of the horse, and the groom, had completely upset him. He refused his food, he could not eat, he dared not make inquiries, for the little letter seemed, somehow, very sacred, but his heart was broken up with longing for the child and with undefined fears for her safety. As to Fly-away, never was a small, high-spirited Arab so petted and fussed over. The Colonel could not make enough of him. His white oats were the whitest in the country, his hot mash the most tempting, his loose box was the perfection of a loose box, and as to Garry the groom, he had a royal time in the kitchen, telling the other servants over and over again of the mysteries of that awful night when "herself, the little wicked 'un she was, tried to pison Fly-away, and would have succeeded but for a sthreak of light coming up through the boards."
"Mayhap it was the Vargin sent the light," said the cook.
"No, no, woman, I'm not superstitious. It was the dark lantern that caused the light. My word, she is a cunnin' wan."
The kitchen greatly enjoyed the adventure, and Garry, handsome and gay, was more fascinating than ever, more welcome than ever, with his merry eyes and cheery laugh. But then came the horrible news that Miss Maureen had gone away, no one knew where, and the Colonel was off his feed entirely, and his valet was certain that the Colonel never slept o' nights, but that he was on the fret the whole day and night. "And ef the round of the sun took forty-eight hours he'd still be on the fret," said Terence, the valet. "This sort o' thing will kill the Colonel. My word! I don't know what to make of it."
"Ate your mate and stop talking horrors," said the cook. "I declare what wid this, and wid that, and Garry and the hoss coming back as they did, I feel sort o' creepy. I'm not going to lose my night's rest, me good man, so ye'd best drop the dismals, for they don't suit me complaint at all, at all."
It was while the servants were talking in this manner in the hall and Mrs. MacGill was wondering in what sort of manner she could tempt the Colonel's appetite, that the sound of wheels was heard outside. The next minute Garry gave a sort of screech, and Maureen said, "Mind this little horse, Garry. I want to see the Colonel."
"He is in his study, missie asthore. Heaven be praised to see your swate face. Oh, but it's I that am mighty glad."
Maureen held out her little hand, grasped Garry's for a moment, and then said in her old cheerful voice, "I must see Fly-away, by-and-by." The next moment she had burst into the Colonel's study without knocking.
She had dressed herself neatly and prettily. The shabby clothes in which she had gone away were discarded. The day was a hot one, and she was all in white with a little white hat trimmed with soft white ribbons. Nothing could be simpler than her dress—no face more charming than hers.
The Colonel gave a sort of gasp.
"Maureen," he said, "Maureen!"
She ran to him and flung her arms round his neck.
"Dear, dear Colonel, I've come back. Everything is all right. All things are beautiful in this beautiful world. Some day perhaps when I am fit to tell it, I will relate my story to my own Colonel, but for the present I would rather ask you to trust Maureen."
"My blessed child, I always trust you; but your letter gave me great pain."
"Ah, that letter," said Maureen, and she gave a little shudder. "Colonel, I love you very, very much, and I want you to keep Garry and Fly-away for three months, then I rather expect I'll want them both back again. But I want you to do something more than that for me. Will you? Promise!"
"You blessed child, I never promise in the dark."
"Well, it shan't be in the dark; it shall be in the light. You know that broth of a boy Dominic is going to Rugby. It's a bit late for him to go, and if he misses this term, the Headmaster won't have him, but he'll have to miss this term and Rugby altogether unless you come to the rescue."
"Good gracious, Maureen, what have I to do with it?"
"Well it's like this. We can't leave Uncle Pat alone; he's not accustomed to it, and he has gone through a frightful lot lately, so I want you, 'dear Colonel,' out of all your wealth (and you know you are very rich) to put a good curate into Templemore, and take Uncle Pat with you, when the weather gets cold enough, to the Riviera, and until then to have him here, if you both like, or to take him at once to parts of Europe which he has never seen and would like to, beyond the beyonds! I want you to be with him while I am away. Will you do this great thing for your own little Maureen?"
"Well, to be sure, child, it is a great thing, and I am a bit tired of travelling, and I like my own comforts and my own home, but I'd do more than that for your sweet face. Bless you, my little girl. If there's a great hurry over this business, we'll have the motor car out and go straight to the Rectory this evening. Upon my word, I'm hungry. You know the ways of this house, Maureen. Ring the bell, my best darling."
When Terence appeared with such startling swiftness that there was circumstantial evidence that he must have had his ear to the keyhole, the Colonel looked him up and down very shrewdly.
"Under the circumstances, I forgive you, Terence," he said; "but clearly understand, don't do it again. Now, pray listen. Miss Maureen and I want dinner quite simple at once, and in half an hour from now I desire Laurence, my chauffeur, to have the motor car at the front entrance. Now hurry, please, for there is not a moment to lose."
"Cert'ly, Colonel," was the valet's response. He fled to the kitchen.
"Now, of all the wonders," he said, "that blessed man our Colonel has got and gone and started an appertite. It's dinner for two, and not a holy minute's delay. It's not by yer lave! but the thing has to be—Dinner—'sharp, and look alive' war his orders; and what's more—him what never goes out towards evening, which I take it to be the werry glory o' the day—the motor car is to be at the front door all ready for a drive for himself and Missie—bless her heart."
"For Heaven's sake, don't stand gapin' there!" cried cook. "Give a body a chance, wull ye, ye omorthorn. You and yer creepy stories indade, and for sure! How let me prepare a male fit to ate for the nicest gintleman in the whole of ould Ireland."
So Maureen and the Colonel ate together, and the Colonel drank two glasses of soft delicious wine, and he insisted on Maureen having a tiny glass to keep him company; then they were off and away for Templemore.