"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.
CHAPTER XVII. THE HOME OF SILENCE.
If Maureen O'Brien had one thing to be thankful for at the present moment, it was the fact that Grace Connor was at once very old and very deaf. She would have done anything in the world for the child, who was put into her care by Pegeen; but the two, so strangely brought together, were prohibited from speaking to each other; and the queer silence of the place, and the rough but sure cleanliness had a soothing effect on Maureen's troubled breast. She need not ask Grace anything; she need not speak to her at all.
On the morning after her arrival, she put on a shabby little hat and prepared to go out. Seeing her about to do so, Grace called aloud in her cracked voice:
"Whist, a minute, honey asthore, ye'll be wanting your vittles. Come in when it plazes ye; the door's on the latch day and night."
Grace darted into a little sort of pantry which she possessed, and soon brought out a tiny basket filled with slices of bread and butter and a bottle of creamy milk. The girl nodded by way of thanks. She then went away. She walked far, for she wanted to get very tired. She was in a strange, new country, a country of mighty grandeur, of solemn peaks, of deep, deep dales, a country of rushing waters, of the greenest of moss and of flowers—a country unlike any that Maureen had ever dreamed of. Maureen was in no mood to go into raptures about anything then, however. She saw a peak in the distance—a peak of one of the many mountains—by no means one of the highest, but still not too high to prevent her from climbing to the top of it. This peak became her goal. She made for it, and soon, all too soon, she left the moss and the green, green grass of the emerald isle behind her, and found herself confronted by solid rock, which rose up in all directions in the shape of huge boulders.
Here there was not a scrap of vegetation, nothing but rock, hard and stony; but the highest boulder led to the top of the peak, and she would get there or die in the attempt. Up there she would be alone, alone with her trouble; perhaps God would come back to her! Perhaps the wicked, terrible angels would forsake her. Those fiery spirits of the pit might retire from this solitary grandeur; at least Maureen felt that she could fight her battle best on the top of the peak.