We strolled down by the sea, which to-day looked so calm and beautiful, its surface fluted with grooves where the sunlight reposed, and the colored plaits of the waves weaving themselves lazily until they broke into the white lace-work of sandy shoals. Nothing was there to show the pitiless capacity or the deep revenge it takes from time to time on its helpless conquerors. As we passed down by the creek, the "Great House" came into sight, all its blinds drawn and the white windows staring blankly at the sea.
"This poor child has a heavier cross before her than you," I said.
"Yes, but hers shall be healed in time. But who will wipe out dishonor?"
"I cannot see where the dishonor comes in," I replied. "You have neither robbed nor embezzled."
"I am a hopeless insolvent," he said. "I am security, sole security, for those men over at Kilkeel, whom I promised and guaranteed to safeguard. That I am bound to do on every principle of honor."
"Well, looking at it in its worst aspect," I replied, "insolvency is not dishonorable—"
"It is the very acme of dishonor in a priest," he said.
Then I saw the inutility of reason in such a case.
We dined together that evening; and just as the Angelus bell rang, we heard the hootings and derisive shouts of the villagers after the new hands that had been taken on at the factory. In a few minutes these poor girls came to the door to explain that they could not return to work. It was the last straw. For a moment his anger flamed up in a torrent of rage against these miscreants whom he had saved from poverty. Then it died down in meek submission to what he considered the higher decree.
"Never mind, girls," he said; "tell Kate Ginivan to close the room and bring me the key."