There was no Corporation, no Commissioners under the Towns Improvement Act, no gas-house, no water-works, no sanitary board, no guardians of the poor, no bellman, no watering-carts, no workhouse, no police-court, no tax or rate collector, no exciseman, no soldier, no lawyer. There were only three institutions, and these were curative--namely, two houses of worship of different denominations, and a dispensary.
Indirect taxation reached the people occultly; of direct taxation they knew nothing. No doubt some one paid for mending their sewer when the rain-water of winter burst it. No doubt some one paid for putting metal on the roads when the ruts became absolutely dangerous. No doubt some one paid the men who built up the breach in the Storm Wall.
There was a slumbering belief that the police had powers, and the coastguards functions. For instance, the police fished a good deal, smoked fairly well, and were respectable with haughtiness. The coastguards had a boat. In the eyes of Kilcash the possession of a boat was sufficient to account for anything in the world. The coastguards went out in their boat only in fine weather, which gave them the aspect of gentlemen. They kept their boat scrupulously mopped and painted--painted, not tarred; which was foppish, and a little weak-minded. They carefully displayed in the station on the hill, carbines and cutlasses of which Kilcash stood in no more awe than it did of the bulrushes in the bog at the back of the village. To be sure, there was a theory that upon occasion the police might call on the coastguards to come out and assist them. But what this occasion was no one knew. Sergeant Mahony had been heard to hint broadly that in such a dire extremity--which would not, he said, curdle his blood in the least--the chief command would devolve on him. Although nothing was known for certain as to the exigency which might place the whole offensive and defensive forces of the village under the command of Mahony, Tim Curran had, when going home late of an evening, said he supposed the landing of the French in Dublin Bay would lead to that extraordinary act of power. Tim had been in Dublin for three days, and was believed to be infallible on all matters connected, or that might ever be connected, with the bay--from herrings to the French Fleet. It must not be deduced from this that Kilcash assumed a very servile attitude towards Dublin; for if Dublin had a bay, so likewise had Kilcash.
In the village there was one secret held by all, known by all, but scarcely once in a lifetime spoken of by one neighbour to another. It is more than likely that this secret would never have been dreamed of only for a fool once famous in the village, now long since dead. And even this fool told the secret to but few. For a reason lost in the obscurity of local dulness, this fool was named "The Prince of Orange." He went about barefooted, in the most gaudy raiment he could beg. He preferred a soldiers or a huntsman's cast-off coat to any other, and if he was fortunate enough to get such a garment, he stitched to it all the blue, yellow, and green ribbons he could lay hands on. He was one of the villagers killed by the monster of the Black Rock. On the outer face of it the fishing was generally good for long lines, and one day, while making believe to fish there with an old brace and a piece of tattered ribbon tied together, he was surprised and overwhelmed.
The great secret of the people of Kilcash was that no man, woman, or child of the whole village could understand why people came there in summer. Of course the advent of the visitors filled the pockets of the inhabitants, which was no more than the inhabitants were entitled to expect, which was no more than natural, since it has been so for generations. But why should people come to Kilcash in the summer months? It was said they came to the sea. But why?
Supposing a sailor had been at sea for three years and then came home to Kilcash, did he want to look at the land? Did any one in the world ever want to see the land? These people who came with the long, hot days had near their own homes lakes or rivers, or pools or wells. All these were water--nothing but water. There was salt in one, and not in the other--that was all the difference. Put a bucket of sea-water beside a bucket of fresh, and who could tell the difference without tasting or smelling?
When a man came back from a three years' cruise, did he go straight off into the country and stand or lie staring at the fields and haystacks? Not he. Either he came home to Kilcash, or went to a big town where he could see strange sights and buy fine things with his wages. Some came to fish. To fish! Why, every gurnet they caught cost them about a pound of money. The doctors told them to come for health. Health! What did they think of rheumatism, and fever, and bronchitis, and pleurisy, and lumbago, and other diseases, a thousand times worse at the sea than inland? Did any one ever know the land to kill a man? How many thousands a year did the sea kill? In the heat of summer it was all very well to bathe, and swim, and lie about on the sands and rocks, to wade and tumble into pools and get drenched with spray. But wait until the winter comes. Wait until they get the wages of their summer folly. Wait until they are racked by pains, and choked with a cough, and crippled with stiff joints. When they feel the penalties they are far from the place where they incurred them, and the fools of doctors tell them they must go back to the sea next summer in order to get finally rid of their maladies! Rubbish. In reality they come to the sea to drive in the few nails still wanting in their coffins.
This secret made the people of Kilcash conscious of being hypocrites, and accounted for the forced smile with which they greeted visitors in summer, and the night of leaden gloom which descended on them when the visitors departed for the year. The inhabitants of Kilcash never smiled in winter. To laugh in winter would have sounded like a pæan over their miserable, misguided visitors. It would have indicated a heartless and brutal nature.
O'Brien and O'Hanlon alighted at the "Strand Hotel," and ordered dinner and beds. During dinner, O'Hanlon made two ineffectual attempts to extract O'Brien's idea from him, but the latter would not speak. He smiled, and repeated his former word "Wait." O'Brien in his turn tried to induce O'Hanlon to talk, but the latter answered in the briefest and most apathetic way. The dinner was finished in absolute silence.
When it was over, O'Brien rose and said: