He told his father that he did not want any dinner. John Marsh had enquired about his headache, and Henry had said that it was better, but that he thought he would like to be quiet that evening. He said, too, that he had made up his mind to go for a long, lonely walk. "But what about your dinner?" Mr. Quinn had said, and he had answered that he did not want any. "If I'm hungry," he added, "I can have something before I go to bed."
He felt vaguely irritated with John Marsh who first pestered him ... that was the word Henry used in his mind... with sympathy and then lamented that his headache would prevent him from helping that evening at the Gaelic language class. "Still, I suppose well manage," he ended regretfully.
"I don't suppose there'll be many at the class," Henry replied almost sneeringly.
"Why?" said Marsh.
"Oh, well," Henry went on, "after last night!..."
"You mean that they think more of dancing than they do of the language?" Marsh interrupted, and there was so much of anxiety in the tone of his voice that Henry regretted that he had sneered at him.
"Well, that's natural," he said, trying to think of some phrase that would mitigate the unkindness of what he was saying, and failing to think of it. "After all, itismuch more fun to dance than to learn grammar...."
"But this is theIrishlanguage," Marsh persisted, as if the Irishness of the tongue transcended the drudgery of learning grammar.
Mr. Quinn crumpled theNorthern Whigand threw it at Marsh's head. "You an' your oul' language!" he exclaimed. "What good'll it do anybody but a lot of professors. Here's the world tryin' to get Latin an' Greek out of the universities, an' here's you tryin' to get another dead language into them!"
There followed an argument that developed into a wrangle, in the midst of which Henry, flinging a consolatory speech to Marsh, escaped from the house. "You'll get all the keen ones to-night," he said. "That'll be some consolation to you!"
It was too soon to go up to Hamilton's farm. The dairy work would hardly be done, and there would be the evening meal to prepare, and he knew that he would not be welcome in the middle of that activity. He did not wish to return to the room where his father and John Marsh were arguing about the Irish language, nor did he wish to go and sit in his own room until the time came to go andmeet Sheila. If Hannah were to make some sandwiches for him, in case he should feel hungry, he would go to the bottom fields and lie in the long grass by the brook until it was time to meet Sheila. He went downstairs to the kitchen and found Hannah busy with the night's dinner.
"Well, Master Henry!" she said.
He told her of his headache and his desire for a solitary walk, and asked her to cut sandwiches for him.
"I will with a heart an' a half," she said, "when I've strained these potatoes. Sit down there a while an' content yourself till I've done...."
He took the sandwiches from her and went off to the bottom fields. The sky was full of mingled colours and long torn clouds that looked like flights of angels, and hidden in the fold of one great white strip of cloud that stretched up into the heavens, the sickle moon shone faintly, waiting for the setting sun to disappear so that she should shine out with unchallenged refulgence. He stood a while to look at the glory of the sky, and munched his sandwiches while he looked. He had always had a sensuous love of fine shapes and looks; the big bare branches of an old tree showing darkly against a winter sky or the changing colour of clouds at sunset, transfused at one moment to the look of filmy gold as the sun sent his rays shining upwards, darkened at the next, when the sun had vanished, so that they had the colour of smoke and made a stain as if God had drawn a sooty thumb across the sky; but now his sensuousness had developed, and he found himself full of admiration for things which hitherto he had not observed. That evening, when the cart-horses were led home, he had suddenly perceived that their great limbs were beautiful. He had stood still in the lane to watch them going by, and had liked the heavy plunging sound of their hoofs on the rough road, and the faded look of the long hair that hung about their houghs; but more than these he had liked the great round limbs of them, so full of strength. He remembered that once at Boveyhayne, MaryGraham and he had argued about the sea-gulls. She had "just loved" them, but he had qualified his admiration. He liked the long, motionless flight of the gulls as they circled through the air, and the whiteness of their shapely bodies and the grey feathers on their backs, but he disliked the small heads they had and the long yellow beaks and the little black eyes and the harsh cry ... and he had almost sickened when he saw them feeding on the entrails that were thrown to them by the fishermen.... But now, since he had fallen in love with Sheila Morgan, it seemed to him that everything in the world was beautiful; and lying here in the long grass, he yielded himself to the loveliness of the earth. He lay back and closed his eyes and listened to the sounds that filled the air, the noise of pleased, tired things at peace and the subdued songs of roosting birds. He could hear shouts from the labourers in the distant hayfields and, now and then, the slow rattle of a country cart as it moved clumsily along the uneven roads that led from the fields to the farmyards. There was a drowsy buzz of insects that mingled oddly with the burble of the stream and the lowing of the cattle.... He lay there and listened to a lark as it flew up from the ground with a queer, agitated flutter of wings, watching it as it ascended high and higher until it became a tiny speck, and then he sat up and watched it as it descended again, still flying with that queer, agitated flutter of wings, until it came near the earth, when its song suddenly ceased and it changed its flight and fell swiftly to its nest.
He rose up from the grass and walked over to the stream and dipped his hands into it, splashing the water on to the grass beside him. The sunlight shone on his hand and made the wet hairs shine like golden threads....
He was kneeling there at the side of the stream, looking at the wet glow of his hand when the fear of death cameto him, and instantly he was terrified when he thought that he might die. The consciousness of life was in him and the desire to continue and to experience and to know were quickening and increasing. It seemed to him then that if he were to die at that moment, he would have been cheated of his inheritance, that he would have a grievance against God for all eternity.... He moved away from the brook and sank back into the grass, shaken and disconcerted. Until that moment, he had never thought of death except as a vague, inevitable thing that came to all creatures some time ... generally when they were old and had lost the savour of life. He had never seen a dead man or woman and he was unfamiliar with the rites of burial. He knew, indeed, that people die before they grow old, that children die, but until that moment, death had not become a personal thing, a thing that might descend onhim....
He shut his eyes and tried to dose the thought of death out of his mind, but it would not go away. He began to sing disconnected staves of songs in the hope that he would forget that he was mortal.... There was a song that Bridget Fallon had taught him when he was a child, and now after many years, he was singing it again:
There were three lords came out of Spain,They came to court my daughter Jane.My daughter Jane, she is too young,And cannot bear your flatt'ring tongue.So fare you well, make no delay,But come again another day....
But the thought of death still lay heavy on his mind, and so he got up and left the field and hurried along the road that led to Hamilton's farm.
"Oh, my God," he cried to himself, "if I were to die now, just when I'm beginning to know things!..."
He began to run, as if he would run away from his own thoughts. The torn strips of clouds, that had looked likemolten gold, were now darkening, and their darkness seemed ominous to him. The steepness of the "loanie" made him pant and presently he slackened his pace and slowed-down to walking. His eyes felt hot and stiff in their sockets and when he put his hand on his forehead, he felt that it was wet with sweat.
"I'm frightened," he said to himself. "Scared!..."
He wiped his forehead and then crumpled his handkerchief in his hot palms.
"I'm rattled," he went on to himself. "That's what I am. Oh, my God, Iamscared!..."
He looked about him helplessly. He could see a man tossing hay in a field near by, and he watched the rhythmical movement of his fork as it rose and fell.
"I couldn't die now," he thought. "Icouldn't. It wouldn't be fair. I wouldn't let myself die ... I wouldn't!"
And as suddenly as the fear of death had fallen on him, it left him.
"Good Lord!" he said aloud, "what an ass I am!"
Sheila was sitting on a stool in front of the door. Her uncle had gone to bed, and her aunt, tired after her day's work and her attendance on the sick man, was lying on the sofa, dosing.
"I wondered were you comin'," Sheila said as he came up to her.
"You knew I'd come," he answered.
"I didn't know anything of the sort," she exclaimed, getting up from the stool. "Fellas has disappointed me before this."
"Have you had other sweethearts?" he asked, frowning.
She laughed at him. "I've had boys since I was that high," she replied, holding out her hand to indicate herheight when she first had a sweetheart. "What are you lookin' so sore about? D'ye think no one never looked at me 'til you came along? For dear sake!"
She rallied him. Was she the first girl he had ever loved? Was she? Ah, he was afraid to answer. As if she did not know! Of course, she was not the first, and dear knows she might not be the last....
"I'll never love any one but you, Sheila!..."
"Wheesht will you, or my aunt'll hear you!"
"I don't care who hears me!..."
"Well, I do then. Come on down the loanie a piece, an' you can say what you like. I love the way you talk ... you've got the quare nice English accent!"
He followed her across the farmyard and through the gate into the "loanie."
"My father wouldn't like to hear you saying that," he said.
"Why?" she asked. "Does he not like the English way of talkin'?"
"Indeed, he does not. He loves the way you talk, the way all the Ulster people talk!..."
"What! Broad an' coarse like me?" she interrupted.
Henry nodded his head. "He doesn't think it's coarse," he said. "He thinks it's fine!"
Sheila pondered on this for a few moments. "He must be a quare man, your da!" she said.
They walked to the foot of the "loanie" and then turned along the Ballymena road.
"Does he know you come out with me?" she said.
"Who?" he answered.
"Your da."
"No. You see!..." He did not know what to say. It had not occurred to him to talk about Sheila to his father, and he realised now that if it had, he probably would not have done so.
"But if you're goin' to marry me?..." Sheila was saying.
"Oh, of course," he replied. "Of course, I shall have to tell him about you, won't I? I just didn't think of it.... Then you're going to marry me, Sheila?" he demanded, turning to her quickly.
"Och, I don't know," she answered. "I'm too young to be married yet, an' you're younger nor me, an' mebbe we'd change our minds, an' anyway there's a quare differs atween us."
"What difference is there between us?" he said, indignantly.
"Aw, there's a quare deal of differs," she maintained. "A quare deal. You're a quality-man!..."
"As if that matters," he interrupted.
"It matters a quare lot," she said.
They sat down on a bank by the roadside and he took hold of her hand and pressed it, and then he put his arm about her and drew her head down on to his shoulder.
"Somebody'll see you," she whispered.
"There's no one in sight," he replied.
"Do you love me an awful lot?" she asked, looking up at him.
"You know I do."
"More nor anybody in the world?"
He bent over and kissed her. "More than anybody in the world," he answered.
"You're not just lettin' on?" she continued.
"Letting on!"
"Aye. Makin' out you love me, an' you on'y passin' the time, divertin' yourself?"
He was angry with her. How could she imagine that he would pretend to love her?...
"I do love you," he insisted, "and I'll always love you. I feel that ... that!..."
He fumbled for words to express his love for her, but could not find any.
"Ah, well," she said, "it doesn't matter whether you're pretendin' or not. I'm quaren happy anyway!"
She struggled out of his embrace and put her arms round his neck and kissed him. She remained thus with her arms round him and her face close to his, gazing into his eyes as if she were searching for something....
"What are you thinkin', Sheila?" he asked.
"Nothin'," she said, and she drew him to her and kissed him again.
"I wish I was older," he exclaimed presently.
"Why?"
"Because I could marry you, then, and we'd go away and see all the places in the world...."
"I'd rather go to Portrush for my honeymoon," she said. "I went there for a trip once!"
"We'd go to Portrush too. We'd go to all the places. I'd take you to England and Scotland and Wales, and then we'd go to France and Spain and Italy and Africa and India and all the places."
"I'd be quaren tired goin' to all them places," she murmured.
"And then when we'd seen everything, we'd come back to Ireland and start a farm...."
She sat up and smiled at him. "An' keep cows an' horses," she said.
"Yes, and pigs and sheep and hens and ... all the things they have. Ducks and things!"
"I'd love that," she said, delighted.
"We'd go up to Belfast every now and then, and look at the shops and buy things!...."
"An' go to the theatre an' have our tea at an eatin'-house?"
"We'd go to an hotel for our tea," he said.
"Oh, no, I'd be near afeard of them places. I wasn't reared up to that sort of place, an' I wouldn't know what to do, an' all the people lookin' at me, an' the waiters watchin' every bite you put in your mouth, 'til you'd near think they'd grudged you your food!"
They made plans over which they laughed, and theymocked each other, teasing and pretending to anger, and he pulled her hair and kissed her, and she slapped his cheeks and kissed him.
"I'd give the world," she said, "to have my photograph took in a low-neck dress. Abernethy does them grand!..." She stopped suddenly and turned her head slightly from him in a listening attitude.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Wheesht!" she replied, and then added, "D'ye hear anything?"
He listened for a moment or two, and then said, "Yes, it sounds like a horse gallopin'...." They listened again, and then she proceeded. "You'd near think it was runnin' away," she said.
The sound of hooves rapidly beating the ground and the noise of quickly-revolving wheels came nearer.
"Itisrunnin' away," she said, getting up from the bank and moving into the middle of the road where she stood looking in the direction from which the sound came.
"Don't stand in the road," Henry shouted to her. "You might get hurt."
She did not move nor did she appear to hear what he was saying. He had a strange sensation of shrinking, a desire not to be there, but he subdued it and went to join her in the middle of the road.
"Here it is," she said, turning to him and pointing to where the road made a sudden swerve.
He looked and saw a galloping horse, head down, coming rapidly towards them. There was a light cart behind it, bumping and swaying so that it seemed likely to be overturned, but there was no driver. It was still some way off, and he had time to think that he ought to stop the frightened animal. If it were allowed to go on, it might kill some one in the village. There would be children playing about in the street....
"I'll stop it," he said to himself, and half-consciously he buttoned his coat.
He tried to remember just what he ought to do. William Henry Matier had told, him not to stand right in front of a runaway horse, but to move to the side so that he could run with it. He would do that, and then he would spring at its head and haul the reins so tightly that the bit would slip back into the horse's mouth.... He moved from the middle of the road, and was conscious that Sheila had moved, too. His breath was coming quickly, and he felt again that sense of shrinking, that curious desire to run away. He saw a wheel of the cart lurch up as it passed over a stone in the road, and instantly panic seized him. "My God," he thought, "if that had been me!... He saw himself flung to the ground by the maddened horse and the wheel passing over his body, crunching his flesh and bones. He had the sensation of blood gushing from his mouth, and for a moment or two he felt as if he had actually suffered the physical shock of being broken beneath the cart wheel....
"I can't!" he muttered, and then he turned and ran swiftly to the side of the road and climbed on to the bank, struggling to break through the thorn hedge at the top of it. His hands were torn and bleeding and once he slipped and fell forward and his face was scratched by the thorns....
He had thrown himself over the hedge and had lain there, with his eyes closed, trembling. He was crying now, not with fright, but with remorse. He had failed in courage, and perhaps the horse had dashed into the village and killed a child.... He wondered what Sheila would say, and then he started up, his eyes wide with horror, thinking that perhaps Sheila had been killed. He climbed up the bank, and jumped over the low hedge into the roadway. There were some men approaching him, comingfrom the direction in which the horse had come, but he did not pay any heed to them. He began to run towards the village. A little distance from the place where he and Sheila had stood to watch the oncoming animal, the road made another bend, and when he had reached this bend, he met Sheila.
"You needn't hurrynow," she said.
He did not hear the emphasis she laid on the word "now." "Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.
She did not answer, but strode on past him.
"Are you all right?" he repeated, following after her.
"It's a bit late to ask that," she said, turning and facing him. "I might 'a' been killed for all you cared, so long as you were safe yourself!"
He shrank back from her, unable to answer, and the men came up, before she could say anything else to him.
"Did ye see the horse runnin' away?" one of them said to her.
"You'll find it down the road a piece," she replied. "It's leg's broke. It tum'led an' fell. Yous'll have to shoot it, I s'pose!"
They supposed they would. The driver had been drinking and in his drunkenness he had thrashed the poor beast. ... "But he'll never thrash another horse, the same lad," said the man who told them of the circumstances. "He was pitched out on his head, an' he wasn't worth picking up when they lifted him. Killed dead, an' him as drunk as a fiddler! Begod, I wouldn't like to die that way! It 'ud be a quare thing to go afore your Maker an' you stinkin' wi' drink!"
The men went on, leaving Sheila and Henry together. She stood watching the men, oblivious seemingly of Henry's presence, until he put out his hand and touched hers.
"Sheila!" he said.
She snatched her hand away from him. "Lave me alone!" she exclaimed, and moved to the side of the road further from him.
"I meant to try and stop it," he said, "but somehow I couldn't I ... I did my best!"
He had followed her and was standing before her, pleading with her, but she would not look at him. He stood for a while, thinking of something to say, and then put out his hand again and touched hers. "Sheila," he said.
She swung round swiftly and struck him in the face with her clenched fist.
"How dare you touch me!" she cried and her eyes were full of fury.
"Sheila!"
"Don't lay a finger on me ... you ... you coward you! You were afeard to stop it, an' you run away, cryin' like a wee ba!" He tried to come to her again, but she shrunk away from him. "Don't come a-near me," she shouted at him. "I couldn't thole you near me. I'd be sick!..."
She stopped in her speech and walked away from him. He stared after her, unable to think or move. He could feel the smart of her blow tingling in his face, and he put his hand up mechanically to his cheek, and as he did so, he saw that his hand was still trembling. He could see her walking quickly on, her head erect and her hands clenched tightly by her side. He wanted to run after her, but he could not move. He tried to call to her, but his lips would not open....
The light was fading out of the sky, and the night was covering up the hills and fields, but still he stood there, staring up the road along which she had passed out of his sight. People passed him in the dusk and greeted him, but he did not answer, nor was he aware when they turned to look at him. Once, he was conscious of a loud report and a clatter of feet, but he did not think of it or of what it meant. In his mind, smashing like the blows of a hammer, came ceaselessly the sound of Sheila's voice, calling him a coward....
It was quite dark when he moved away. His mouth was very dry and his eyes were hot and sore, and his legs dragged as he walked. He was tired and miserable and he had a frightful sense of age. That morning he had wakened to manhood, full of pleasure in the beauty of living and growing things; now, he was like an old man, longing for death but afraid to lose his life. There were stars above him, but no moon, and the tall trunks of the trees stood up like black phantoms before him, moaning and crying in the wind. He could hear the screech-owls hooting in the dark, and the lonely yelp of a dog on a farm.
He began to hurry, walking quickly and then running, afraid to look back, almost afraid to look forward ... and as he ran, suddenly he fell on something soft. His hands slipped on wetness that smelt....
In the darkness he had fallen over the body of the horse which had been shot while he was standing where Sheila had left him. He gaped at it with distended eyes, and then, with a loud cry, he jumped up and fled home, with fear raging in his heart.
He fell asleep, after a long, wakeful night, and did not hear the maid who called him. Mr. Quinn, when he was told of the heaviness of Henry's slumber, said "Let him lie on!" and so it was that he did not rise until noon. He came down heavy-eyed and irritable, and wandered about the garden in which he took no pleasure. Marsh came to him while he was there, full of enthusiasm because more pupils had attended the Language class than he had anticipated.
"That girl, Sheila Morgan, wasn't there!"
"Oh!" said Henry.
"I thought she'd be certain to come. She seemed so anxious to join the class. Perhaps she was prevented. I hope you'll be able to come to-night, Henry!..."
Henry turned away impatiently. "I don't think I shall go again," he said in a surly voice.
Marsh stared at him. "Not go again!" he exclaimed.
"No."
"But!..."
"Oh, I'm sick of the class. I'm sick of the whole thing. I'm sick of Irish!..."
Marsh walked away from him, walked so quickly that Henry knew that he was trying to subdue the sudden rage that rose in him when people spoke slightingly of Irish things, and for a few moments he felt sorry and ready to follow him and apologise for what he had said; but the sorrow passed as quickly as it came.
"It's absurd of him to behave like that," he said to himself, and went on his way about the garden.
Presently he saw Marsh approaching him, and he stood still and waited for him.
"I'm sorry, Henry," Marsh said when he had come up to him.
"It was my fault," Henry replied.
"I ought not to have walked off like that ... but I can't bear to hear any one talking!..."
"I know you can't," Henry interrupted. "That's why I ought not to have said what I did!"
But Marsh insisted on bearing the blame. "I ought to have remembered that you're not feeling well," he said, reproaching himself. "I get so interested in Ireland that I forget about people's feelings. That's my chief fault. I know it is. I must try to remember.... I suppose you didn't really mean what you said?"
"Yes, I did," Henry replied quickly.
"But why?"
"I don't know. I just don't want to. What's the good of it anyhow?..."
Good of it! Henry ought to have known what a passion of patriotism his scorn for the Language would provoke.
"Oh, all right, John!" he said impatiently. "I've heard all that before, and I don't want to hear it again. You can argue as much as you like, but I can't see any sense in wasting time on what's over. And the Irish language is over and done with. Father's quite right!"
Marsh's anger became intensified. "That's the Belfast spirit in you," he exclaimed. "The pounds, shillings and pence mood! I know what you think of the language. You think, what is the commercial value of it? Will it enable a boy to earn thirty shillings a week in an office? Is it as useful as Pitman's Shorthand? That's what you're thinking!..."
"No, it's not, but if it were, it would be very sensible!"
"My God, Henry, can't you realise that a nation's language is the sound of a nation's soul? Don't you understand, man, that if we can't speak our own language then our souls are silent, dumb, inarticulate?... don't you see what I mean?... and all the time we're using English, we're like people who read translations. I don't care whether it is commercially valuable or not. That's not the point. The point is that it'sus, that it'sourtongue,ourlanguage, that it distinguishes us from the English, insists on our difference from them. Do you see what I mean, Henry? Wearedifferent, aren't we? You realise that, don't you? Wearedifferent from the English, and nothing will ever make us like them. My God, I'd hate to be like them!..."
Henry fled from him, and, scarcely knowing what he was doing, ran across the fields towards Hamilton's farm. As he went up the "loanie," he remembered that Sheila had struck him in the face in her rage at his cowardice, and he stopped and wondered whether he should go on or not. And while he was waiting in the "loanie," she came out of a field, driving a cow before her.
She did not speak, though he waited for her to say something. The cow ambled up the "loanie," and Sheila, glancing at him as if she did not recognise him, passed on, following it.
"Sheila!" he called after her, but she did not answer, nor did she turn round.
"I want to speak to you," he said, going after her.
"I don't want to speak to you," she replied, without looking at him.
"But you must!..." He thrust himself in front of her, and tried to take hold of her hands, but she eluded him. She lifted the sally rod she had in her hand and threatened him with it. "I'll lash your face with this if you handle me," she said.
"All right," he answered, dropping his hands and waiting for her to beat his face with the slender branch.
She looked at him for a few moments, and then she threw the sally rod into the hedge.
"What do you want?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was quieter.
The cow, finding that it was not being followed, cropped the grass in the hedge and as they stood there, facing each other, they could hear the soft munch-munch as it tore the grass from the ground.
"What do you want?" Sheila said again.
"I want to speak to you!..."
"Well, speak away!"
But he did not know what to say to her. He thought that perhaps if he were to explain, she would forgive, but now that the opportunity to explain was open to him, he did not know what to say.
"Are you turned dummy or what?" she asked, and the cruelty in her voice was deliberate.
"Sheila," he began, hesitatingly.
"Well?"
"I'm sorry about last night!"
"What's the good of bein' sorry?..."
"I meant to stop it!..."
"I daresay," she said, laughing at him.
"I did. I did, indeed. I can't help feeling nervous. I've always been like that. I want to do things ... I try to do them ... but something inside me runs away ... that's what it is, Sheila ... it isn't me that runs away ... it's something inside me!"
"Bosh," she said.
"It's true, Sheila. My father could tell you that. I always funk things, not because I want to funk them, but because I can't help it. I'd give the world to be able to stop a horse, like that one last night, but I can't do it. I get paralysed somehow!..."
"I never heard of any one like that before," she exclaimed.
"No, I don't suppose you have. If you knew how ashamed I feel of myself, you'd feel sorry for me. I was awake the whole night!"
"Were you?"
"Yes. I kept on thinking you were angry with me and that I was a coward, and I could feel your fist in my face!..."
"I'm sorry I hit you, Henry!"
"It doesn't matter," he replied. "It served me right. And then when I did sleep, I kept on dreaming about it. Do you know, Sheila, I fell over the horse last night in the dark ... they left it lying in the road after they shot it ... and my hands slithered in the blood!..."
"Aw, the poor baste!" she said, and she began to cry. "The poor dumb baste!"
"And I kept on dreaming of that ... my hands dribbling in blood.... och!..."
He could not go on because the recollection of his dreams horrified him. They had moved to the side of the "loanie" and he mechanically stopped and plucked a long grass and began to wind it round his fingers.
"I think and think about things," he murmured at last.
She put out her hand and touched his arm. "Poor Henry," she said.
He threw the grass away and seized her hand in his.
"Then you'll forgive me?" he said eagerly.
She nodded her head.
"And you'll still be my sweetheart, won't you, and go for walks with me?..."
She withdrew her hand from his. "No, Henry," she said, "you an' me can't go courtin' no more!"
"But why?"
"Because I couldn't marry a man was afeard of things. I'd never be happy with a man like that. I'd fall out with you if you were a collie, I know I would, an' I'd be miserableif my man hadn't the pluck of any other man. I'm sorry I bate you last night, but I'd do it again if it happened another time ... an' there'd be no good in that!"
"But you said you'd marry me!..."
"Och, sure, Henry, you know well I couldn't marry you. You wouldn't be let. I'm a poor girl, an' you're a high-up lad. Whoever heard tell of the like of us marryin', except mebbe in books. I knew well we'd never marry, but I liked goin' about with you, an' listenin' to your crack, an' you kissin' me an' tellin' me the way you loved me. You've a quare nice English voice on you, an' you know it well, an' I just liked to hear it ... but didn't I know rightly, you'd never marry the like of me!"
"I will, Sheila, I will!"
"Ah, wheesht with you. What good 'ud a man like you be to a girl like me. I'll have this farm when my Uncle Matt dies, an' what use 'ud you be on it, will you tell me, you that runs away cryin' from a frightened horse?"
"You could sell the farm!..."
"Sell the farm!" she exclaimed. "Dear bless us, boy, what are you sayin' at all? Sell this farm, an' it's been in our family these generations past! There's been Hamiltons in this house for a hundred an' fifty years an' more. I wouldn't sell it for the world!"
"But I must have you, Sheila. I must marry you!"
"Why must you?"
"I just must!..."
She turned to look at the grazing cow, and then turned back to him. "That's chile's talk," she said. "You must because you must. Away on home now, an' lave me to do my work. Sure, you're not left school yet!" She left him abruptly, and walked up to the cow, slapping its flanks and shouting "Kimmup, there! Kimmup!" and the beast tossed its head, and ran forward a few paces, and then sauntered slowly up the "loanie" towards the byre.
"Good-bye, Henry!" Sheila called out when she had gone a little way.
"Will you be at the class to-night!" he shouted after her.
"I will not," she answered. "I'm not goin' to the class no more!"
He watched her as she went on up the "loanie" after the cow, hoping that she would turn again and call to him, but she did not look round. He could hear her calling to the beast, "Gwon now! Gwon out of that now!" and then he saw the cow turn into the yard, and in a moment or two Sheila followed it. He thought that she must turn to look at him then, and he was ready to wave his hand to her, but she did not look round. "Gwon now! Gwon up out of that!" was all that he heard her saying.
His father was standing at the front door when he returned home. Mr. Quinn's face was set and grave looking, and he did not smile at his son.
"I want you, Henry," he said, beckoning to him.
"Yes, father?" Henry replied, looking at his father in a questioning fashion. "Is anything wrong?"
Mr. Quinn did not answer. He turned and led the way to the library.
"Sit down," he said, when Henry had entered the room and shut the door.
"What is it, father?"
"Henry, what's between you an' that niece of Matt Hamilton's?"
"Between us!"
"Aye, between you. You were out on the Ballymena road with her last night when I thought you were in bed with a sore head."
All the romance of his love for Sheila Morgan suddenly died out, and he was conscious of nothing but his father's stern look and the stiff set of his lips as he sat there athis writing-table, demanding what there was between Henry and Sheila.
"I'm in love with her, father!" he answered.
"Are you?"
"Yes, father, but she's not in love with me. She's just told me so."
"You've seen her this mornin' again?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm glad she has more sense nor you seem to have. Damn it, Henry, are you a fool or what? The whole of Ballymartin's talkin' about the pair of you. Do you think that you can walk up the road with a farm-girl, huggin' her an' kissin' her an' doin' God knows what, an' the whole place not know about it?"
"I didn't think of that, father!..."
"Didn't think of it!... Look here, Henry, Sheila Morgan's a respectable girl, do you hear? an' I'll not have you makin' a fool of her. I know there's some men thinks they have a right to their tenants' daughters, but by God if you harmed a girl on my land, Henry, I'd shoot you with my own hands. Do you hear me?"
Henry looked at his father uncomprehendingly. "Harm her, father!" he said.
"Aye, harm her! What do you think a girl like that, as good-lookin' as her, gets out of goin' up the road with a lad like you that's born above her! A bellyful of pain, that's all!"
"I don't know what you mean, father!"
"Well, it's time you learned. I'll talk to you plumb an' plain, Henry. I'll not let you seduce a girl on my land, do you hear? They can do that sort of thing in England, if they like ... it's nothin' to me what the English do ... but by God I'll not have a girl on my land ruined by you or by anybody else!"
Mr. Quinn's voice was more angry than Henry had ever heard it.
"Father," Henry said, "I want to marry Sheila!..."
"What?"
Mr. Quinn's fist had been raised as if he were about to bang his desk to emphasise his words, but he was so startled by Henry's speech that he forgot his intention, and he sat there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, with his fist still suspended in the air, so that Henry almost laughed at his comical look.
"What's that you say?" he said, when he had recovered
"I want to marry her, but she won't have me!"
Mr. Quinn's anger left him. He leant back in his revolving chair and laughed.
"By God, that's good!" he said. "By God, it is! Marry her! Oh, dear, oh, dear!"
"I don't know why you're laughing, father!..."
"An' I thought you up to no good. Oh, ho, ho!" He took out his handkerchief and rubbed his eyes. "Well, thank God, the girl's got more wit nor you have. In the name of God, lad, what would you marry her for?"
"Because I love her, father!"
"My backside to that for an answer!" Mr. Quinn snapped. "You know well you couldn't marry her, a girl like that!"
"I don't know it at all!..."
"Well, I'll tell you why then. Because you're a gentleman an' she isn't a lady, that's why. There's hundreds of years of breedin' in you, Henry, an' there's no breedin' at all in her, nothin' but good nature an' good looks!..."
"The Hamiltons have lived at their farm for more than a hundred and fifty years, father!"
"So they have, an' decent, good stock they are, but that doesn't put them on our level. Listen, Henry, the one thing that's most important in this world is blood an' breedin'. There's people goes about the world sayin' everybody's as good as everybody else, but you've onlygot to see people when there's bother on to find out who's good an' who isn't. It's at times like that that blood an' breedin' come out!..."
It was then that Henry told his father of his cowardice when the horse ran away. He told the whole story, and insisted on Sheila's scorn for him. Mr. Quinn did not speak while the story was being told. He sat at the desk with his chin buried in his fingers, listening patiently. Once or twice he looked up when Henry hesitated in his recital, and once he seemed as if he were about to put out his hand to his son, but he did not do so. He did not speak or move until the story was ended.
"I'm glad you told me, Henry," he said quietly when Henry had finished. "I'm sorry I thought you were meanin' the girl an injury. I beg your pardon for that, Henry. The girl's a decent girl, a well-meant girl ... a well-meant girl!... I wish to God, you were at Trinity, my son! Come on, now, an' have somethin' to ate. Begod, I'm hungry. I could ate a horse. I could ate two horses!..." He put his arm in Henry's and they left the library together. "You'll get over it, my son, you'll get over it. It does a lad good to break his heart now an' again. Teaches him the way the world works! Opens his mind for him, an' lets him get a notion of the feel of things!..."
They were just outside the dining-room when he said that. Mr. Quinn turned and looked at Henry for a second or two, and it seemed to Henry that he was about to say something intimate to him, but he did not do so: he turned away quickly and opened the door.
"I suppose John Marsh is eatin' all the food," he said with extraordinary heartiness. "Are you eatin' all the food, John Marsh? I'll wring your damned neck if you are!..."
That evening, after dinner, Mr. Quinn and John Marsh were sitting together. Henry had gone out of the room for a while, leaving Mr. Quinn to smoke a cigar while John Marsh corrected some exercises by the students of the Language class.
"Marsh!" Mr. Quinn said suddenly, after a long silence.
Marsh looked up quickly. "Yes, Mr. Quinn!" he replied.
"Henry's in love!..."
"Is he?"
"Yes. With that girl. Sheila Morgan, Matt Hamilton's niece!"
Marsh put his exercises aside. "Dear me!" he exclaimed.
There did not appear to be anything else to say.
"So I'm goin' to send him away," Mr. Quinn went on.
"Away?"
"Yes. I don't quite know where I shall send him. It's too soon yet to send him up to Trinity. I've a notion of sendin' you an' him on a walkin' tour in Connacht. The pair of you can talk that damned language 'til you're sick of it with the people that understands it!"
Marsh was delighted. He thought that Mr. Quinn's proposal was excellent, and he was certain that it would be very good for Henry to come into contact with people to whom the language was native.
"Wheesht a minute, Marsh!" Mr. Quinn interrupted. "I want to talk to you about Henry. It's a big thing for a lad of his age to fall in love!"
"I suppose it is."
"There's no supposin' about it. It is! He's just at the age when women begin to matter to a man, an' I don't want him to go an' get into any bother over the head of them!"
"Bother?"
"Aye. Do you never think about women, John Marsh?"
"Oh, yes. Sometimes. One can't help it now and then!..."
"No, begod, one can't!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. "Do you know this, John Marsh, I never can make out whether God did a good day's work the day He made women! They're the most unsettlin' things in the world. You'd think to look at me, I was a fairly quiet sort of a steady man, wouldn't you? Well, I'm not. There's whiles when a woman makes my head buzz ... just the look of her, an' the way she turns her head or moves her legs. I'm a hefty fellow, John Marsh, for all I'm the age I am, an' I know what it is to feel damn near silly with desire. But all the same, I can keep control of myself, an' I've never wronged a woman in my life. That's a big thing for any man to be able to say, an' there's few that can say it, but I tell you it's been a hell of a fight!..."
He lay back in the chair and puffed smoke above his head for a while. "A hell of a fight," he murmured, and then did not speak for a while.
"Yes?" said John Marsh.
"I've been down the lanes of a summer night, an' seen young girls from the farms about, with fine long hair hangin' down their backs, an' them smilin' an' lovely ... an' begod, I've had to hurry past them, hurry hard, damn near run!... Mind you, they were good girls, John Marsh! I don't want you to think they were out lookin' for men. They weren't. But they were young, an' they were just learnin' things, an' I daresay I could have had them if I'd tried ... an' I don't think there's any real harm in men an' women goin' together ... but we've settled, all of us, that, real or no real, there issomesort of harm in it, an' we've agreed to condemn that sort of thing, an' so I submit to the law. Do you follow me?"
"No, not quite. Those sort of things don't arise for me. I'm a Catholic and I obey the Church's laws!..."
"I know you do. But I'm a man, not a Catholic!...Now, don't lose your temper. I couldn't help lettin' that slip out.... What I mean is this. There's a lot of waywardness in all of us, that's pleasant enough if it's checked when it gets near the limit of things, but there has to be a check!"
"Yes?" Marsh said. "And in my case the check is the Church, the expression on earth of God's will!..."
"Well, in my case it isn't. In my case it's my sense of responsibility as a gentleman. We've got ourselves into crowds that must be controlled somehow, and there isn't much room for wayward people in a crowd. That's why geniuses get such a rotten time. Now, my notion of a gentleman is a man who controls the crowd by controllin' himself. D'you follow me? He knows that the crowd'll bust up an' become a dirty riot if it's let out of control, an' he knows that he can influence it best an' keep the whip hand of it, if it knows that he isn't doin' anything that he tells it not to do. D'you see?"
"Yes," Marsh said. "That's the Catholic religion!..."
"I know as well as I'm livin'," Mr. Quinn went on, "that I have enough power over myself to know when to stop an' when to go on. That's been bred in me. That's why I'm a gentleman. But I know that if I let myself do things that I can control, I'll be givin' an example to hundreds of other people who aren't gentlemen an' can't control themselves ... don't know when to stop an' when to go on ... an' so I don't do them. An' that's a gentleman's job, John Marsh, an' when gentlemen stop that, then begod it's good-bye to a decent community. That's why England's goin' to blazes ... because her gentlemen have forgotten the first job of the gentleman: to keep himself in strict control, to be reticent, to conceal his feelings!"
But John Marsh would not agree with him. "England is going to blazes," he said, "because England has lost her religion. If England were Catholic, England would be noble again!..."
"Just like France and Spain and Italy," Mr. Quinnreplied. "Bosh, John Marsh, bosh! I tell you, the test of a nation is this question of gentlemen!..."
"The test of a nation is its belief in God ... its church," said John Marsh.
"Well, Ireland believes in God, doesn't it? The Catholic Church is fairly strong here, isn't it? An' what sort of a Church is it? A gentleman's church or a peasant's church? Look at the priests, John Marsh, look at them! My God,whatbounders! Little greedy, grubbin' blighters, livin' for their Easter offerin's, an' doin' damn little for their money. What do you think takes them into the church? Love of God? Love of man? No, bedam if it is. Conceit an' snobbery an' the desire for a soft job takes about nine out of ten of them.... Well, well, I'm runnin' away from myself. What I want to say is this: the Catholic church'll never be worth a damn in Ireland or anywhere else, 'til its priests are gentlemen. No church is worth a damn unless its priests are gentlemen!"
"But what do you mean by gentlemen, Mr. Quinn?"
"I mean men who are keepin' a tight hold on themselves. Mortifyin' their flesh ... all that sort of stuff ... so that they won't give the mob an excuse for breakin' loose!"
Marsh wondered why Mr. Quinn was talking in this strain and tried to draw him back to the subject of Henry's love of Sheila.
"I'm comin' to that," said Mr. Quinn, pointing his cigar at him. "Listen, John, there were two men that might have done big things in Irelan' and Englan'—Parnell an' Lord Randolph Churchill, an' they didn't because they weren't gentlemen. They couldn't control themselves. There isn't a house in Ulster that hasn't got the photographs of those two men in some album...."
"Parnell?" Marsh exclaimed.
"Aye, Parnell. Him an' Randy Churchill side by side in the one album! Lord bless me, John Marsh, the Ulster people took great pride in Parnell, even the bitterest Orangeman among them, because he was a man, an' not agas-bag like Dan O'Connell. Of course, he was a Protestant!... But he couldn't keep from nuzzlin' over a woman ... an' up went everything. An' Randy Churchill ... I mind him well, a flushed-lookin' man.... I heard him talkin' in Belfast one time ... he bust up everything because he would not control himself. If he'd been a gentleman ... but he wasn't ... the Churchills never were.... Nor was Parnell. Well, now, I don't want Henry to go to bits like that. Henry's got power of some sort, John ... I don't know what sort ... but there's power in him ... and I want it to come out right. He's the sort that'll go soft on women if he's not careful. He'd be off after every young, nice-lookin' girl he meets if he were let ... an' God knows what the end of that would be. There's this girl, Sheila Morgan ... you've seen her?..."
Marsh nodded his head, and said, "She comes to the Language class."
"Well, you know the sort she is: fine, healthy, good-lookin', lusty girl. That sort stirs the blood in a lad like Henry. I want him to get into the state in which he can look at her an' lave her alone! Do you follow me?"
"Yes."
"He's not in that state now. He's soft, oh, he's damned soft. Look here, John Marsh, do you know what I think about young fellows? I think they're the finest things in the world. Youth, I mean. An' I figure it out this way, that Youth has the right to three things: love an' work an' fun; an' it ought to have them about equally. The only use of old people like me is to see that the young 'uns don't get the proportions all wrong, too much love an' not enough work, or the other way round. Henry's very likely to get them all wrong, an' I want to see that he doesn't. Now, you understand me, don't you? I'm a long-winded man, an' it's hard to make out what I'm drivin' at, but that can't be helped. Everybody has a nature, an' I have mine, an' bedam to it!"
"What do you want me to do?" Marsh asked, putting his exercises together.
"I want you to try an' put some big wish into his heart," Mr. Quinn replied. "Try an' make him as eager about Irelan' as you are. I want him to spend himself for something that's bigger than he is, instead of spendin' himself on something that's smaller than he is."
"But why not do that yourself, Mr. Quinn?"
Mr. Quinn got up from his chair and walked about the room. "It's very hard for a man to talk to his son in the way that a stranger can," he said. "An' besides I ... I love Henry, John Marsh, an' my love for him upsets my balance!"
"Can't you control that, Mr. Quinn?" Marsh asked.
"Control it! Begod, John Marsh, if you were a father you wouldn't ask such a damn silly question. Here, have a cigar! Henry's comin' back!"
When Henry entered the room, his father was lying back in his chair, puffing smoke into the air, while John Marsh was cutting the end of his cigar.
"The post's come in," he said.
"Anything for me?" his father asked.
"No. There was only one letter. For me. It's from Ninian Graham!"
"Nice chap, Ninian Graham," Mr. Quinn murmured.
"He wants me to go over to Boveyhayne for a while."
"Does he?"
"Yes. Gilbert Farlow's staying with them. I should like to go."
"Well, we'll see about it in the morning," said Mr. Quinn. "I was thinking of sending you on a walking tour with John here. To Connacht!"
"You could talk to the people in Irish, Henry," John added.
Henry twirled Ninian's letter in his fingers. "I'd like to go to Boveyhayne," he said. "I want to see Ninian and Gilbert again!..."
"But the language, Henry!..."
"I hate the damned language!" Henry exclaimed passionately. "I'm sick of Ireland. I'm sick of!..."
Mr. Quinn got up and put his hand on Henry's shoulder.
"All right, Henry," he said. "You can go to Boveyhayne!"
Up in his bedroom, Henry re-read Ninian's letter, and then he replied to it. Ninian wrote:
Blighter:
Gilbert's here. He's been here for a week, and he says you ought to be here, too. So do I. Can't you come to Boveyhayne for a fortnight anyhow? If you can stay longer, do. Gilbert says it's awful to think that you're going to that hole in Dublin where there isn't even a Boat Race, and the least you can do is to come and have a good time here. I can't think why Irish people want to be Irish. It seems so damn silly. Gilbert's writing a play. He has done about a page and a half of it, and it's most awful bilge. He keeps on reading it out to me. He read some of it to me last night when I was brushing my teeth which is a damn dangerous thing to do, and I had to clout his head severely for him. He is a chap. He got poor Mary into a row on Sunday. We took him to church with us, and when the Vicar was reading the first lesson, all about King Solomon swanking before the Queen of Sheba and showing off his gold plate, Gilbert turned to Mary and said out loud, "Ostentatious chap, Solomon! Anybody could see he was a Jew!" and Mary burst out laughing. The Vicar was frightfully sick about it, and jawed Gilbert after the service, and the mater told Mary the truth about herself. I must say it was rather funny. I very nearly laughed myself. Do be a decent chap and come over soon. You'll just be in time for the mackerel fishing. Gilbertand Mary and I went out with Jim Rattenbury yesterday and caught dozens.
Your affectionate friend,
Ninian Graham.
Henry's reply was:
Dear Ninian:
Thanks awfully. I'll come as soon as I can get away. I spoke to my father to-night, and he says I can go to Boveyhayne. I'll send a telegram to you, telling you when to expect me. I'm looking forward to reading Gilbert's play. I hope he'll have more of it written by the time I get to Boveyhayne. A page and a half isn't much, is it? and I don't wonder you get sick of hearing it over and over. I shall have to write something, too, but I don't know what to write about. We can talk of that when we meet. It is awfully kind of Mrs. Graham to have me again. Please thank her for me, and give my love to Mary and Gilbert, and tell him not to be an old ass, yapping like that in church. No wonder the vicar was sick.
Your affectionate friend,
Henry Quinn.
Three days later, Henry left Ballymartin and travelled to Belfast in the company of John Marsh. In Belfast they were to separate: Marsh was to return to Dublin and Henry was to cross by the night boat to Liverpool, and proceed from there to London, and then on from Waterloo to Boveyhayne. Marsh, a little sad because the Ballymartin classes must now collapse, but greatly glad to return to the middle of Irish activities in Dublin, had turned over in his mind what Mr. Quinn had said about Henry's future, and he was wondering exactly what he should say to Henry. They had several hours to spend in Belfast, and Marsh proposed that they should visit the shipyards and, if they had time, inspect a linen mill; and Henry, who had always felt great pride when he saw the stocks and gantries of the shipyards and reflected that out of the multitudinous activities of Ulster men the greatest ships in the world were created, eagerly assented to Marsh's proposal. Mr. Quinn had given them a letter of introduction to a member of the great firm of Harland and Wolff, and Mr. Arthurs, because of his friendship for Mr. Quinn, conducted them through the yard himself.
They stayed so long in the shipyard that there was no time left for the visit to the linen mill, and so, when they had had tea, they set off to the Great Northern Railway station where Marsh was to catch his train to Dublin.
Mr. Arthurs' immense energy and his devotion to his work and his extraordinary pride not only in the shipyard but in the men who worked in it had made a deep impression on Marsh and Henry. He seemed to know the most minute details of the vast complication of functions that operated throughout the works. While they were passing through one of the shops, a horn had blown, and instantly a great crowd of men and lads had poured out of the yard on their way to their dinner, and Mr. Arthurs, standing aside to watch them, and greeting here one and there another, turned to Marsh and said, "Those are my pals!" Thousands of men, grimy from their work, each of them possessed of some peculiar skill or great strength, thousands of them, "pals" of this one man whose active brain conceived ships of great magnitude and endurance! Mr. Arthurs had passed through the shipyard from apprenticeship to directorship: he had worked in this shop and in that, just as the men worked, and had learned more about shipbuilding than it seemed possible for any man to learn. "He knows how many rivets there are in theOceanic," one of the foremen in the yard said to Marsh when they were being shown round. "He's the great boy for buildin' boats!"
Marsh, until then, had never met a man like Mr. Arthurs. His life had been passed in Dublin, among people who thought and talked and speculated, but seldom did; and he had been habituated to scoffing talk at Belfast men ... "money-grubbers" ... mitigated, now and then, by a grudging tribute to their grit and great energy and resource. Mr. Arthurs had none of the money-grubbing spirit in him; his devotion to his work of shipbuilding was as pure as the devotion of a Samurai to the honour of Japan; and Marsh, who was instantly sensitive to the presence of a noble man, felt strongly drawn to him.
"I wish we could get him on our side, Henry!" he said, as they sat in the station, waiting for the train to draw up to the platform. "I'd give all the lawyers we've got for that one man!"
"Father thinks Tom Arthurs is the greatest shipbuilder that's ever lived," Henry answered.
"He might be the greatest Irishman that's ever lived," Marsh rejoined, "if he'd only give a quarter of the devotion to Ireland that he gives to ships."
"I suppose he thinks he's giving all his devotion to Ireland now ... and he is really. Isn't he, John? His firm is famous all over the world, and he's one of the men that have made it famous. It must be very fine for him to think that he's doing big things for his country!"
Marsh nodded his head. "We're rather foolish about Belfast in Dublin," he said. "After all, real work is done here, isn't it? And the chief industry of Dublin ... what is it? Absolutely unproductive! Porter! Barrels and barrels of it, floating down the Liffey and nothing,nothing real, floating back! I like that man Arthurs. I wish to heaven we had him on our side!"
"He's a Unionist," Henry replied.
It occurred to Marsh, in the middle of his reflections on Tom Arthurs, that he should ask Henry what he proposed to do for Ireland.
"I'd like to do work as big and fine as Arthurs does," he said. "Wouldn't you, Henry?"
"Yes."
"Whatdoyou propose to do, Henry?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought definitely about that sort of thing yet. I've just imagined I'd like to dosomething. I'm afraid I can't build ships!..."
"There are other things besides ships, Henry!"
"I know that. John, I'm going to say something that'll make you angry, but I can't help that. When Tom Arthurs was showing us over the Island, I couldn't help thinking that all that Gaelic movement was a frightful waste of time!" Marsh made a gesture, but Henry would not let him speak. "No, don't interrupt me, John," he said. "I must say what I feel. Look at the Language class at Ballymartin. What's been the good of all the work you put into it?"
"We've given them a knowledge of a national separateness, haven't we?"
"Have we? They were keener on the dances, John. I don't believe we've done anything of the sort, and if we had, I think it would be a pity!"
"A pity! A pity to make the Irish people realise that they're Irish and different from the English!"
"Oh, you won't agree, I know, John, but I think Tom Arthurs is doing better work for Ireland than you are," Henry retorted.
"He's doing good work, very good work, but not better work than I am. He's establishing an Irish industry, but I'm helping to establish an Irish nation, an Irish soul!..."
"That's what you want to do, but I wonder whether it's what you are doing," said Henry.
They were silent for a while, and before they spoke again, the train backed into the station, and they passed through the barriers so that Marsh could secure his seat.
"Well, what doyoupropose to do for Ireland?" Marsh asked again, when he had entered his carriage.
"The best I can, I suppose. I don't know yet!..."
Marsh turned quickly to Henry and put his hand on his shoulder. "Henry," he said, "I hope you don't mind ... I know about Sheila Morgan and you!..."
"You know?..."
"Yes. I'm sorry about that. I don't think you should let it upset you!"
Henry did not reply for a few moments, but sat still staring in front of him. In a sub-conscious way, he was wondering why it was that the carriages were not cleaner....
"I'm frightfully miserable, John," he said at last.
"But why, Henry?"
"Oh, because of everything. I don't know. I'm a fool, I suppose!"
"You're not going to pieces just because you've fallenin love with a girl and it's turned out wrong? My dear Henry, that's a poor sort of a spirit!"
"I know it is, but I'm a sloppy fellow!..."
"This affair with Sheila Morgan is all the more reason why you should think of something big to do. I wish you were coming to Dublin with me now. Dublin's very beautiful in the summer, and we could go up into the mountains and talk about things."
"Oh, well, we shall meet in Dublin fairly soon," Henry replied, smiling at Marsh. It had been settled that he was to enter Trinity a little earlier than his father had previously planned.
"Yes, that's true!"
The hour at which the train was due to depart came, and Henry got out of the carriage and stood on the platform while Marsh, his head thrust through the window, talked to him.
"You might write to me," he said. "We ought not to drift away from each other, Henry!..."
"We won't do that. We'll see each other in Dublin."
"Yes, of course. You must meet Galway when you come back. He's a schoolmaster and a barrister and a poet and heaven knows what not. He's a splendid fellow. Perhaps he'll persuade you to take more interest in Irish things!"
"Perhaps!"
The guard blew his whistle, and the train began to move out of the station.
"Don't get too English, Henry!" Marsh shouted, waving his hand in farewell.
Henry smiled at him, but did not answer.
"Good-bye!" Marsh called to him.
"Good-bye!" Henry answered.
The train swung round a bend and disappeared on its way south, and Henry, strangely desolate, turned and walked away from the station.