iiiPiJp^Miili 
 
 :i§Stlf^G)lii;ri)-RSl?i 
 

 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 HENRY W. SAGE 
 
 IS9I 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013659663 
 
ADAM OF DUBLIN 
 
NEW NOVELS 
 
 LOVE'S PILGRIM j. d. beresford 
 NONE-GO-BY 
 
 MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK 
 PIPPIN ARCHIBALD MARSHALL 
 
 THE JORDANS 
 
 SARAH GERTRUDE MILLIN 
 LIFE E. WINGFIELD-STRATFORD 
 
 ROWENA BARNES 
 
 CONAL O'RIORDAN 
 
ADAM OF DUBLIN 
 
 A ROMANCE OF TO-DAY 
 
 by 
 
 CONAL P'RIORDAN 
 
 ('NORREYS CONNELL') 
 Author of ' The Fool and His Heart,' etc. 
 
 AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM 
 
 LONDON: 48 PALL MALL 
 
 W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD. 
 
 GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND 
 Ho 
 
Copyright 
 First Impression, September, 1920 
 Second „ 3^^- ^9^^ 
 
 Third >. February. 1933 
 
 Manufactured in Great Britain 
 
To Jane 
 
 My dear Jane, — Your name shall not be set forth at 
 the head of this page; lest you should blush to find it 
 coupled in the public mind with my book. Yet there 
 is in it nothing more shocking than has happened in 
 my own Ufe, and you have told me (though indeed I 
 took this to be courtesy rather than the expression 
 of your sober opinion) you could not think of yourself 
 ever being shocked by me. 
 
 It is the essential of a figure in art that it should be the 
 common measure of many figures in Ufe, and yet be 
 unmistakably itself. Jack Falstaff is not Tom Jones, 
 nor Arthur Pendennis, nor Mr Britling: withal, these 
 true portraits of English gentlemen have a little 
 Falstaff in them. All but the very few who know me 
 may take it that Adam is in a sense myself. He is 
 not. But I remember "when that' I was an a little 
 tiny boy,' looking through my nursery window upon 
 such another Uttle boy, only in rags, across the street, 
 and unsettling my nurse's religion by demanding 
 which of the two was really I. Since then I have often 
 asked myself whether this other boy, so well remembered 
 as he sprawled, wistfully, animal like on his hard 
 doorstep, was not my alter ego and perhaps Adam of 
 DubUn's physical procreator as I am his spiritual 
 begetter. 
 
 However that may be, Adam, albeit launched into 
 life in a more sordid environment than that in which 
 I first remember to have found myself, was a better 
 and even more fortunate child than I, besides enjoying 
 
 v 
 
Dedication 
 
 the inestimable advantage of being bom a generation 
 later in this our time. To this you will perhaps demur; 
 for you have hinted to me that Old Times were Best. 
 With this I profoundly disagree : I despise that miserable 
 year seven centuries since, when your forbears built 
 their castle in a certain windy corner of Ireland, the 
 more efficiently to cut the throats of mine. ... I 
 devotedly admire the good year 1919, when that 
 pettifogging business the Great War was wound up, 
 and I kissed your hand, and you put roses through my 
 letterbox in a London suburb. 
 
 And so, whether you value the gift or not, I offer 
 you this picture of the life of the world to-day, as it 
 is reflected in that facet of the Universe, the Capital 
 of our own country. 
 
 For Adam, I admonish you, is a universal figure, if 
 not of the present, then of the future : if that were 
 not my conviction, he had not escaped Father Tudor 
 nor the waters that drowned Fan Tweedy. 
 Believe me to be. 
 
 My dear Jane, 
 Your very obedient, humble servant, 
 
 CONAL O'RiORDAN. 
 
 London, 
 igih March, 1920. 
 
 vl 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. THE SHADOW OF THE PRO-CATHEDRAL I 
 
 II. ADAM EMBRACES JOURNALISM 8 
 
 III. ADAM CRIES OLD NEWS I5 
 
 IV. THE TRUTH ABOUT THE OLD LADY 26 
 V. ROME AND GENEVA 38 
 
 VI. BUTT BRIDGE 48 
 
 VII. GARDINER'S STREET 55 
 
 VIII. OLD COMET 65 
 
 IX. THE MOTHER OF MERCY 73 
 
 X. MOTHER goose's FAIRY TALES 81 
 
 XI. THE PRICE OF CONVALESCENCE 86 
 
 XII. IN DALKEY TUNNEL g6 
 
 XIII. THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL I06 
 
 XIV. THE ABBEY THEATRE II3 
 XV. MR MACFADDEN'S LAST PROGRESS I3I 
 
 XVI. PLEASANT STREET I39 
 
 XVII. THE HAPPIEST DAY I48 
 
 XVIII. THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED I54 
 
 XIX. JOSEPHINE 160 
 
 XX. FATHER TUDOR ARRIVES 1 69 
 
 XXI. THE MISTLETOE BOUGH 177 
 
 vii 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAF. 
 
 XXII. THE LANTERN BURNS OUT 
 
 XXIII. THE SHORT WAY TO HEAVEN 
 
 XXIV. THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 XXV. ADAM CROSSES THE LIFFEY 
 
 XXVI. FATHER INNOCENT GOES 
 
 XXVII. THAT FRENCHMAN 
 
 XXVIII. ADAM A MAN OF THE WORLD 
 
 XXIX. THE LAST OF FATHER INNOCENT 
 
 XXX. MR MACARTHY AT HOME 
 
 XXXI. THE DEAD LOVER 
 
 PAOB 
 
 i86 
 
 195 
 205 
 2ig 
 227 
 
 234 
 
 242 
 
 257 
 272 
 
 282 
 
 vm 
 
Chapter One 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE PRO-CATHEDRAL 
 
 In the capital of what is believed by many to be the 
 fairest, if not the most extensive kingdom of Europe, 
 and it may not be concealed from the reader, is Ireland, 
 there lived not so long ago a tailor called Macfadden. 
 He enjoyed the distinction of being perhaps the tallest 
 and almost certainly the thirstiest of his trade in 
 Dublin; but it is doubtful if he were one of the best. 
 His profits, had he devoted them to that end (which 
 he did not), were barely sufficient to provide for him- 
 self, his wife, and a son with whom he had been, 
 somewhat unexpectedly, blessed. This son was duly 
 christened, at the Pro-Cathedral, that architectural 
 hybrid of Athens and Rome, which is dedicated to 
 St Mary of the Immaculate Conception, and is the 
 commanding feature in the decorative scheme of 
 Marlborough Street and the adjacent stews. He was 
 given the names of Adam Byron O'Toole Dudley 
 Wyndham and Innocent, to add to that of Macfadden. 
 His godfather, Mr Byron O'Toole, an acquaintance of 
 Mrs Macfadden's, boasting ancient if obscure descent, 
 had linked with his own name those of one or two 
 Englishmen of blood, whose intimacy he had enjoyed 
 when, as an extra waiter, he had frequented the Castle. 
 His godmother. Miss or Mrs Robinson, an acquaintance 
 of Mr O'Toole's (Mrs Macfadden having no lady friend 
 worthy of the name) had suggested that he be called 
 Innocent, after her spiritual adviser, Father Innocent 
 
 I 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Feeley; and Mr Macfadden insisted on the precedence 
 of his own choice, Adam. 
 
 Adam was the name of one of Mr Macfadden's, 
 scandal said, too famous brothers; who, having gone 
 to Africa as a private in the army, to be heard of by 
 his relatives no more, was believed by Mr Malachy 
 Macfadden, the tailor, to have amassed a large fortune. 
 ' If the truth was known now,' he would say, ' I wouldn't 
 wonder now if my brother Adam wasn't Dr Jim or 
 Eckstein, or it might be old Rhodes itself. . . . D'ye 
 mind that million pounds, or whatever it was now, that 
 Rhodes gave Parnell for the Party? That was my 
 brother Adam all over. He was always a . . .' and 
 here followed a rough and ready estimate of his brother's 
 intellect. 
 
 The Macfaddens, as will be understood, were pious 
 people; and they lived under the shadow of the sacred 
 fane where their son had made his first appearance in 
 Irish society. Mr O'Toole dwelt in the immediate 
 neighbourhood : previous to the birth of our hero he 
 had been the tenant of a cosy comer in the apartment 
 of the Macfaddens' : thence he moved to a house where 
 dwelt the infant's godmother. It would not advantage 
 the reader to indicate more precisely the spot, as the 
 names of these streets are, by the whim of contending, 
 authorities, frequently changed, and you may go to 
 bed in Orange Street to wake up in Green. Let us 
 say that the Macfadden domain lay in an alley off the 
 commercial artery called by some such name as Count 
 Street, where a great business was done by the trams 
 carrying people anxious to get away from it; while 
 more to the north and east lay Mr O'Toole and Miss 
 or Mrs Robinson, in one of a group of houses to which 
 we may give the name of Mountjoy Court. Mr O'Toole 
 preferred Mountjoy Court to Count Street; partly 
 because it was more grandiosely planned, if in worse 
 2 
 
The Shadow of the Pro-Cathedral 
 
 repair, and partly because it had once been the residence 
 of a nobleman, and was actually still occasionally 
 visited by members of the aristocracy. 
 
 Despite the piety of his parents, who were not so 
 mean spirited as to spoil their child by a parsimonious 
 administration of the porter bottle that served them 
 for a rod, young Adam B. O'T. D. W. I. Macfadden 
 had not turned out a credit to them. He had the aspect 
 of one who, from the beginning, had been neglected by 
 his mother and altogether escaped the notice, the 
 favourable notice, of his father. Even by the standard 
 of Marlborough Street, he was a dirty child : though 
 it would be unjust to suggest that Mr Macfadden used 
 upon his own person that share of soap and water 
 due to his son : nor did Mrs Macfadden's com- 
 parative cleanliness throw any lustre on her reputa- 
 tion in Count Street, where that quality was 
 regarded as remote from, or even perhaps hostile to 
 Godliness. 
 
 It was not Adam's bituminous colouring that troubled 
 the hearts of his parents : it was his dissolute and 
 untrustworthy character. When he had passed the 
 age of seven years, at which it is reasonable for a young 
 man to support his parents, he was barely able to do 
 more than keep his father in tobacco and provide for 
 his own expensive maintenance, by the profits from 
 the sale of extinct evening papers to those too charitable, 
 too phlegmatic, or too slow of foot, to resent effectively 
 the transaction. His father more particularly was 
 aggrieved that the boy seldom accounted at home for 
 a larger sum of money than was represented by the 
 face value of the articles he had sold. Returning one 
 evening, with a bottle of porter from his club, he took 
 him severely to task : ' Now I seen you myself with 
 my own eyes, so there's no mistake now, there in 
 O'Connell Street it was now, outside the Gresham 
 
 3 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Hotel I saw you, with my own eyes, selling the 
 Telegram . . .' 
 
 'Telegraph,' interjected the young hopeful, fool- 
 ishly desirous of a precision hateful to his elder's 
 soul. 
 
 'Telemiyelbo,' returned Mr Macfadden fierily : 'will 
 you tell me I didn't see it with my own eyes?' 
 
 ' What the hell did you see? ' inquired Mrs Macfadden, 
 who sometimes betrayed impatience in the home 
 circle. 
 
 ' I seen him sell a Telegram to Father Muldoon himself. 
 And you needn't tell me now that a grand man Uke 
 that, the head of the Jesuits he is, and a friend of 
 Murphy's, would give you no more than a halfpenny 
 for the love of God.' 
 
 'He gave me nothing at aU,' said Adam. 
 
 Indignation carried Mr Macfadden's voice an octave 
 upwards : ' Will you tell me that the holy man would 
 go and cheat an innocent child for the sake of a copper 
 or two?' ... As Adam contumaciously held his 
 opinion on this subject to himself, his elder roared : 
 'Now didn't I see you put the paper in his holy 
 hand?' 
 
 'He gave it back to me,' was the child's perplexing 
 answer. 
 
 But Mr Macfadden seldom allowed himself to be 
 perplexed : ' I thought it was your own fault,' he 
 snorted, 'letting him see what it was before he paid 
 you for it.' 
 
 'Did his reverence make no excuse for not bujdng 
 it after he'd asked for it?' Mrs Macfadden inquired 
 searchingly. 
 
 ' No,' said Adam. ' He just told me to run home and 
 tell me parients not to send me out swindhng people 
 any more.' 
 
 ' Impident old scut ! ' cried Mr Macfadden, and 
 4 
 
The Shadow of the Pro-Cathedral 
 
 emptied the porter bottle. ' If I ever catch you selling 
 him anything again, I warn you now I'll cut your back. 
 Bringing disgrace on us all with your foolishness, I 
 call it.' 
 
 Mrs Macfadden eyed her husband without respect : 
 ' Sure, how could his reverence tell where the lad came 
 from?' 
 
 The tailor rounded on her : 'And now why couldn't 
 he tell as well as I could or any one else? You'd think 
 that just because he was a holy father with a tall hat 
 on him, he was too grand to know anything. . . . 
 Now what d'ye think he's there and paid for if it isn't 
 to give his money to them that deserves it ? . . . And 
 there he goes now behaving like and worse than any 
 old Prodestan that never heard the name of 
 Christian charity.' ... He turned to Adam: 'Did 
 you ever know a Prodestan itself to do the Uke of 
 that?' 
 
 'I never gave them the chance,' said Adam, with a 
 reckless air; but his mother noticed his gray face tinge 
 with ruddy brick. 
 
 'There, there,' said she, 'don't you be putting ideas 
 into the boy's head, or we'll be having him prostutelised 
 on us one of these fine days.' 
 
 ' Don't provoke me, woman,' shouted Mr Macfadden, 
 clutching the porter bottle, 'with your letting on to 
 think that a son of mine would ever go and be a bloody 
 turncoat.' 
 
 'I never said he was a son of yours,' returned Mrs 
 Macfadden, and the conversation took a direction in 
 which Adam Byron O'Toole Dudley Wyndham Innocent 
 was not called upon to follow it. 
 
 He willingly retired into that comer of the room 
 once tenanted by his godfather, where now lay the 
 cunning arrangement of old sacks, disused garments, 
 and refuse from his own and his father's stock-in-trade, 
 
 5 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 which served him, as it might a pig, for a bed. There 
 he lay and fitfully slumbered while the controversy 
 between his parents raged high and low. He was used 
 to these debates and had lost interest in them even when 
 he himself furnished the basis of discussion. He knew 
 that his mother, despite her shortness of temper, ,had 
 certain amiable qualities which would ensure her an 
 eventual peace without crushing defeat, or even with 
 moral victory. 
 
 And to-night as always within his experience, he 
 heard Mr and Mrs Macfadden finish their conversation 
 cosily in bed. 'It's all very well for you, my love,' 
 said she, 'to laugh at me for being silly. But I'd die 
 of shame if he was got hold of by Lady Bland. Father 
 Innocent told Emily Robinson that she was the worst 
 woman in Dublin.' 
 
 ' Lady Blandmiyelbo ! ' returned Mr Macfadden, with 
 homely affability, and the report of a hearty kiss 
 signalled to Adam that the family equilibrium was for 
 the moment restored. So, Hke the good little Catholic 
 he h£^d learned to proclaim himself to a musical accom- 
 paniment every Sunday in the Pro-Cathedral, he said 
 a short prayer to the Blessed Virgin, to protect him 
 that night and for ever after from the meichinations of 
 the unspeakable Lady Bland. 
 
 He then went to sleep and dreamed that her ladyship 
 was something between a unicorn and a road-roller, 
 with several tails, to each of which was tied a flaming 
 sardine-tin, and as many heads, crowned by helmets 
 of that fashion affected by the Dublin Metropolitan 
 PoUce. Her ladyship had run him down in Mountjoy 
 Court, and, obsequiously assisted by Mr O'Toole, was 
 about to put him into one, or perhaps more, of the 
 sardine tins, when he woke with a scream, was 
 soundly chastised by Mr Macfadden with the fortunately 
 convenient porter bottle; and, after he had recovered 
 6 
 
The Shadow of the Pro-Cathedral 
 
 from the shock, fell into a peaceful and refreshing 
 slumber. 
 
 So far, he had an easy conscience; but already he 
 knew that not it, nor even the intercession of Holy Mary 
 ever Virgin, could protect him from evil dreams. And 
 again he had dreams he deemed sublime, though he 
 knew not that word nor, waking, could recall what 
 were these wonderful things he dreamed. 
 
Chapter Two 
 
 ADAM EMBRACES JOURNAJ-ISM 
 
 Adam Macfadden, when his unworthiness to be their 
 offspring was not too severely brought home to him 
 by his good parents, usually slept well. Even at eight 
 years old, as has been shown, his failings as a son and 
 as a citizen did not unduly trouble his conscience. He 
 had known a time when the other merchants of evening 
 papers had made a parade of warning the public against 
 his wares, as being of an outmoded character, but he 
 suspected this outcry, which often took an ill-natured 
 form, to spring from a spirit of rivalry rather than a 
 true concern for the commonweal. Thus they had no 
 hesitation in demanding high premiums for their 
 journals under the colour of their containing matter 
 which the editors had failed to insert; while Adam 
 never cried any news not actually to be found in his 
 paper, and having the historic past to draw upon, he 
 was carefyl to offer no sheet for sale which did not 
 contain something of more than passing interest. He 
 dinned again and again into the ears of a forgetful people 
 the melancholy tidings of the decease of Queen Victoria, 
 or the epoch marking news of the relief of Mafeking. 
 For many years after their first production these 
 attractions held a secure place in Adam's repertory; not 
 until all his stock treating of them was exhausted were 
 they finally withdrawn. 
 
 The happy thought of specialising in good and 
 interesting, as apart from merely fresh, news had not, 
 8 
 
Adam Embraces Journalism 
 
 we must confess, originated with Adam himself; nor 
 had he to thank his parents for it. Mr Macfadden was 
 not so much a man of literary taste as a realist in his 
 ideas : he would have preferred to see Adam employed 
 in connection with almost any one of the pubhc-houses 
 between Nelson's Pillar and Amiens Street Station; 
 for he believed that, with application, a lad starting 
 thus might easily rise to be proprietor of Guinness's 
 Brewery. Mrs Macfadden was, however, obstinately 
 opposed to this scheme, which, for the rest, Mr Macfadden 
 had not sufficient influence to put into execution by 
 himself. He appealed to Mr O'Toole, whose opinion 
 he knew to weigh heavily in his family circle, enjoying 
 as he did the entrfe everywhere. 
 
 'I'd be the last one in the world to come between 
 man and wife,' said the judicious Mr O'Toole. 'But 
 if the lad were a lad of mine — ^which he is not — I'd be 
 sorry to see him trapezing round the pubs of Count 
 Street when he might be associating with the gentry 
 in Stephen's Green.' 
 
 ' Is it Saint Stephen's Green ? ' protested Mr Macfadden, 
 with Uttle faith. ' And what gentry would be associating 
 with him there, unless the ducks and drakes in the 
 muddy pond?' 
 
 'Have you never heard tell of the Shelbourne Hotel? ' 
 asked Mr O'Toole, not without hauteur. 
 
 ' Shelbournemiyelbo ! ' said Mr Macfadden, which was 
 understood by his interlocutor to convey a more or 
 less emphatic affirmative. 
 
 ' WeU, then,' Mr O'Toole said easily : 'the Shelbourne 
 Hotel — ^that's the place for him to go.' 
 
 ' To be a potboy there is it ? ' Mr Macfadden inquired, 
 overcome by a sudden delusion of grandeur. 
 
 Mr O'Toole recalled him to the drab facts of life : 
 
 'To use your own elegant vocabulary, the word is 
 
 potboymiyelbo,' said he. 'D'ye expect your little 
 
 A.D. B g 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 snot of a son to begin at the top of the tree? . 
 You'll find that like the best and bravest of us he'll 
 have to dimb the ladder from the bottom of the page.' 
 
 'Ah, what are you talking about?' broke in Mr 
 Macfadden : ' I'll not have a son of mine wearin' buttons 
 and maybe waiting on Prodestans.' 
 
 'Faith if he did wear buttons his appearance might 
 be the more respectable/ repUed Mr O'Toole. 'And 
 isn't his lordship's grace the Lord Lieutenant a 
 Protestant?' 
 
 ' The Lord Mayor's a Catholic,' returned Mr Macfadden, 
 with a pride that was at once municipal and religious. 
 
 Young Adam and even his mother felt that he had 
 here scored a debating point, but Mr O'Toole brushed 
 his argument contemptuously aside : ' Would you 
 compare that old plumber, Tim Horlock, that might be 
 stuck with his nose up your drain pipe this very moment, 
 if he wasn't an Ancient Hibernian, with the Honourable 
 Lord Marquis of Letchworth that has more pounds in 
 his pocket than Tim has hair on his calves ? ' 
 
 'A marquis you might say is almost more than a 
 duke,' Mr Macfadden admitted : ' I won't say whether 
 I wouldn't mind Adam waiting on the Marquis of 
 Letchworth.' 
 
 'Nobody axed you,' said Mr O'Toole. 'And if you 
 think his lordship would demean himself to be found 
 dead at the Shelbourne Hotel you're mighty mistaken.' 
 
 'Arrah then what are you talking about?' Mr 
 Macfadden grumbled. He found Mr O'Toole's train 
 of thought altogether too bewildering. 'If the Shel- 
 bourne Hotel isn't a place for a gentleman, no son of 
 mine will be going there.' 
 
 'Will you hold your gob and let Mr O'Toole hear 
 himself talk?' suggested Mrs Macfadden. 
 
 'If you insist on my advice, it's this,' said the 
 courtier. ' Let the boy get a sheaf of the evening papers, 
 
 10 
 
Adam Embraces Journalism 
 
 not Telegraphs, mind you, which only Cat 'lies ever 
 look at, but the Mail, which is the paper of the aris- 
 tocracy, and the Herald which does thrim both ways, 
 and go and learn good manners seUing them to the 
 society coming in and out of the Shelbourne Hotel 
 and the clubs contagious to the same.' 
 
 ' Where would I get a sheaf of papers ? ' Mr Macf adden 
 cried, ' that can't even get a bit of stuff for myself with 
 all them Jew emporiums cutting the roof from under 
 my head. And if I did I'm told there isn't fifty per 
 cent to be made out of any newspaper in Ireland.' 
 
 ' How does Murphy do it ? ' asked Mrs Macfadden. 
 
 'That's not the papers only,' her husband explained; 
 ' 'tis the thrams and Clery's and the papers altogether. 
 Says the Herald : " Go to Clery's " and the thrams 
 are waiting there to take them to Clery's, and so to 
 Clery's they go and spend all their money, and 'tis 
 Murphy has it, bad luck to him.' 
 
 'The crawling snake,' commented Mrs Macfadden; 
 'not, mind you, but I'd like to be Mrs Murphy.' 
 
 'Maybe you're as good as her if aU was known,' said 
 Mr Macfadden darkly; ' but that won't buy us the sheaf 
 of papers; for I'm no millionaire.' 
 
 'You can buy them for less than giving away if 
 you know where to go for them,' Mr O'Toole informed 
 them. 
 
 'Where would that be? ' asked Mr Macfadden, respect- 
 ful in the presence of a trade secret. 
 
 'You leave that to me,' replied Mr O'Toole, enjoying 
 his vantage ground and cocking his eye imperceived at 
 Mrs Macfadden. 
 
 She threw him an admiring glance : ' I know what 
 he means,' said she. 'The old waste paper that grand 
 people get rid of in dread of the bugs and the butchers 
 buy to wrap sausages.' 
 
 'You've put it in words I would not use myself,' 
 
 II 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 said Mr O'Toole, 'but your woman's wit has fathomed 
 my meaning.' 
 
 ' I was afraid you were after burglary,' Mr Macfadden 
 confessed. 'And that's a thing I wouldn't hear of, 
 even if there was money in it, which there is not. But 
 of course if you find the goods, I don't mind saying 
 that I've nothing against Adam handling them as your 
 agent, me having no responsibiUty beyond seeing that 
 he doesn't spend the money, supposing there is any, 
 and you'll excuse me for doubting it, on him- 
 self.' 
 
 'Done,' said Mr O'Toole. 'There's a bargain now, 
 and we'll have a drop all round.' As despite his hearty 
 tone, he did not offer to provide it, Mrs Macfadden 
 produced a bottle from under the mattress. 
 
 'The blessing of God on it,' responded Mr Macfadden, 
 adding, as an afterthought : ' But I'm thinking it's not 
 the Shelbourne Hotel but to Richmond Asylum you 
 will have to go to find any one fool enough to buy the 
 same old paper over and over again.' 
 
 Mr O'Toole turned sarcastically to Mrs Macfadden : 
 ' Himself has a want of imagination must be a sad trial 
 to you,' said he. 
 
 Mrs Macfadden shrugged her shoulders, murmuring : 
 'I've worse to put up with than that.' And Adam 
 wondered why his mother winked across her tumbler 
 at his superb godfather. 
 
 Mr Macfadden's hand crashed down upon the table : 
 ' Imaginemiyelbo ! Would any one but a lunatic jackass 
 born and bred be contented to pay a halfpenny every 
 day of his life to read about the assassination of King 
 Brian Boru?' 
 
 ' And why not ? ' returned Mr O'Toole condescendingly. 
 ' It's not every one has ever heard of King Brian Boru. 
 You've got to think of the man in the street. He 
 doesn't know one king from another, but he's an edjicated 
 
 12 
 
Adam Embraces Journalism 
 
 man for all that, and when his day's work is done he 
 doesn't grudge a copper for a bloody murder to read 
 for company going home in the tram.' 
 
 Mr Macfadden was shaken but not convinced. 'I'd 
 have thought even the common people would have 
 heard of Brian Boru and Strongbow knifing him on 
 Easter Bank HoUday down there at Clontarf.' 
 
 Mrs Macfadden shuddered : ' I never could bear the 
 name of that Strongbow,' she protested, 'because of a 
 Corporal Strongbow in the Royal Dragoon Guards 
 that threatened me with his bayonet for marrying Mr 
 Macfadden.' 
 
 ' It was a quare Dragoon Guard that carried a bayonet 
 on him,' sniggered Mr O'Toole, annoyed at her talking 
 of other things while he held the floor and had an eye 
 to business. 
 
 'God forgive me for telling you a lie,' said Mrs 
 Macfadden hastily : ' his name was Barlow and he 
 was a sergeant in the R.I.C She concluded with 
 emphasis : ' I'm sure I don't know why I didn't marry 
 them — ^they were both grand matches.' 
 
 'Matchmi ' commenced Mr Macfadden, when a 
 
 small shrill voice interposed : ' 'Twasn't Strongbow 
 killed Brian Boru.' 
 
 The next moment Mr Macfadden landed his son and 
 heir through the doorway by the ear. 'Run and play 
 at the end of the corner,' he admonished him, 'and 
 don't come back until you hear us stop talking.' 
 
 'That lad might do well if you can keep him from 
 telling the truth,' volunteered Mr O'Toole, tactfully 
 leading them back to the business in hand with this 
 complimentary phrase. 'But you'll have to wash him 
 with dog soap so the old ladies can kiss him without 
 dread of a stroke.' 
 
 ' Can't they buy his papers without smelling at him? ' 
 growled Mr Macfadden. 
 
 13 
 
Adam o£ Dublin 
 
 'I doubt if they could if they had the use of their 
 senses,' said Mr O'Toole. 
 
 'Many a time I've washed him myself when he was 
 a child,' Mrs Macfadden said with a sigh. 'But it 
 was never any use. He'd be as black as the pot before 
 the day was out. And now he's getting too big for it.' 
 
 Mr Macfadden straightened himself with a determined 
 air, and a big and masterful fellow he looked as he 
 proclaimed : ' I'm not the man to stop at washing 
 him myself if there's any money in it.' 
 
 'That's the way I like to hear you,' Mr O'Toole 
 responded. 'Nothing venture, nothing win. Do you 
 give him a bit of an ablution with the scrubbing brush, 
 if you have such a thing, and maybe put a stitch in his 
 trousers if you've nothing else to do, while I see about 
 getting the papers. And don't you be afraid of his 
 being able to buzz them off all right. There's the grand 
 racing at Epsom beyond this week, and if ye give an 
 English officer coming out of the Sheridan Club a Late 
 Buff with a headline, "Favourite wins the Derby," 
 d'ye think he'd ever have the sense to find out that 
 the baste was long ago gone foreign and the father of 
 a family in South America?' 
 
 'Thrue for you,' Mr Macfadden agreed, this time 
 without reserve. 'Them of&cers would give the world 
 to hear anything agreeable since the Boer War. And 
 it's doing them a kindness to tell them a lie.' He rolled 
 up his sleeves : ' Just tell Adam to step up here to me 
 now if you see him round the corner, and with the 
 blessing of God I'll begin on him now.' 
 
 'You can't start too soon,' said Mr O'Toole, taking 
 his leave. 
 
 ' I'll lend you a bit of soap, ' Mrs Macfadden volunteered, 
 electrified by her husband's display of energy. And 
 so through a foam of blinding, biting suds, Adam found 
 himself abruptly launched upon the seas of journalism. 
 14 
 
chapter Three 
 
 ADAM CRIES OLD NEWS 
 
 Notwithstanding the confidence expressed in him 
 by his accomphshed godfather, Adam made but a 
 modest beginning in the world of polite Uterature. 
 The first day he adventured into Stephen's Green he 
 had offered a Mail to an old gentleman in a white hat, 
 who took it, opened it, and instantly fell upon him, 
 pommelling him bhndly until he lay down and 
 screamed murder, and then, Ufting him in panic at 
 the gathering crowd, had placed half a crown in his 
 hand and bolted. Adam, better accustomed to 
 kicks than halfpence, thereupon hurried home in 
 triumph to his family, who for the nonce took him to 
 their bosoms. 
 
 'That's grand now, that's grand,' chuckled Mr 
 Macfadden. 'Half a crown in one day, that's fourteen 
 shiUings and seven sixpences every week, if you count 
 Sundays, which you cannot; and the best of it is there's 
 only one paper gone, so if you'd had the sense to sell 
 the lot you might say you'd have made a fortune.' 
 Such was the language held by Mr Macfadden to 
 encourage his son on his start in Ufe. 
 
 To Mr O'Toole, whom he sought out a Httle later at 
 Mount] oy Court, he described the transaction more 
 soberly : ' I won't deny there's a lot in that notion of 
 yours if Adam had the gis to carry it through,' he said 
 in a tone of deferential criticism; ' but it wants'a mighty 
 lot of gis for so young a lad.' He paused as though to 
 
 15 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 take breath, and waited for Mr O'Toole to say some- 
 thing. But Mr O'Toole said nothing. 
 
 Miss or Mrs Robinson, who happened to be present, 
 ventured to inquire what had happened. 
 
 'What indeed!' said Mr Macfadden, 'why the poor 
 lad had only sold one Mail, I think it was, when he got 
 a fall sent him home to his mother. And not to rob 
 you now,' he said to Mr O'Toole, 'there's your half of 
 the profit.' He tendered him a farthing. 
 
 'Put it you- know where,' quoth Mr O'Toole in a 
 superciUous tone he handled effectively with persons 
 more sensitive than Mr Macfadden, ' and tell that young 
 sniveller that if he can't show a bit of spunk I wash 
 my hands of him.' 
 
 Mr Macfadden did not think it his cue to defend 
 Adam's physical courage; but Miss or Mrs Robinson 
 spoke up for him : ' My godson's no sniveller, but as 
 brave as a lion and how do you know a tram didn't 
 run over him to make him give in?' 
 
 Mr O'Toole rolled a bilious eye upon her by way of 
 answer, and it was left to Mr Macfadden to carry on the 
 conversation : ' I didn't stop to hear whether it was a 
 thram happened to him or not,' he explained. 'My 
 one thought was to bring Mr O'Toole his due without 
 troubling him to call for it. But soon I hope he'll be 
 starting work again.' 
 
 ' Jesus, Mary, and Joseph grant it ! ' said the god- 
 mother, with the perfect faith which illuminated her 
 monotonous life. 
 
 'Anyhow; tell him,' said Mr O'Toole, 'he needn't 
 look to me to do any more for him till he shows himself 
 deserving of it.' 
 
 'Ah, don't be hard on the innocent child,' pleaded 
 the godmother, 'or maybe you'll drive him to destroy 
 himself off Butt Bridge as you did Fan Tweedy by 
 asking too much of her.' 
 i6 
 
Adam Cries Old News 
 
 Again Mr O'Toole answered her with only his eyes; 
 but the visitor fired up with virtuous indignation : 'I'll 
 trouble you not to couple a son of mine with the like 
 of Fan Tweedy.' 
 
 Whereupon Miss or Mrs Robinson fell into hysterics 
 and Mr O'Toole expressed a firmly worded desire for 
 him to withdraw; which he did with a still highly 
 offended manner, implying that he would be slow to 
 call upon Mr O'Toole again. But outside the door and 
 descending the hemdsomely welled staircase, with the 
 caution necessary to bridge the gaps between the steps 
 and compensate for the frequent intermissions in the 
 handrail, a contented smile overspread his manly 
 features : ' Thanks be to God I've got rid of that fellow,' 
 said he. 
 
 Meanwhile, inside the room Mr O'Toole waited without 
 any show of impatience for Miss or Mrs Robinson to 
 recover her right mind. Then he said : ' I wish you'd 
 have the sense to hold your tongue when I've a black- 
 guard like Macfadden to deal with.' 
 
 'I don't care what you say to Mr Macfadden,' she 
 answered wistfully, 'but I can't stand you of all people 
 abusing little Adam.' 
 
 Mr O'Toole gave her the benefit of his supercilious 
 smile : ' What harm does it do him? ' he asked in a tone 
 that desired no answer. 'I only do it to annoy 
 Macfadden and keep him in his place. If I was to 
 abuse him to his face he'd up and hit me. But what 
 bothers me is he's so conceited he'll go to his grave and 
 never see the joke at the bottom of the whole thing.' 
 
 'If he ever does . . .' she shivered. 
 
 Mr O'Toole continued to smile : ' He never will. 
 She'll never have the pluck to teU him and if she did 
 he wouldn't beUeve her. There's not a greater coxcomb 
 in Grafton Street than dirty old humbugging, bullying, 
 swindhng Malachy Macfadden.' 
 
 17 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 The object of Mr O'Toole's criticism wore a serious 
 cast of countenance when he reached home to tell Mrs 
 Macfadden : ' O'Toole says your son's a good-for-nothing 
 young stinkpot, and it'U be for you to get the papers 
 for him from this time forward.' 
 
 Mrs Macfadden bristled : ' It's not the first time he's 
 fouled his own nest,' she declared, ' and Emily Robinson 
 could tell you where he finds the money to do it and 
 despise us. But I'll show him that my son is as good 
 as his father if I have to beg my bread from door to 
 door.' 
 
 'I don't see why you're dragging me into it,' said Mr 
 Macfadden, knitting his black brows; 'and there's no 
 call for you to go begging your bread when there's this 
 enormous profit to be made in the paper trade. 'Tis 
 for all the world like the Debeer mine my brother 
 made his fortune in, and I'm thinking I done well to 
 call my son Adam.' 
 
 'Ah, go on to blazes,' said Mrs Macfadden, venting 
 upon her husband the ill-humour aroused by the tale 
 of the misconduct of Mr O'Toole. She had long since 
 ceased to follow the supposititious career of Mr Mac- 
 fadden's brother, though his name had figured largely 
 in the marriage settlements, verbal in form, which 
 the happy bridegroom had made upon her. Mr O'Toole, 
 who with all his well-bred features, gracefully curved 
 whiskers, and generously coloured nose, was notoriously 
 cynical of heart, was the first person to throw doubt 
 on the achievements of Brother Adam, in whose reflected 
 glory Count Alley had been quite content that Mr 
 Macfadden should bathe; most famiUes having Brother 
 Adams of their own, whose conquests in the New World 
 were called in to redress their defeats in the old. 
 
 Mr O'Toole, falling into the common error of higher 
 critics, had tried to prove too much, to wit : that Mr 
 Macfadden never had a brother at all beyond two that 
 i8 
 
Adam Cries Old News 
 
 were hanged; whereupon Mr Macfadden produced a 
 cloud of witness that at least eleven had died in infancy. 
 Furthermore, an elderly and well-to-do widow of the 
 name of Arnott (for whom even Mr O 'Toole felt instinc- 
 tive respect when presented to her at Mooney's in 
 Great Britain or Parnell Street) testified to the embarka- 
 tion of the elder Adam on board the troopship Assistance 
 at the Victoria Jetty, Kingstown. 'I can't teU you 
 when it was,' she admitted, 'for you wouldn't think it 
 pohte of me to tell you my age, though every one knows 
 it is twenty-nine, but I remember Adam as if it was 
 only yesterday kissing me good-bye with the band 
 playing " The Girl I left Behind Me " and his big 
 foreign service helmet battering the bridge of my nose. 
 It was great sauce of him, for I was no more than a 
 flapper as the medicals say, but I thought no harm of 
 it, for he was the humbugingest fellow I ever laid eyes 
 on, though not so handsome as his brother Aloysius 
 that was hung; no, nor even poor Mrs Malachy's husband 
 here, but there wasn't a girl I knew in Dublin that 
 didn't love every bit of him. And the next thing I 
 heard of him was that King Catsupawayo had ate him- 
 self and two companies of the old Twenty-fourth, and 
 I cried my eyes out so that I couldn't go near Dan 
 Lowry's that night, which was the fashionable place 
 then that the Hippodrome is now.' 
 
 'Ye needn't have distressed yourself, mam,' said 
 Mr Macfadden stoutly. ' It was all my eye about Catsup- 
 miyelbo, and my brother's ahve and well to this day 
 and never better. I don't know how long ago I had 
 a post card from him, sa5dng he was near the richest 
 man in Africa, and was sending me a postal order if 
 he had the time.' 
 
 'Well, you do hear a lot of Ues,' the widow readily 
 admitted, 'and the gentleman who told me was an 
 officer in the Dubhn MiUtia I wouldn't thrust farther 
 
 19 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 than I could see. If Adam's doing well you might give 
 him my love and ask him if he remembers the bridge 
 of my nose.' 
 
 So the objectivity of the elder Adam's existence 
 was vindicated, but Mr O'Toole merely smiled and 
 protested that Mrs Arnott was a tactful, witty, and 
 amusing lady, and there was Uttle to remove from Mrs 
 Macfadden's mind the seeds of suspicion which, were 
 his intentions good or bad, he had planted there. Their 
 germination proved fatal to the never idyUic peace of 
 her married life. The stalwart and most unsartorial 
 tailor who, though several years her senior, appeared to 
 be not without romance when considered as the brother 
 of a South-African millionaire, lost all charm as member 
 of a family of whom approximately a dozen had 
 perished without distinction, two been hanged in 
 circumstances of little interest, and one might or might 
 not have been devoured by a foreign prince no longer 
 regnant, but certainly, so far as she was coticerned, 
 had come to no good. Perhaps Mrs Macfadden never 
 came to love any man more than her husband, but she 
 took more pleasure in Mr O'Toole's' conversation. 
 Nevertheless she resented an affront from him she 
 might not have noticed from her husband, and she 
 was resolved that her son's business should not be 
 ruined by his godfather's apathy. So she went to 
 work to procure the papers for him. 
 
 And so far as quantity went, Adam lacked nothing. 
 But the quality was not equal to Mr O'Toole's. If Mrs 
 Macfadden saw a pile of fresh looking papers anywhere, 
 she would beg them for her son to sell; and kind people, 
 anxious to be rid of lumber, would not refuse her. 
 With one such antiquated batch Adam had a thrilUng 
 experience. They were Telegraphs found by his mother 
 on an unattended barrow in Mount] oy Square and 
 annexed by her eis being probably of less value to the 
 
 20 
 
Adam Cries Old News 
 
 owner than to her; and, though Adam deemed the 
 news in them of interest, they found at first no sale. 
 He read in them of the death of an Irish baronet in 
 Africa, where his own uncle had disappeared : and the 
 baronet, Uke his uncle, had been a soldier. But in the 
 baronet's case there had been a battle : after the battle 
 there had been no more baronet. Adam could not 
 make out what had happened to him, and suspected 
 diabolic agency, the gallant gentleman had so com- 
 pletely disappeared. Either his enemies had found 
 time to devour him in the heat of action or the devil 
 had him surely. Whatever his fate, it made grand 
 news to cry, and what with the papers containing it 
 looking still so clean, he wondered why none would 
 buy. Vainly he walked up and down in front of the 
 hotel, and even all along the north and east sides of 
 Stephen's Green, calling : ' Battle in the Soudan : 
 Baronet killed in Kordofan : -Death of Sir David Byron- 
 Quinn.' Futile was his own variation on the theme : 
 'Awful death of an Irish Baronet. Bloody end to Sir 
 David Byron-Quinn.' None but himself showed any 
 interest in the baronet : and he only, perhaps, in that 
 his name was Byron, like his godfather's. 
 
 Wearying of his effort to rouse attention, his mind 
 had wandered to thoughts of home, to which only the 
 dread of his ^reception withheld him from retiurning, 
 though his voice kept mechanically shrilling : ' Shocking 
 slaughter in the Soudan : Baronet killed in Kordofan. 
 Death of Sir David Byron-Quinn !' when he noticed the door 
 of a house on the east side of the Green open and a woman 
 appear pushing a bicycle, on which she mounted and 
 pedalled towards him. She was not a young woman, but 
 he thought her at first glance a beautiful and dis- 
 tinguished lady, riding there, masterfully contemptuous 
 of cars and cabs : refusing- to give way even to one of 
 Mr Murphy's trams, which perforce must stop to let 
 
 21 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 her pass. Adam admired her until, catching her eye as 
 she drew near, he noticed in it a wildness that was 
 not alluring, and that her whole appearance was not 
 merely haggard but tousled and unkempt in a way 
 he reckoned did not become a lady. He was still 
 conscious of attraction, but he was not attracted by 
 her as by his godmother, who was his standard of 
 female beauty. . . . This lady in no way resembled 
 the Blessed Virgin. . . . Yet her eye still held his as 
 he screamed at her, scenting at last a possible purchaser : 
 ' Bloody end to Sir David B3n:on-Quinn ! ' 
 
 He was petrified by her leaping off her bicycle to 
 cry in his ear : ' Are you mad, or has the Castle paid 
 you to insult me? ' . . . 
 
 What followed, Adam was too startled to realise : 
 he only knew that the lady retired to the house in 
 Stephen's Green with his papers under her arm, while 
 he found himself dancing home down Kildare Street 
 with a dizzily light heart and another precious half- 
 crown clasped in his hand. 
 
 Never again had he such a harvest as this, and not 
 for years did he solve the puzzle of it. . . . But, on 
 the whole, he did pretty well with his papers, considering 
 that he had not his judicious godfather to pick and 
 choose them for him. In the fifth week of this commerce 
 Mr 'Toole somewhat inconsiderately appeared and 
 demanded a balance sheet. The proposal was coldly 
 received. Mrs Macfadden was for temporising, and 
 even the payment of a modest lump sum to purchase 
 his goodwill. But the head of the house would not 
 hear of this. He merely said, ' Lumpmiyelbo ! ' and 
 knocked him downstairs. 
 
 Thence Mr Byron O'Toole arose and, in annoyance 
 forgetting all forms of diplomacy, bawled his intention 
 of invoking the aid of the law; thereby causing an 
 impromptu reunion of the local dilettanti at the door 
 
 23 
 
Adam Cries Old News 
 
 of the house. But on Mr Macfadden indicating the 
 line of defence on which he relied, and, though not 
 clearly connected with the business in hand, was con- 
 sidered by a majority of those present to put Mr O'Toole 
 in the wrong, the latter retired without resorting to 
 extremities. So Mr Macfadden claimed the victory; 
 but his wife criticised, as severely as she dared when he 
 was in fighting trim, his lack of vision. 
 
 No more was heard of Mr O'Toole for some time to 
 come; but when Adam next took up his place by the 
 Shelbourne Hotel he was warned off by the porter and 
 driven across Kildare Street. And two days after that, 
 striving to establish himself outside one of the clubs 
 nearer Grafton Street, he was challenged by a constable, 
 who demanded a sight of his wares. Though conscious 
 of no guilt, he turned a deaf ear and fled down Dawson 
 Street, only to run into the arms of an inspector, who 
 cuffed him with a professional cunning that put to 
 shame the mere heavy-handed violence of his father, 
 and confiscate4 his whole stock. St Stephen's Green 
 was no longer tenable. 
 
 ' You done wrong to quarrel with O'Toole ! ' Mrs 
 Macfadden had a proper pleasure in telling her husband, 
 commenting on this catastrophe : ' I warned you that 
 he had the Castle behind him.' 
 
 ' Castlemiyelbo ! ' was that strong man's undaunted 
 answer. 'Rutland Square's as good as Saint Stephen's 
 Green any day, and maybe the Gresham Hotel is 
 grander than the Shelbourne if the truth was known. 
 . . . And talking of truth, there the Cat 'lie Truth 
 Company second next door to it you might say, where 
 I'd feel a young lad Uke Adam would be a deal safer 
 selling his papers outside of, than among that bastsird 
 O'Toole's fine Prodestan friends on the south side.' 
 
 Mrs Macfadden confessed there was much in this 
 point. ' I've been uneasy myself to think of him losing 
 
 23 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 the faith which Father Innocent said in his sermon last 
 Sunday, Emily Robinson told me, and she never loses 
 a word he says, led more poor unfortunate people to 
 the flames of heU than all the other sins in the world 
 put together. She says he cried in the pulpit and 
 would have had a fit if the administrator hadn't sent 
 him word to hurry up as the bishop was having to 
 catch the train to lunch at Blackrock.' 
 
 'Father Innocent's a mollycoddling sort of chap to 
 go crying in the chapel and wasting the bishop's time,' 
 said Mr Macfadden. 'But I've often told O'Toole, 
 when he let on to be a man you could trust, that he'd 
 be safer drinking fire and brimstone at the bottom of 
 an earthquake than handing round claret-cup and 
 oranges at the viceregal lodge.' He turned his eyes upon 
 his wife to add in the same religious tone : ' He was a 
 false fellow that O'Toole, and I wish you'd never laid 
 eyes on him.' 
 
 ' I wish I never had,' she answered readily, ' but that 
 was a grand idea of his about the papers aU the same.' 
 
 ' It was that,' Mr Macfadden admitted. ' But nothing 
 more would have come of it only for me. And I was 
 against the Shelbourne Hotel from the beginning.' 
 
 Mrs Macfadden, unless confronted by immediate 
 visible danger, never allowed herself to be in the wrong. 
 'It was good money, and he took no harm from it.' 
 
 Mr Macfadden. indulged in a sardonic smile and 
 cleared his throat portentously. ' I wonder now, have 
 you no eyes in your head.' 
 
 'No,' repUed Mrs Macfadden. 'What's the matter 
 with you?' 
 
 'It's three days now Adam's been cleaner than he 
 ever was before or since.' 
 
 ' I did see there was something the matter with him,' 
 said Mrs Macfadden; ' but I never thought to look what 
 it was.' 
 24 
 
Adam Cries Old News 
 
 ' I wasn't to be made a fool of so easy,' Mr Macfadden 
 proclaimed. ' I said to him straight, " You came home 
 yesterday with more soap on your face than you took 
 out." ... "If I did," says he, "I took none out." 
 ..." Don't say another word," says I, " and keep 
 nothing back or you'll never have another face to 
 soap." ' • 
 
 'And what did he say to that?' asked the anxious 
 mother. 
 
 Mr Macfadden's tone grew more and more impressive. 
 'He told me how an old lady had sejuced him to a house 
 in Merrion or one of them grand squares beyond, and 
 up and gave him a penny to take a bath.' 
 
 'A bath indeed,' repeated Mrs Macfadden, deeply 
 stirred. 'That's how it always begins and it ends in 
 them sending you to teach the Chinamen worse things 
 than they know already.' 
 
 'That's it surely,' declared Mr Macfadden. 'I tell 
 you we're well quit of Mr O'Toole and his heathen 
 grandees. In O'Connell Street I'U have the lad under 
 the sight of my own eye, for it's round the corner, and 
 if any old lady comes sejucin' him there I don't know 
 what I'll do to her.' 
 
 'You wouldn't,' snapped Mrs Macfadden, resenting 
 his triumph. 'And I'm troubled to think if there's 
 any one in O'Connell Street rich enough to buy papers 
 they don't want. And there's a power of Presbyterians 
 between Frederick Street and the PiUar.' . 
 
 'If it's no good,' concluded Mr Macfadden, who, 
 though it cannot be claimed for him that he cherished 
 wisdom above all else, was what is commonly called 
 a philosopher, 'we can always try St Stephen's Green 
 again, later on.' 
 
 A.D. c 25 
 
Chapter Four 
 
 THE TRUTH ABOUT THE OLD LADY 
 
 Although Adam had told his father, nothing that was 
 not true concerning his adventure with the old lady, 
 experience had taught him to allow no information to 
 escape that was not elicited by a leading question. 
 The interrogatory might be summarised thus : — 
 Why was he clean? Because he was washed. 
 Why was he washed? Because he had been in a 
 queer sort of copper, using hot water and some- 
 thing that smelt hke soap, only smellier. 
 Who put him in that vessel? Himself. 
 Why did he put himself therein? To earn a 
 
 penny. 
 Who had offered to pay the penny? An old lady. 
 What old lady? An old lady in one of them 
 
 squares. 
 What brought him to one of them squares? The 
 
 old lady. 
 Did she bring him by force? No. 
 What means did she use to induce him to go? He 
 
 could not say. 
 Then why did he go ? He could not rightly say. 
 Would it be easier for him to be belted than to 
 
 say? No. 
 Then what made him go? The old lady mentioned 
 the possibility of good little boys earning pennies 
 by being obedient to their betters. 
 Did she say anything else? Only blather. 
 26 
 
The Truth About the Old Lady 
 
 Blather about what? About God being good to 
 
 him. 
 Why did he call that blather? Because God was 
 
 never good to him except when the Blessed 
 
 Virgin asked Him. 
 As Mr Macfadden could not clearly recall whether 
 this was sound dogma, he did not venture to pursue 
 the matter, but contented himself with solemnly 
 admonishing his son that if the old lady accosted him 
 again, he was not to go with her for less than three- 
 pence; and if she gave him any sort of book or printed 
 matter he was to bring it home unopened to submit to 
 the paternal censorship. Furthermore, he was never 
 on any account to mention the matter to his mother. 
 This Adam was only too happy to promise; and to 
 conceal the fact that he himself had divulged the secret 
 to her, Mr Macfadden decreed that the story should be 
 buried in oblivion. 
 
 For twenty-four hours Mrs Macfadden had it on the 
 tip of her tongue; but after that it was forgotten in 
 the bitterness of the estrangement from Mr O'Toole. 
 ' It's not that I care the back of my hand for the fellow,' 
 she would say, 'but not seeing him I can't see Emily 
 Robinson neither.' 
 
 'EmUyrobinsonmiyelbo,' said Mr Macfadden simply 
 but with much expression. 
 
 But, though the story faded so fast from his parents' 
 recollection, the adventure with the old lady marked 
 the ruddiest of letter days in little Adam's life : its 
 memory was not the less thrilling for the hint of evil 
 that underlay the fair surface. What had happened 
 was this : In the duller moments of business, between 
 luncheon and afternoon tea, he had wandered eastward 
 from the Shelbourne Hotel, to refresh himself with a 
 glance at the shop windows. He had not gone far 
 when he saw a stout lady, active on her feet but no 
 
 27 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 longer young, come bustling out of Gerrard the stationer's 
 with several letters in her hand. Attempting to thrust 
 them altogether into the neighbouring postal box, she 
 let one drop. This Adam was quick to seize and return 
 to her. He noticed that the address opened with the 
 mysterious abbreviation, 'Rt. Hon.,' but not that he 
 had left a brilUant impression of his right thumb 
 beneath the stamp. 
 
 The stout lady looked from the boy to her letter 
 and back again. ' You're as dirty as you're polite,' she 
 said. 
 
 'Thank you, mam, and God bless you,' replied Adam, 
 who already knew in what form a conversation with the 
 aristocracy had to be held. 
 
 The old lady emptied her lungs in a futile attempt to 
 remove his identification mark from her letter. 'There,' 
 she said, ' I've done my best and I hope Judge Harrison 
 will think it's the postman.' She dropped the letter 
 into the box. 
 
 'Yes, mam,' said Adam, "and God bless you.' 
 
 The old lady stayed to regard him sternly as she 
 demanded : ' How can you invoke God with such dirty 
 hands?' 
 
 ' I didn't mean to let a curse, mam,' he said apologeti- 
 cally. 
 
 Her tone softened. 'I didn't say you cursed, but 
 you called on God twice in as many minutes, and 
 without any seemly preparation. Now just think, 
 child, that God might possibly hear you, might even 
 condescend to turn His beautiful great eyes on you. 
 Don't you think then He might see your dirty hands 
 and strike you dead?' 
 
 'He might indeed, mam,' agreed Adam, 'if He had 
 a mind to.' 
 
 Her tone grew compassionate. 'And tell me, my 
 dear child, what would you do then? ' 
 28 
 
The Truth About the Old Lady 
 
 'I'd go to purgeatory,' he replied smartly, looking 
 to her to be pleased with his response. 
 
 Far from it, she rejoined: 'you poor benighted 
 little guttersnipe, there is no such place.' 
 
 Fortunately for the too zealous lady, Adam had 
 learned to be master of his temper. ' No, mam,' answered 
 he politely, but lest she should deem that he really 
 agreed with her he added, 'Sure anyhow doesn't God 
 know all about my hands without bothering to look 
 at them?' 
 
 'Do you think that's the answer I expect from you, 
 when I'm doing my best ? ' the lady asked tartly. 
 
 'Yes, mam,' said Adam, 'and God bless you.' 
 
 'And if I were dead,' she said contemptuously, 'I 
 suppose you'd pray for me? ' 
 
 'I would indeed, mam,' Adam did not hesitate to 
 assure her, though this was scarcely more than polite- 
 ness, 'if I knew your name? ' 
 
 "Then you don't know my name?' The lady did 
 not dissemble her surprise. 
 
 'I don't indeed, mam,' said Adam, 'no more than 
 you know mine.' 
 
 Somewhat ruffled, she demanded his name and 
 address, which he was at once alarmed and flattered 
 to see her make a note of in a little black book she 
 carried in a black velvet bag hanging over her arm. 
 
 'Now tell me, Andrew Macadam,' said she, 'do you 
 truly beUeve, in your heart, that God commands you 
 to be dirty?' 
 
 Adam guessed from the form of the question that 
 she wished him to answer it in the negative, so he said 
 winningly, 'Indeed, mam, and I do not.' He hoped 
 he might now be suffered to depart, with or without 
 reward. 
 
 But the lady's tone only warmed agreeably as she 
 felt that she was at last gaining ground. 'And do you 
 
 29 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 yourself love to be dirty when you know that God 
 does not command it?' 
 
 This was a difficult question for Adam satisfactorily 
 to answer; for cleanliness was associated in his mind 
 with savage onslaughts made upon him by his mother 
 at long intervals, culminating in his father's assault 
 and battery, from which his ears still tingled, so he 
 said humbly, 'Indeed mam, I wouldn't like you to 
 think that.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' said the old lady, turning her determined 
 step in the direction of Baggot Street, 'just walk along 
 beside me here and tell me if you wouldn't wish to be 
 clean.' 
 
 Adam's heart fell; he looked longingly towards the 
 Shelbourne Hotel, which vomited possible purchasers 
 of his wares. But he knew not how to answer or excuse 
 himself, so broken was he to obedience that he fell 
 in beside her, uncertain that she might not smash her 
 umbrella on him if he refused. 
 
 ' So you think you'd hke to be a nice clean little true 
 Christian lad after all?' the lady said in her most 
 fascinating tone, as she bowed to an acquaintance at 
 the corner of Ely Place with an air of saying, 'Look 
 what I've got here.' 
 
 Adam's spirits sunk lower beneath the weight of this 
 triumphant glance; it reminded him of a fat old fox 
 terrier he had once seen swallow without apparent 
 effort a mouse : the mouse, he thought, had consented 
 to its absorption and folded itself appropriately. . . . 
 Was he not now in the same position as that mouse? 
 . . . without venturing to flee (for, if the lady proved 
 to be a witch that would be worse than useless), he 
 dragged his steps : ' Please, mam, I was only thinking 
 I don't know where your ladyship would be taking 
 me.' 
 
 'My dear child,' said the lady, 'I'm only bringing 
 30 
 
The Truth About the Old Lady 
 
 you somewhere you can have a wash to make you more 
 acceptable in the sight of our dear Lord.' 
 
 Adam abruptly backed against the railings, and 
 clenched his right hand, the left clutching his papers 
 lest they be seized from him in the mtlee. 'If 
 any one lays hand on me I'U break their gob,' he 
 blurted with a desperate valour he did not feel. 
 
 The lady, though scandalised, did not lose patience, 
 indeed she patently grew in sanctity as she answered, 
 ' Come, my child, no one is going to lay hands on you. 
 You will go into a beautiful room all by yourself where 
 there is a nice bath, with delicious hot water, and as 
 much cold as you Uke, and as much soap as you 
 like . . .' 
 
 ' I don't like soap,' cried Adam. ' My nose is destroyed 
 with it.' 
 
 'Perhaps some one laved you too roughly,' said she. 
 'Have you been in prison? surely not at your age?' 
 
 'I have not, mam,' said Adam, interested in the 
 question, 'but I've heard tell that Kilmainham's the 
 grand place.' 
 
 'Well, any how,' said the old lady, 'you won't be 
 afraid to soap yourself. You will be quite alone and 
 no one will interfere with you in any way, and if I find 
 you've made yourself clean enough for our dear Lord, 
 I'll give you this. . . .' She held up a bright new 
 penny. 
 
 Adam gazed at it and reflected on its being a possible 
 possession for himself alone, not to be accounted for 
 to his parents. Also he saw a poUceman coming, who, 
 he knew, would do anything the old lady bade him, 
 so he parleyed, 'And how long would it be taking me 
 to earn that?' he asked. 
 
 'That depends on yourself,' the old lady explained. 
 'And how long you take to wash. I'll not detain you 
 a minute, and my house is round the corner. . . . 
 
 31 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Come, now, that's a good boy, and remember you're 
 not doing it for me, nor for yourself, but for our dear 
 Lord, who died on a cross to save us all.' 
 
 Adam made no effort to follow this argument, but 
 jogged along beside her with the set expression of a 
 gdlows-bird determined to meet gamely his inevitable 
 fate. Also he visualised bitter waters with a golden 
 penny glittering on the other side. 
 
 He had already entered a world of which even the 
 topography was new to him; for he had never ventured 
 farther than Ely Place with his papers, and until he 
 came a few days earlier to take up his profession in 
 Stephen's Green, the whole south side of the city was 
 a remote and foreign land. 
 
 He thought the lady had marched him quite a long 
 way when she turned into a square not to be distin- 
 guished from Mount] oy on the north side but for the 
 brightness of window-glass and door brasses and the 
 predominance of automobiles and carriages above 
 outside cars and cabs. She stopped at last by an area 
 gateway, bade Adam to remain where he was, ascended 
 six steps to the hall door, which, having rung the bell, 
 she opened with a latchkey, and disappeared. 
 
 Adam looked around : here surely was a chance to 
 escape; but his limbs did not respond to the suggestion 
 of his brain : he was, as it were, anaesthetised by a 
 delicious odour which Tose from the area below. Some 
 one in that mysterious dwelling was cooking a beef- 
 steak with onions. He was wondering whether Fate 
 would ever have such a godlike repast to offer him 
 when the scullery door opened and a short, portly 
 form appeared and waved a masterful hand at him. 
 'Come on out o' that,' it said. 
 
 Adam understood that he was to descend the steps 
 and enter the house. He had just time to take in the 
 point that this new authority, though short, stout, 
 32 
 
The Truth About the Old Lady 
 
 bald, and clean shaven as an egg, had much in common 
 with Mr O'Toole, when he was hustled through a kitchen 
 which contained, in addition to the divine beefsteak, 
 several beautiM and smart young ladies, who sprang, 
 screaming, away in dread of contact with his rags. 
 Abashed at being treated as a pariah, he was conscious 
 of nothing more but a swift, soundless passage up 
 lighted stairways to an apartment of incredible bright- 
 ness, where there was a roar of faUing waters and 
 clouds of steam. 
 
 ' That's the bath, that's the hot water, that's the hot 
 tap, that's the cold, that's the way you turn it off, 
 that's the way you empty out, that's the chain that 
 pulls the plug, that's the soap, that's the towel, that's 
 all,' puffed the portly man, and turned to go. But 
 he stayed at the door, to add over his shoulder, his 
 watch in his hand, ' It's near half-past five : you've got 
 to be as quick as hghtning.' The door closed, and 
 Adam was horrified to hear a key turn in the lock. 
 
 He sprang at the door, beating it with his hands. 
 ' Murder ! ' he cried. ' Holy Mary, help me. 
 
 'Ah, go on out o' that with your idolatry,' said the 
 man outside in a fierce whisper, adding in a louder 
 tone, 'Sure, I'll let you out when I come back.' Three 
 footsteps carried hiin out of hearing; but he returned 
 in a moment to shout, ' Are you clean yet ? . . . You'd 
 better hurry up, young man, or the master wiU be home 
 in a minute and if he catches you it will be the bad 
 day you were bom.' 
 
 With the desperation of one between the devil and 
 the deep sea, Adam plunged out of his tatters and into 
 the bath, where he was freshly dismayed to find him- 
 self covered to his waist in the. still rising waters. 
 Further was he harassed by a louder banging at the 
 door and the man's voice again, 'Turn off the taps, 
 you idgit, d'ye want us all deluged into the Liffey?' 
 
 33 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 He hastened to obey and having no notion of the 
 properties of water, had no sooner accomplished his 
 purpose than he slipped on the tiles and collapsed 
 backward to the bottom of the bath; the flood sweeping, 
 as it seemed to him, for ever over his head. Frantically 
 but fruitlessly, he struggled to get his chin above the 
 waters, when suddenly they subsided from around him : 
 his wild-cat toes had rescued him by clawing out the 
 plug. He lay at the bottom of the bath and breath- 
 lessly thanked the Virgin Mary for her intercession 
 until he sneezed and reaUsed that his skin felt very 
 cold, and that the hot water had been remarkably 
 pleasant round him but for the dread of drown- 
 ing. 
 
 Gathering courage, he replaced the plug and turned 
 on the hot tap very gingerly, and allowed it to run to 
 a depth of some inches, so that if he lay quite flat it 
 would cover him without flowing into his mouth or up 
 his nostrils. Theniihe took the soap and rubbed his 
 wet fingers in it. It gave off an odour almost as agree- 
 able as that of the beefsteak : he bit off a small piece 
 but spat it out again, disappointed. Then he rubbed 
 it all over his hands and made some suds which he 
 applied tentatively to his face and neck as far as his 
 collar bones, his arms to the elbows, and his feet and 
 legs to the knees. Washing the soap off again, he 
 realised that the process had been rather pleasant than 
 otherwise Then the demon of luxury prompted him 
 to a course he felt to be as full of joy as of sin, and 
 he found himself standing in the bath and soaping away 
 wildly over every inch of his anatomy, when the door- 
 handle turned viciously, there \yas a Tieavy bump, and 
 a new voice growled threateningly, 'What's this? 
 What's this? Who's in there? Answer me at once.' 
 
 'It's me,' Adam answered obediently in a whisper 
 that scarcely left the bath. 
 
 34 
 
The Truth About the Old Lady 
 
 The voice outside was switched off in another direc- 
 tion and he heard it say, 'Why is the bathroom door 
 locked? ' He could not catch any answer, but presently 
 the voice, far off but very loud, bellowed, 'Why the 
 devil can't you baptize those damned brats at some 
 other hour of the day?' followed by the monosyllable 
 ' Club ' and the hall door banged with a crash that shook 
 the cake of soap out of its dish into the bath. 
 
 Very much shaken, Adam rinsed himself from the 
 soap, climbed out, dried himself in a small corner of the 
 Turkish towel, and had started to huddle on his clothes 
 when the door burst open and the stout man re-entered. 
 'Didn't I tell you to be as quick as lightning?' he 
 bawled. 'And there you go dawdling along as if this 
 was the Hammams and her ladyship no more than any 
 old bathing-woman.' 
 
 'I was near drownded,' pleaded Adam. 
 
 'Serve you right, then, for going out of your depth 
 and wasting the hot water,' the other retorted. 'The 
 house is turned upside down with your vagaries and 
 the master is after cursing me so that I don't know 
 whether I'm standing on my tail or my head, and gone 
 off to spend his money playing cards at the club when 
 he had a right to be at home helping her ladyship with 
 her tracts. So give me none of yoar back chat, but come 
 on out o' that.' 
 
 All a-tremble, Adam followed him downstairs where, 
 in a small room somewhere at the back, decorated with 
 the text, 'Suffer Little Children To Come Unto Me,' 
 and the portrait of a clergyman with a photographic 
 smile, the old lady sat awaiting his return. She looked 
 very sad and held her handkerchief in one hand, a 
 biscuit in the other. She brightened on seeing Adam. 
 
 'You have washed yourself very nicely,' said she, 
 'and although your thoughtless conduct in the bath- 
 room has caused me a deep wound, I will not blame 
 
 35 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 you for that. She laid down her handkerchief and the 
 biscuit and opened her purse. 'Here is the penny I 
 promised you.' 
 
 Adam saw at a glance that it was a different and 
 quite ordinary penny, but the portrait of the clergyman 
 forbade him to protest. He took it for granted that he 
 was the master. 
 
 The old lady concluded, 'I have promised not to 
 detain you, so I will refrain from pointing out to you 
 the infamous absurdities of the Popish superstition. 
 For instance, the Virgin Mary, whom I heard you 
 mention a little while since, was a common woman, 
 neither better nor worse perhaps than your own mother. 
 She was in no sense of the word a lady, and so even 
 when she was alive could have been of no use to you. 
 As you are old enough to understand she is dead. . . . 
 As we need not question that she meant well she is 
 probably now in heaven, sitting, perhaps, not far from 
 her Dear Son. . . . But you must never forget that 
 our God is a jealous God, and nothing displeases Him 
 more than that we should take more notice of others 
 than of Him. In future you must pray to no one else 
 or you wiU be damned. Here is a biscuit to take home 
 with you.' 
 
 Then the changed body and perplexed soul of Adam 
 Macfadden passed out of the room, down the kitchen 
 stairs, through the midst of the maids, who wondered 
 perhaps at his burning cheeks and glowing eyes, out 
 and up the area steps to the cool, lamp-sprinkled 
 darkness of Fitzwilliam Square, and turned towards 
 where the North Star hung high above the Pro-Cathedral. 
 He was still in wonderland, but somewhere he heard 
 an angelus bell of famiUar tone calling through the 
 night, and steering by that, he found himself crossing 
 Ely Place. As he passed Gerrard's, he heard again his 
 own little treble, mechanically calling his papers. 
 36 
 
The Truth About the Old Lady 
 
 These are the facts of the adventure with the old 
 lady; and allowing for apostolic enthusiasm, you will 
 find them so set forth in the first chapter of that 
 valuable work. How Lady B. brought Andrew Macadam 
 to Jesus. It is published by the Loyal Society for the 
 Conversion of the Celtic Aborigines, at their office in 
 Molesworth Street; and you may have thirteen copies 
 for a shilling, if you cannot be content with one. 
 
 37 
 
Chapter Five 
 
 ROME AND GENEVA 
 
 It must be remembered that the adventure with the 
 old lady had occurred at the very outset of Adam's 
 journalistic career, and long before the fiasco with 
 Father Muldoon, S.J., had called down upon him his 
 father's recrimination. Between these dates, so notable 
 in themselves, there came one scarcely less notable : 
 when he made to Father Innocent Feeley his First 
 Confession. As are most soUtary children, Adam was 
 of a reflective and introspective turn of mind; and 
 even the ingenuous Father Innocent's instruction 
 revolutionised his thought. He commenced to suspect 
 that if his parents, and particularly his father, had ever 
 known good and evil, they must have forgotten the 
 difference before he came to be acquainted with them. 
 He tried to fix the date of this meeting, and arrived 
 at the conclusion that it coincided with that of his birth. 
 That was a remote period to which his memory did not 
 extend; and the first rule of obedience in the Macfadden 
 household was that he must ask no question, under 
 pain of flogging with the porter bottle. Mrs Macfadden 
 upheld this ordinance as strictly as her husband, and 
 was, indeed, almost more resentful of any' hint into 
 inquiry of past, present, or future. But no intelligent 
 lad could live many years under the shadow of the Pro- 
 Cathedral without arriving at some theory of the origin 
 of life, nor were his commercial competitors in SackviUe 
 (or O'Connell) Street reticent upon the subject, 
 38 
 
Rome and Geneva 
 
 They hailed him from the start, as ' You Uttle bastard.' 
 This troubled him more than any word of abuse he 
 had heard from his parents, until he realised that it 
 was the common form of salutation among themselves, 
 and that neither the amiable, tipsy cab-tout outside 
 the Gresham Hotel, nor the policeman who periodically 
 took hirti in charge, and threatened them with the like^ 
 for using indecent language, ever addressed them in 
 any other style. 
 
 Most of these boys went to half-past eleven Mass at 
 the Pro-Cathedral. Sunday after Sunday, they arrived 
 late and were turned out early, save one, by name Sam 
 Lorgan, who was fat, wore boots, and sang in the choir. 
 He was disliked by the other boys and vaguely feared. 
 Adam was at first attracted to him by his pink, com- 
 paratively clean face; but Mr Lorgan repelled his 
 advances. ' I wonder you're not afraid of being struck 
 dead, selling old papers to the holy priests,' he said, 
 turning away. Adam felt that despite his superior 
 pretensions, he was not really a gentleman. The 
 suggestion of fraud was too. base to touch him. 
 
 If people liked to buy old papers, why should he 
 refuse to gratify their desires? If easy ones said to him, 
 'Paper?' and handed him a copper, what harm was 
 there in the exchange? If they demanded specifically, 
 'Have you an Evening Telegraph, or a Mail, or HeraW? ' 
 he could truthfully answer in the affirmative and pro- 
 ceed to business. ... If, however, they were precisians, 
 knowing exactly what they wanted, and asked for 
 ',This evening's Telegraph, or Mail, or Herald,' he would 
 express his regret that he had it not, but would direct 
 them to one who had. He never spared himself in 
 seeing that some one had the benefit of their desire to 
 buy. It was this good nature on his part which ensured 
 his position outside the Gresham Hotel. Other boys 
 tried to imitate him, but failed; for they did not act 
 
 39 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 in good faith, whereas Adam knew himself to be 
 supplying a genuine, if very limited, public want of 
 sound and accurate news. 
 
 But, after his first confession, doubts began to creep 
 into his mind. Sammie Lorgan's impertinence perhaps 
 started the train of thought : was the newspaper trade 
 in itself displeasing in the sight of God? He put the 
 question to Father Innocent, who seemed a little sur- 
 prised; and assured him that many a grand and holy 
 Catholic, though he could not recaJl their names, had 
 made a fortune out of it, which they distributed among 
 the poor. 'There's no sin in making money in any way 
 your father and mother tell you,' said Father Innocent. 
 'Only you must remember not to spend it on yourself.' 
 
 This fully cleared Adam's soul; for certainly he 
 would not stand for another hour in the cold gray of 
 SackviUe Street, selling old papers or new, if his parents 
 did not insist upon it : and the only penny he ever 
 remembered to have spent upon himself was the one 
 bestowed upon him by the benevolent, but demonstrably 
 insane old lady, who had told him that his mother 
 resembled the Blessed Virgin. Fearful lest his father 
 should lay claim to this he had expended it on a pencil 
 with rubber and protector all complete, which he 
 concealed in the inmost arcana of his rags. He hugged 
 it to himself as his one real possession in the world, and 
 also the sole evidence he had that his journey into 
 wonderland was not an idle dream : also it served him 
 as a key to that half-glimpsed world where one com- 
 municated with others without opening the lips : on 
 scraps of tattered and unsaleable Telegraphs and Heralds 
 he would pencil out in capital letters his own name or 
 the names of things as : RAILWAYINGIN, POURTAR- 
 BOTL, MOTARCOR, BLESAIDVARGIN, and so on. 
 It was peculiarly gratifying to do this in his rag-bed, 
 by the first bright gleam of the summer sun, whUe his 
 40 
 
Rome and Geneva 
 
 father and mother still snored in consort, undreaming 
 of the tide of intellectual revolt, swiftly rising in the 
 corner of the room once tenanted by the severely 
 conservative Mr O'Toole. 
 
 Adam's next unsettling conversation was with a 
 tall and stalwart gentleman, ruddy and moustachioed, 
 whom he knew by his combination of dog-collar and 
 soft hat to be some sort of Protestant clergyman. The 
 latter bade him brusquely to be gone when he offered 
 him a paper, then suddenly turned round and called 
 him back. Though his instinct bade him flee, Adam 
 stiffened his courage and obeyed; but he tried to k^ep 
 out of range of the long powerful arms; for he knew 
 that Protestant clergymen, Uke Mr OToole, had the 
 Castle behind them. 
 
 'Look here, my boy,' said the clergyman, in a deep 
 ringing voice. 'Not at my boots. Look me straight 
 in the face — and tell me whether you didn't sell me a 
 Telegraph one night last week?' 
 
 Adam scrutinised him as directed. 'I believe an' I 
 did, your honour.' 
 
 'May I inquire then why you sold me one a year 
 old?' 
 
 Adam answered without hesitation, 'Sure, your 
 Honour, I had no other.' 
 
 'What? ' cried the clergyman, 'you had no other? ' 
 
 'No, indeed, your honour,' answered Adam eagerly. 
 'I'll just show your honour, I've some of the same lot 
 here still. . . . Rioting on Queen's Island, that was 
 the big news?' 
 
 'Wdl, I'm blowed,' said the clergyman, and incon- 
 tinently laughed. ' I can't say I don't think you a rascal, 
 my lad, but you're not quite the sort of rascal I thought 
 at first. So here's sixpence to make amends and to 
 remind you not to offer to sell me another newspaper 
 as long as you live.' 
 
 A.D. D 41 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'I will not, your honour,' cried Adam, overjoyed at 
 this unhoped for denouement. ' And thank your honour, 
 and God bless you.' 
 
 The clergyman looked down on him rather wistfully. 
 'Do you really wish God to bless me? ' he asked. 
 
 'Indeed I do, your honour,' rejoined Adam earnestly. 
 'If only I thought he was strong enough to bless a 
 Prodestan.' 
 
 The clergyman chuckled and patted him on the 
 shoulder. ' You're too honest for the work you're doing, 
 my lad. Drop it if you can, or one day it will get you 
 into trouble.' Then he passed on towards Rutland 
 Square. 
 
 Now this man, who was a Doctor of Divinity, and, 
 perhaps, better acquainted with Calvin and Knox than 
 was Father Innocent with Aquinas, ought to have realised 
 that it was illogical to warn Adam that his steps led 
 downwards to perdition, and at the same time to butter 
 the slide by giving him sixpence. Mr Sergeant Macfie, 
 M.P. for Lame Dockyard, would not have done this. 
 On his way home from the Four Courts, he had caught 
 a glimpse of the transaction, and overtaking the clergy- 
 man, as he came out of Findlater's, said to him, ' I must 
 tell you, Dr Ryde, that I'm wondering greatly at your 
 giving money to those blackguard boys.' 
 
 'You couldn't call it giving,' the clergyman replied 
 apologetically. 'In a sense I owed it to him. . . . 
 Anyhow that particular boy is not a bit of a blackguard. 
 He works hard for his living.' 
 
 'Mighty hard,' said Mr Macfie dryly; 'and it's a 
 queer thing now, but I owe him something too.' He 
 waited for his companion to ask him what, but faiUng 
 to elicit a question, volunteered the answer, 'You'll 
 be wondering what a man in my rank of life would be 
 owing to the like of him, and I'll just tell you. That 
 very young fellow, I could almost swear to him, in 
 42 
 
Rome and Geneva 
 
 fact I would swear to him, if the case arose, just four 
 weeks ago last Friday, I made a note of it, extorted from 
 me a penny for a single copy of the Evening Mail.' 
 
 'Why on earth did you give him the penny?' asked 
 Dr Ryde with surprise. 
 
 'I hadn't a halfpenny,' Mr Macfie explained, "and 
 the damned young liar said he'd no change.' 
 
 'How do you know he was lying?' asked the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 ,' How do I know he was lying? ' burst out the sergeant. 
 'Man, d'ye think I'm a fool? . . . WeU, I'U just tell 
 you, if you're so simple, I'U just tell you like A B C 
 
 'Pray do,' said Dr Ryde. 
 
 'Well, it was just this way. I never buy a paper in 
 the street if I can help it, but this young blackguard 
 caught me by crying, " Sudden Death of the Attorney- 
 General." So I stopped him and said, "Show me that 
 in your paper and I'U buy it." And wiU you believe 
 me he had the impudence to show it to me on the 
 headline, and seU me the paper and take my penny ? ' 
 
 'Well,' said Dr Ryde, 'what was the matter then? 
 I should have thought that from your point of view the 
 news was cheap at a penny.' 
 
 'Ah, I thought you'd say that, I thought you'd ask 
 what was the matter,' laughed Mr Macfie savagely. 
 ' Man, when I put on my glasses to read the blessed news 
 in the tram, I found that blasted Attorney-General had 
 died suddenly before I took silk. . . . What are you 
 laughing at? Is it not a scandal? And mind you, 
 you've no remedy. You can't prosecute a lad of that 
 age unless you can get the poUce to go out of their way 
 to help you. It's no laughing matter.' 
 
 ' No,' the divine admitted, ' it is not a laughing matter. 
 I feel myself in the wrong to be carried away by the 
 funny side of it.' 
 
 Mr Sergeant Macfie halted to thump the pavement 
 
 43 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 with his stkk. 'I can see no funny side to it. . . . 
 How would you like it if the brat had cheated you? 
 Would you laugh then?' 
 
 ' I'm almost afraid I might,' the clergyman answered 
 soberly. 'But I quite agree that one ought not if one 
 is cheated . . .' he broke off. 'But that lad was so 
 very young.' 
 
 'Isn't that what I'm telling you? ' snapped Mr Macfie. 
 'That's the gravamen of the whole thing. He's not 
 too young to rob me of my money, but he's too yoimg 
 for me to have him put in prison for it. . . . But I'm 
 from the North, and I don't forget a thing in a hurry. 
 I've got my eye on that lad.' 
 
 'You're joking,' said the clergyman, stopping with 
 a sigh of reUef at his own door. 
 
 'I am not,' growled Sergeant Macfie. 
 
 'But you can't want to have vengeance on. a child 
 for tricking you out of a penny? ' 
 
 'Vengeance? You mean the Lex Talionis'i I don't 
 want anjTthing for myself. Whatever I do can't bring 
 me back the penny; but I do insist on the principle 
 that neither old nor young will attack me with impunity. 
 And I'll be even with that young blackguard. A boy 
 that begins like that is bound to end on the gallows. 
 Doesn't the Bible tell you as much?' 
 
 'Ah, nonsense,' retorted the clergyman, suddenly 
 losing his temper. 'My brother, the moderator, 
 remembers your cheating at marbles at the Academy 
 when you were older probably than that lad is now.' 
 
 Mr Sergeant Macfie gnashed his teeth in panic. 
 ' Man, man, you're mad, you're mad to say that.' 
 
 The minister answered shortly, 'It's true, isn't it?' 
 
 ' It is not. And if I did, you ought to have the sense 
 to know, and your brother too, who was there and 
 saw it, that I did it in sport, for the honour of winning. 
 There's no shame in that. But you're mad daft to hint 
 44 
 
Rome and Geneva 
 
 at such a thing, when you know as well as I do that 
 Mount joy Square is full of Papists. . . .' 
 
 Again Dr Ryde smiled. 'Not quite so full as all 
 that . . .' 
 
 ' A mighty deal too full, 'the barrister insisted. ' And that 
 damned scoundrel Macarthy almost next door to you.' 
 
 Dr Ryde's smile broadened. 'Do you reckon him a 
 Papist?' 
 
 'Of course I do. What else is he? but a scoundrel, a 
 dissolute, good-for-nothing scoundrel.' 
 
 'Do you know him well? ' 
 
 'My wife does and my daughter does too, I'm sorry 
 to say.' 
 
 The minister coughed. 'You don't know him?' 
 
 'As if I'd know a fellow like that,' Mr Macfie made 
 outcry. 'It's bad enough to live in the same street 
 with him. To say nothing of those other damned 
 Papists you think nothing of giving a member of your 
 own congregation away before.' 
 
 'Only in sport,' murmured Dr Hillingdon Ryde. 
 
 The Sergeant snorted, 'Thank God, I'm leaving for 
 Fitzwilliam Place, next quarter. We'll troiable you 
 no more at Findlater's Church.' 
 
 This was not altogether good news for the clergyman, 
 but he received it with a cheerfulness that added to 
 the barrister's sense of wrong, as he bade him good-night. 
 'So you are coming into your kingdom?' said he, and 
 offered not a feUcitating nor yet regretful hand. 
 
 'Dangerous fellow, Hillingdon Ryde,' the sergeant 
 told himself, as he turned his back on the house of 
 the man who so contemptuously had parted from him. 
 'I believe he's almost half a Home Ruler as well as a 
 prig. ... I wonder he gets a Christian to enter his 
 church. . . . It's well I told him no more about that 
 blackguard boy, I'm thinking. . . .' But at this point 
 he reached his own door and had to dissemble his 
 
 45 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 thought before his housemaid, who, though she came 
 from his ovm constituency and was willing to follow 
 him in battle against the Papists, had no personal 
 respect for Mr Sergeant Macfie. Nor had his ronion 
 wife, nor yet his lean and hungry-looking daughter, 
 who jeered at him across his dinner table, even while 
 they quarrelled with one another and found what fault 
 they dared find with the maid. 
 
 Meanwhile, across the square, the pastor's wife was 
 asking him why he looked so black and angry. 
 
 'It's a shame to show my temper before you,' he 
 answered, 'but really some men deserve to be shot.' 
 
 'Don't say that,' she urged. 'You don't mean it.' 
 
 He did not insist upon the point, but went on, 'The 
 Dublin police, the whole of the CathoUc poUce in Ireland, 
 are brought up by their priests to be slaves to any one 
 in authority. They're the dullest of the yokels, all body 
 and no brain. Too stupid to do anjrthing but obey, so 
 long as they get their food and pay.' 
 
 The clergyman's wife was not puzzled by the lacunae 
 in his talk. 'Yes,' she answered proudly, 'I'm sure 
 our teaching makes better men.' 
 
 'It does,' he said bitterly; 'but not better Christians.' 
 
 She argued gently, 'Surely the better man must be 
 the better Christian.' 
 
 'That sounds to me all right when I say it in the 
 pulpit, but I'm not sure I can always apply it in real 
 life.' He spoke of wont to his wife as a man arguing 
 with himseli 
 
 No more was said then, nor until dinner was over and 
 the children gone to bed. When they were again alone 
 he said, 'Sergeant Macfie tells me he's leaving us for 
 the south side.' 
 
 'I knew her heart was set on it,' said Mrs Ryde. 
 'She told me that people wouldn't come so far as 
 Mountjoy Square, even to play bridge.' 
 46 
 
Rome and Geneva 
 
 'Perhaps the distance was not their only objection/ 
 said Dr Ryde pawkily. 
 
 His wife looked up at him. 'It's a loss, of course, 
 but you're not troubled about that?' 
 
 The doctor smiled grimly. 'I'm troubled to think 
 that although I've preached at Macfie pretty pointedly 
 more than once in the past ten years, yet if we both 
 of us died to-night he'd be damned almost more surely 
 than myself.' 
 
 'Bob,' she pleaded, "don't talk so dreadfully.' 
 
 'Look here. Jinny,' he answered, his eyes moist with 
 indignation, 'men hke Macfie are worse enemies of 
 society than the most ruffianly moonlighter in Kerry. 
 They're not only bad in themselves but their position 
 allows them to debase our moral coinage, even to falsify 
 the scales in which we weigh good and evil. You 
 know it makes me mad with rage to hear of men cutting 
 the tails off cows; but, I tell you, Macfie, if he only 
 dared, would crush and mutilate any man, woman, or 
 child he found in his way. I'd rather be a little black- 
 guard boy, seUing papers in SackviUe Street, than that 
 pillar of our chiu-ch.' 
 
 As Dr Hillingdon Ryde thus unbosomed his wishes 
 to his wife, one such a little blackguard boy, that seemed 
 to be lolling without a thought against the raiUngs of 
 the Gresham Hotel, was, in fact, praying fervently to 
 the Blessed Virgin, for his conversion from the errors 
 of Geneva to those of Marlborough Street. 
 
 47 
 
Chapter Six 
 
 BUTT BRIDGE 
 
 Even in Dublin, events sometimes march quickly. 
 Adam had been filled by far more than sixpennyworth 
 of affection and admiration for the minister who, as he 
 faintly reahsed, carried a sufficient soul in his big body. 
 But he attached little importance to his animadversions 
 on his trade, assuming that the clergyman could not 
 clearly understand its nature, nor could he possibly 
 appreciate how great the labour involved and how 
 small the profit. Of this, Mr Macfadden, though he 
 did nothing beyond taking the money, constantly 
 complained. In any case, and even if in possession of 
 the full evidence, he still had maintained a hostile 
 opinion, how could that weigh against the approval of 
 Father Innocent? 
 
 He knew from his own experience, as well as the 
 anecdote of the man with the donkey in the Second 
 Reading-book (which marked his highest attainment in 
 pure scholarship) that it was impossible to please 
 .every one. So far, except Father Innocent and his 
 godmother, he had succeeded in pleasing no one. . . . 
 Even the mad old lady, for whose sake he had suffered 
 the perilous if beautiful ordeal of the bath, had praised 
 him with reservations; and his parents consistently 
 envisaged him as the scum of the earth. His mother 
 perhaps did not mean all she said, being a woman 
 of violent emotions necessarily expressed in violent 
 language; but she let him feel that perhaps even more 
 48 
 
Butt Bridge 
 
 than her husband, she wished that he had never 
 been born. ^'I wouldn't have another muddy 
 brat, not if you were to give me a couple of 
 sovereigns,' he heard her say to his godmother when- 
 ever they met. 
 
 And as monotonously, Miss or Mrs Robinson would 
 reply, 'How can you say that now? I always think 
 that you're the lucky one. I wish I could have dear 
 httle Adam for myself. But sure, how can I, the life 
 I lead?' Monotonous it was, hopelessly monotonous, 
 but sad and sweet, and he felt it as balm upon the 
 sore reopened by his mother. Surely Miss or Mrs 
 Robinson was much more like the Blessed Virgin than 
 was Mrs Macfadden. though even she was not so pretty 
 nor nearly so plump as the holy photographs in the 
 Pro-Cathedral. 
 
 But aU this is by the way : the point is that the very 
 next night after that when Dr Hillingdon Ryde had 
 rejected his paper and given him sixpence, the Reverend 
 Father Muldoon, S.J. had rejected his paper and given 
 him nothing but the injimction to go home to his 
 parents and tell them not to send him out swindling 
 people. Tlus message Adam might have lacked the 
 heart to deliver had not his father asked for it. But 
 it made a deep impression on him and one that would 
 have been deeper still, had it not been for his mother's 
 reference to the bedevilments practised by the sinister 
 Lady Bland : 'the worst woman in Dublin, according 
 to him whom Adam regarded, not without judgment, 
 as the wisest and the best of men. Adam had no 
 ponderable act of sin upon his conscience, but it flashed 
 upon him that darkling night that the only money he 
 had ever been quite freely given, apart from his god- 
 mother and Father Innocent, came from a Protestant 
 clergyman and a mysterious old lady, obviously of 
 almost supernatural wealth and power, who had (as 
 
 49 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 he now perceived) blasphemed against the Mother of 
 God. 
 
 When Adam woke from the slumber induced by the 
 timely application of Mr Macfadden's porter bottle, 
 he was not quite the same lad who had started from 
 sleep the morning before : he felt himself in possession 
 of a clear, intellectual purpose, quite apart from the 
 necessity of filling his stomach, which is the prime motive 
 of savage kings and the civilised poor. 
 
 Fear of waking his parents forbade him to wash; but 
 he was not anxious so to do; for, although he really 
 liked to be clean, no underfed boy in any latitude 
 higher than the sub-tropical, will for his pleasure wash 
 in cold water. Had he lived in wonderland he would 
 have wallowed in his hot bath twice a day; under the 
 shadow of the Pro-Cathedral he nerved himself to the 
 performance of a meagre ablution before going out to 
 sell his papers, except on Saturday nights when his 
 mother gave him hot water to cleanse his feet for the 
 Sabbath Church parade. His hair needed no attention; 
 as his mother in self-defence kept it close cropped; but 
 he adjusted his rags as decently as he could, and, his 
 toilet completed, presented an appearance of lamentable 
 misery, yet with something in the allure of the moder- 
 ately clean little face and figure which forbade even 
 the callous to regard him with disgust. He had come 
 to the use of reason and the first light of it was brighten- 
 ing his eyes. This morning he wore a more than ever 
 worried look, as, munching his breakfast crust, he 
 scrawled on the blank space of a displayed advertisement 
 in the Telegraph, the words : PAIRIENTZ, SWIME- 
 LING. and GEZUWIT. 
 
 Then, hearing his mother mutter through his father's 
 breaking snores, the sure presage of coming activity, 
 and dreading that he might be forced to discuss with 
 them what was in his mind, he crept from the room, 
 50 
 
Butt Bridge 
 
 down the~stairs, and round the corner of the alley into 
 the dull, cold street, where the first tram, coming 
 reluctantly in from the sea, was grinding the mud out 
 of the rails; the driver rattling his bell blusteringly 
 through the empty place, as though to warn phantoms 
 from his path or perhaps determined that while he 
 laboured none shoiid sleep. Adam thought it would 
 be a grand thing to be a tram driver, just standing all 
 day in a fine warm overcoat, with nothing to do but 
 turn a handle that made you go on or stop as you might 
 fancy, and a bell to ring to cheer you up, and the 
 world slipping by on both sides of you like a procession 
 with no beginning or end. 
 
 He often wondered where the tram got to after it 
 turned the corner by Amiens Street Station, the distant 
 vista of which bounded his world to the east. South, 
 across the river, lay Stephen's Green and wonderland, 
 west, beyond Sackville Street, he remembered going 
 with his mother via Henry Street, to look at the outside 
 of a house in which somebody had been murdered, 
 and he knew he had been still farther than that in a 
 place oddly called Green Street, which appeared to be 
 inhabited by policemen and gentlemen dressed up as 
 ladies wearing spectacles and long gray hair and 
 carr3dng big black bags his mother threatened to put 
 him in if he cried : and if she had done that he would 
 have been taken away and hanged. Going to Green 
 Street at all, unless you were a policeman or dressed 
 up as a lady, was very dangerous for any one that did 
 not want to be hanged. He did not want to be hanged 
 except when his father was beating him with the porter 
 bottle : then he thought he might as well. . . . North 
 lay Findlater's Church and Belvedere College and 
 Gardiner's Street Chapel. Behind them in an unthink- 
 able hinterland lay a marvellous country full of beautiful 
 flowers and ferocious animals that would eat you if 
 
 51 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 they got the chance, but they never did which 
 was the humour of it. And not far from that 
 was another fiowery land, through which you had 
 to pass before you could get to heaven. Father 
 Innocent had promised to show him both these 
 places the day he made his first Holy Communion, 
 thus ensuring that it should be the happiest day of 
 his life. 
 
 Pending this journey to the Happy Hunting 
 Grounds in the far north, his garden of delight 
 was the great stony space bounded by the Custom 
 House on the east. Liberty Hall on the west, a blank 
 warehouse wall to the north, and the Liffey, crossed 
 by Butt Bridge to the south; with the railway 
 carried on pUlars above all, and mingling the 
 thunder of invisible wheels with the roar of sirens 
 in the river and the clatter of dray horses' hoofs on 
 the quays, and perhaps the note of an impassioned 
 orator, crying wrath like Isaiah from the window of 
 Liberty Hall. 
 
 Even at this early hour, the riverside was liveher 
 than anywhere else. The Holyhead boat was in, and 
 a train of outside cars and cabs rumbled and jolted 
 up from the North Wall. Adam never went so far as 
 that : he was content to sit on the Custom House 
 steps and watch the Bristol boat taking her cargo below 
 Butt Bridge. At one time he had beUeved that she 
 sailed away every other day to Africa, where his uncle 
 was the lord of all, but he knew now that she only 
 went to England, a country less remote and from 
 which not only ships but travellers had been known 
 to return. To-night, when he was going to bed, he 
 would hear her trumpeting as she slipped away from 
 the quayside, with the ropes splashing in the water 
 that had drowned Fan Tweedy, and would make off 
 downstream and out into the unknown bay where the 
 52 
 
Butt Bridge 
 
 herrings came from, and over hundreds and thousands 
 of miles maybe to England. It was marvellous to 
 think of. He wished that he had the courage to scut 
 across the gangway for a single instant so that he 
 might know what it was to adventure on the mighty 
 deep. . . . Sammie Lorgan's brother Andrew was 
 said to have voyaged as far as Kingstown on the 
 Integrity, and might have been drowned but for the 
 prescience of an aunt who sent him home by tram. The 
 Integrity was a famous ship : he wished he had seen 
 her, but that was before his time. She had helped to 
 tug the Great Eastern when she came to DubUn. His 
 godmother had shown him a medal she had been given 
 for going on board the Great Eastern when she was a 
 little baby. She did not wear it hke her other medals; 
 perhaps it was too big. That was a long time ago the 
 Great Eastern came to Dublin, but the Custom House 
 had been there before then. That must have been built 
 about the time of Pontius Pilate. In the holy pictures 
 Pontius Pilate's house looked like the Custom House. 
 He had no spunk in him, Pontius Pilate, to let the Jews 
 kiU poor Jesus, when he could have told his soldiers 
 to cut off all their heads. Instead of that, he let the 
 soldiers torture Jesus themselves. He supposed soldiers 
 always had to be torturing somebody, and if Pontius 
 Pilate had tried to stop it they'd have tortured 
 him. Things hke that happened even now. And 
 Pontius Pilate lived ever so long ago before any 
 one was clever enough to find out what Jesus 
 reaUy meant. Nothing had happened before Pontius 
 Pilate except Daniel in the lion's den, and Joseph 
 in the well, and Noah in the ark, and Adam 
 and Eve in the Garden of Eden. He wondered 
 why he was called Adam. He did not hve in any 
 sort of garden. He never had heard of any little 
 girl being called Eve. Was it because Eve was a 
 
 53 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 downright bad lot? Perhaps Lady Bland was called 
 Eve? . . . 
 
 At this thought he awoke to the work in hand. It 
 was nearly nine o'clock. Soon he would be allowed 
 to see Father Innocent if he called at the Presbytery 
 and said it was urgent. Was it so urgent as all that? 
 Did it matter to any one if he had a good or a guilty 
 conscience? . . . Yes, it mattered to Father Innocent, 
 he was sure of that. 
 
 54 
 
Chapter Seven 
 
 Gardiner's street 
 
 Adam shivered as he roused himself to stand up, for 
 you get the east wind blowing up the river as the tide 
 rises under Butt Bridge. ... He passed beneath the 
 railway arches as a train boomed menacingly overhead, 
 and beyond Liberty Hall into Abbey Street. ... At 
 the corner of Marlborough Street his eye was caught 
 by big black letters on a yellow ground, 'The Playboy 
 of the Western World.' ... He wondered what that 
 meant. It was placarded on the wall of the Abbey 
 Theatre; that queer little house where there used to 
 be the grand fighting, as he often heard tell out- 
 side the Gresham. What was a playboy, and 
 where the Western World? Did that mean America 
 or just Green Street, or something between the 
 two? 
 
 He was passing the Pro-Cathedral. . . . Hesitating 
 a moment he invoked the Blessed Virgin, took the steps 
 by assault and captured the bell. He had to ring a 
 second time, and the janitor who tardily answered, 
 rebuked his precipitancy and threatened to send him 
 about his business. . . . But insisting that his only 
 business was with Father Feeley, he was admitted 
 within the door, albeit no farther. The hall smelt 
 deliciously of fried fish — ^he remembered it was Friday 
 — ^things would have been easier to carry through on a 
 Sunday; there would have been more time. . . . Father 
 Innocent had just said Mass and was at breakfast. 
 
 55 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 But he lost no time about coming to Adam in the hall; 
 and, on learning that he was come with something 
 more than a message, brought him to his own little 
 room to hear what he had to say. 
 
 'There's nothing wrong at home, my dotey boy, 
 is there?' he asked; "tis long since I've seen your 
 good mother.' It was indeed some years, not that 
 Mrs Macfadden failed to make her 'Easter Duty,' 
 but she preferred to have her confessor in another 
 parish. 
 
 Mr Macfadden was content to see that his family 
 attended to their reUgion, but for himself insisted that 
 Sunday was a day of rest and the other days he never 
 knew when he might have to work hard, so he granted 
 himself a plenary indulgence. Apart from ceremonial 
 observance, he was as devout a Catholic as you could 
 find in Count Street, and woe betide the man or woman 
 who beUttled the Faith in his hearing and within range 
 of his boots. 
 
 'If only the prosecutions would begin again,' he was 
 fond of saying by way of table-talk, 'I'd show them 
 who was the true Catholic. Luthermiyelbo.' . . . For 
 a long time Adam believed 'Luthermiyelbo' must be 
 another way of saying 'Amen,' but Father Innocent 
 told him that this was not so, and although Mr 
 Macfadden, of course, meant no harm by it, Adam 
 ought not to repeat it. 
 
 'For Martin Luther was a priest, though a bad one, 
 and you must never speak disrespectfully of any priest, 
 not even me.' . . . This explanation had the quite 
 undesired effect on Adam's mind of lightening the 
 diabolical darkness of the Monk of Wittenberg by a ray 
 of glory from the halo of Farther Innocent. 
 
 Adam found it almost easier to talk to him than to 
 the Blessed Virgin; for he had the benefit of replies 
 which allowed him to elucidate what he said. It was 
 56 
 
Gardiner's Street 
 
 not long before he had given him full and accurate 
 details of what had passed not only between him and 
 Father Muldoon, but with the minister. Father Innocent 
 alternately laughed and was grave. 'And wasn't I 
 the silly fool,' he said more than once, 'not to have 
 understood about the papers long ago.' He concluded, 
 'There's an idea now. . . . Who put you up to it? 
 . . . And how is it your parents didn't know about 
 it?' 
 
 'They knew all about it,' said Adam readily. 'They 
 thought it was a grand idea.' 
 
 The priest looked at him severely. 'Don't tell me 
 your mother said that.' 
 
 'Sure, she did, sir,' said Adam, 'and used to get me 
 the papers herself until she tired of it.' 
 
 Father Innocent's face took an expression of horrified 
 melancholy. 'Then it was actually she put you up 
 to it?' 
 
 ' Her and Mr Q'Toole.' 
 
 'Who's Mr O'Toole?' the priest asked, then went on 
 hurriedly, as though to avoid hearing the answer, 
 ' Whoever he is, he put you up to a mortal sin.' 
 
 So far Adam had been rather agreeably titillated 
 by the interview, but now his face fell as he asked, ' Am 
 I going to hell?' 
 
 'Arrah, nonsense,' returned the priest testily, 'God 
 doesn't send Uttle boys to hell for obe3?ing their parents, 
 not if they went and stopped coaches on the high road, 
 which is worse than seUing old papers for new, there 
 being an element of violence, which is a sin in itself, 
 apart from the wrong done to others. But you've got 
 to give it up at once. No papers to-night, Adam, 
 mind ye that, not if you could sell them for a shilling 
 apiece. Better starve than break the law.' 
 
 'Me father will belt me,' said A4am, in a voice that 
 trembled on the verge of a whimper. 
 
 A.D. E 57 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 The priest was horror-stricken. ' What ! ' he cried, 
 putting several additional aspirates in the word to 
 emphasise it. 
 
 'Me fatl er will belt me, but I'm used to that,' said 
 Ar'am, adding, with a relapse into the piteous, 'I'd 
 ratl.er be belted than go to hell or do anything you 
 told me not.' 
 
 'There, there, my dotey boy,' said Father Innocent, 
 almost kissing him in the desire to express his sympathy. 
 'No one wiU belt you, much less your father. Why 
 would he belt you, I'd Uke to know? ' 
 
 ' If I don't sell the papers, I'll bring no money home, 
 and then he'll have no money for porther, or at least 
 he won't have as much as he does be wanting.' 
 
 'God help us, this is a terrible story,' quoth Father 
 Innocent. ' I've heard of this happening in some families 
 that had no religion, but I never thought a Christian 
 man could send his son out to swindle people, that he 
 might have money to drink. Not that I mean to judge 
 your father. I'm only telling you what is in my mind, 
 knowing that you're a wise fellow for your age and 
 you will forget what I teU you when you leave this 
 room.' 
 
 This proposition appeared to Adam as of the nature 
 of a paradox; but he did not say so. 
 
 'Whatever are we to do?' Father Innocent went on; 
 after much cogitation he shook his head. 'I'm a siUy 
 fellow to-day. I think I'll just pray to God Almighty 
 for His guidance.' He plumped down then and there 
 on the floor and crossed himself. 'In the name of the 
 Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.' 
 Then he buried his face in his hands and Adam heard 
 but the mutter of his prayer. It did not occur to him 
 to join in it : two people ought not to speak at once, 
 unless, of course, they use the same words; then the 
 more the better. 
 58 
 
Gardiner's Street 
 
 Adam's eyes wandered inquisitively about the room. 
 Except that it was tidier and much smaller, it resembled 
 his own home, and through the window one had just 
 the same outlook, only seen from a different angle : 
 melancholy backs of tall brick houses, variegated by 
 patches of wood and corrugated iron or zinc; down 
 below squalid yards, sheds, stables, and laneways; 
 and over all a spider's web of wires and the petrified 
 Nelson with his back turned, looking towards the 
 south side and no doubt wishing that he too might 
 remove thither. 
 
 Father Innocent arose, an easier man. 'The first 
 thing to do,' said he, 'is to see that you don't get belted 
 any more. And as it was Father Muldoon who saved 
 you from wrongdoing last night, I think we can't do 
 better than go and tell him the whole story, and see 
 whether perhaps he can't do something more for 
 you. . . . He's an awfully clever man and most 
 influential. Not like me, that knows nobody but 
 yourself.' 
 
 Adam was much uplifted at the thought that Father 
 Muldoon was so powerful he could save him from a 
 belting. Father Innocent stood hesitant, his hand on 
 the door. 'I wonder now, could I get him on the 
 telephone and ask him if he's there at Gardiner's Street 
 or not. . . . Better not, he might think it a piece of 
 impudence from me.' 
 
 Adam thought the Jesuit must be a grand hard man 
 as well as powerful, if he looked down on Father 
 Innocent. The latter looked at his watch and then 
 took his hat and umbrella. 'I think we'll just step 
 up to Gardiner's Street and see if we can't catch him 
 before he goes out. If he won't see us, sure we can 
 only wait till he can. Anyhow we'U be getting on in 
 the right direction. Come, my dotey boy.' 
 
 Proud was Adam to be seen by the leisured world 
 
 59 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 of Marlborough Street, taking the air upon its door- 
 steps, in the company of his spiritual adviser and to 
 hear from area to area as they passed along a murmurous 
 buzz of inquiry as to the wherefore of it all. Proud 
 was he to leave the reek of the slums behind and climb 
 beside his panting benefactor the steep ascent of North 
 Great George's Street, down which avenue lowered 
 grimly gracious Belvedere. Arrived at the top they 
 encountered the tall minister, Dr Hillingdon Ryde, 
 with a lady and a boy rather bigger than Adam, passing 
 the schoolhouse gate. The priest and he exchanged 
 cordial greetings and Adam was taken aback when, 
 crossing Temple Street, Father Innocent said, 'That's 
 one of the best men in Ireland, but remember you're 
 never to lift your cap to him unless he first takes notice 
 of you.' Adam grasped that this injunction was based 
 on dogma, and not to be questioned. 
 
 He noticed that Father Innocent had much the same 
 nervousness at the last moment in ascending the steps 
 of the Jesuit House as he had at Marlborough Street. 
 But the door was more promptly opened and there was 
 no difficulty made about their admission to a hall which 
 smelt only of beeswax, and further to an apartment 
 most handsomely furnished with a round table and 
 serious looking arm-chairs, and decorated with large 
 square portraits of churchmen of all degrees, with 
 saintly glances and beatific smiles, all looking straight 
 at you, so that no matter in what part of the room you 
 tried to hide yourself, you felt that every one of them 
 had both his eyes on you. Adam had a momentary 
 attack of nerves : he felt he was not nearly good enough 
 for their company. It was a reUef. to gather from 
 Father Innocent that they were all dead, but disturbing 
 to be told that not one of them was a patch on Father 
 Muldoon, who seemed to Adam a comparatively 
 ordinary man. 
 60 
 
Gardiner's Street 
 
 In this room, however, he proved to be much more 
 impressive than in the street, and a very much pleasanter 
 gentleman. He kept them waiting but made up for 
 it when he arrived, looking in his soutane and biretta 
 as if he, too, might one day hope to figure among the 
 portraits on the wall. 
 
 He countered Father Innocent's apology for intruding 
 on him by reproaching him for not telephoning. 'Then 
 I could have arranged things so as not to waste your 
 time.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed, father, what is my time compared with 
 yours?' Father Innocent protested. 
 
 'That we shall not know before eternity,' said the 
 Jesuit, and they both laughed, and Adam wondered 
 at their joking about such a serious subject. 'It is 
 delightful to be favoured by a visit from my Parish 
 Priest. It makes me feel at home again.' 
 
 'Every soul in Dublin, you might say, was glad to 
 have your reverence safe home from the other side 
 of the world,' said Father Innocent, adding to his 
 companion, 'Just think of that now, Adam; Father 
 Muldoon, who is talking to us now here in his room, 
 just as if nothing wonderful had ever happened to him, 
 only yesterday, as you might say, was preaching God's 
 Holy Word to multitudes standing on their heads.' 
 
 Adam murmured his recognition of this gratifying 
 news, worthy to figure in his; conversation outside 
 the Gresham Hotel, where the marvellous was valued. 
 He hoped that the great Father Muldoon would explain 
 how he did it, but the great man, modestly reticent as 
 to his achievement, continued, ' Yes, the Irish Province 
 is a very interesting one and so varied. I believe it is 
 the most extensive in the visible world. ... I only 
 wish it were not so thinly populated.' His tone grew 
 brisk. 'But it is for you to teU me your news and 
 not to listen to my chatter.' 
 
 6i 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Father Innocent thereupon introduced the subject 
 of Adam's unintentional breach of the laws of God 
 and man, laying proper stress on Father Muldoon's 
 part in saving him from the threatened abyss. 
 
 The great man listened in becoming silende, then 
 turned to Adam and said sharply, 'No doubt you 
 thought me very hard last night, but I may tell you, 
 my lad. Father Feeley is quite accurate in saying I 
 saved you from the abyss. The police have had the 
 tip from some one in high authority to lay their hands 
 on any boy they find trying to do the sort of thing you've 
 been doing. And although I'm not sure that a lad of 
 your age could be put on his trial, I dare say you know 
 that a poUceman can make it pretty hot for you without 
 taking you as far as the station.' 
 
 'That's the truth indeed,' declared Father Innocent, 
 'and once you have the police against you in Dublin, 
 sure there's no more hope for you here. You'd better 
 book for America at once, before you're old enough for 
 them to clap you in Kilmainham JaU.' 
 
 ' I won't go so far as to say that,' said Father Muldoon. 
 'There's more than one God-fearing man in the PoUce.' 
 
 'Indeed and of course there is,' Father Innocent 
 agreed. 'There's no harm in the poUce as men at all. 
 It's only their work that makes them brutal, like butchers 
 you might say. They forget the poor dumb animals 
 have feeUngs like themselves. And if one of them 
 happens to remember he was born an Irishman, and 
 that his father and mother were poor Irish people, 
 then the Castle . . .' 
 
 Father Muldoon stopped him with a smile and a 
 wave of the index finger of his right hand. 'No poUtics, 
 please, Father Feeley,' he said. 'We are agreed that 
 the lad must be kept out of the hands of the police 
 ... if that is in our power ..." 
 
 'Of course it's in our power,' answered Father 
 62 
 
Gardiner's Street 
 
 Innocent hotly. ' We've only to give him a fair chance 
 and it's the back of my hand to the police.' 
 
 'In those days of competition,' said the Jesuit, with 
 calculated coolness, 'it is not so easy to give a lad a 
 fair chance as you call it.' 
 
 Father Innocent made a movement towards the door, 
 slight, but not to be neglected by Father Muldoon. 
 'I've a notion that if the lad were a Presbyterian he 
 wouldn't find it so hard,' was all he said. 
 
 Father Muldoon knit his brows. 'I see,' he said, 
 and rang the bell. 'This is quite interesting.' There 
 was a tap at the door and the black beard of the janitor 
 appeared. 'John,' said Father Muldoon, 'just ring 
 me up Rathmines, Double Three, and tell me when 
 you get them. When the man was gone he addressed 
 himself solemnly to Adam : ' This is a great moment 
 in your life, my lad. I hope you will always remember 
 it. I am going to invoke the greatest power in Ireland 
 in your behalf. . . . That is, if I am so fortunate as 
 to get him on the telephone. 
 
 In a few moments the janitor returned with the 
 announcement that the great power was holding the 
 line, and Father Muldoon momentarily so forgot his 
 dignity as to bustle forth to get in touch with him; 
 which Father Innocent hastened to explain to Adam 
 was an act of marked condescension on the part of the 
 provincial. When he returned, and considering the 
 greatness of the occasion he was not unconscionably 
 long, he carried a visiting card which he handed to 
 Adam. 'Bring that down to the Herald office in 
 D'Olier Street, the publishing department, do it now, 
 and they'U arrange for you to have as many copies 
 of the next edition as you think you can sell. Those 
 you don't sell, if there be any you don't sell, you under- 
 stand you bring back before the next is issued. They'll 
 tell you the time.' 
 
 63 
 
Adam of Dublin / 
 
 'Oh, thank you. Father,' cried Father Innocent, 
 clasping his hands. 
 
 'Don't thank me,' said the Jesuit dryly. 'Later on 
 I'll see what can be done about the Telegraph. But, 
 I think it would be as well for Macfadden, if that's his 
 name, to promise us now that on no account whatever, 
 will he ever sell another copy of the Evening Mail.' 
 
 'Oh, indeed, your reverence,' Father Innocent 
 hastened to answer for him. ' Sure, Adam Macf adden's 
 the best Uttle Catholic in the world, and he'll never 
 dream of doing anything your reverence tells him not.' 
 
 ' I'm waiting to hear him promise,' the Jesuit answered 
 shortly. 'If he can do so he'd better speak up for 
 himself.' 
 
 Adam looked him in the face, wounded by his treat- 
 ment of Father Innocent. 'I promise never to sell 
 any more Late Buffs,' he answered. 
 
 'Does that include the early ones?' the Jesuit 
 inquired, with the air of a man of the world. 
 
 'Sure there's no early ones,' Adam returned, unable 
 to conceal his contempt for his pretentious ignorance. 
 
 Both priests burst out laughing and the Jesuit 
 produced a shilling. 'There,' said he, 'that is for being 
 a good little CathoUc,' and so sajdng, he shook their 
 hands quite affably and bowed them out. 
 
 Descending the steps, Adam decided that Gardiner's 
 Street smelt proudly as Fitzwilliam Square and was 
 just elevenpence more wonderful. 
 
 64 
 
chapter Eight 
 
 OLD COMET 
 
 As Adam trotted along beside Father Innocent, who 
 had to hurry back to his propsr work, he had httle time 
 to meditate on the change in his fortunes. What struck 
 him most was the grandeur of Father Muldoon, more 
 powerful than the mad old lady, more munificent than 
 the minister, and in no way afraid of the police. He 
 had supposed all good Catholics to be afraid of the 
 police : the only people who ever got the better of them 
 were the Protestant young gentlemen from Trinity 
 College, who knocked them about for fun, and the red- 
 coats from over the sea, who tripped them up, kicked 
 them in the stomach and even stabbed them with their 
 sidearms with impunity, unless they fell into the hands 
 of the other soldiers with red caps and the legend M.P. 
 blazoned on their sleeves. Sometimes a couple of 
 women might get a constable down and scratch his 
 face; but they rarely had the sense to get away before 
 other constables came to the rescue, twisted their arms 
 off until they fainted, and then carried them away, 
 tied down on stretchers, and got them fourteen days 
 as violent drunks. 
 
 It was on this rather than his own future he reflected 
 as he descended North Great George's Street and left 
 the newly discovered northern wonderland behind. 
 Marlborough Street looked the same as he had left it 
 an hour before, and Count Street had in no way improved 
 since he had seen the first tram plough it in the early 
 
 65 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 morn. Father Innocent brought him back to his own 
 room at Marlborough Street and made him wash and 
 tidy himself before proceeding to carry Father Muldoon's 
 introduction across O'Connell Bridge to the Herald 
 office. His parting advice to him was to tell his mother 
 fully what had happened, and to leave it to her to tell 
 Mr Macfadden, if she thought fit. And in a rare moment 
 of worldly wisdom he added, ' If you make more money 
 than you did before, you'd better give it to your mother 
 and say nothing to your father.' But he did not say 
 what excuse Adam was to advance in the event of his 
 making less. 
 
 The first night was a great success. Adam threw a 
 light heart and a joyful voice into his trade, and, assisted 
 by a juicy murder in Whitechapel, foimd that the 
 decreased profit was amply compensated for by the 
 rapidity of the turnover. He was already ninepence- 
 halfpenny to the good and had ceased for the moment 
 to cry his wares, that he might rest his voice, and 
 perhaps dreaming a little of the marvellous changes 
 the day had rung for him, when he was conscious of a 
 well-dressed gentleman (as he would have called him) 
 with a smart moustache and a tall hat, pushing his 
 way through the posse of yelling boys, who offered him 
 papers. Adam had smiled before now to see how often 
 and how vainly this stranger had been besieged in 
 much this fashion; the other boys seemed convinced 
 by the nobility of his appearance that he must prove 
 a valuable quarry could they but once bay him into 
 surrender. Yet Adam could recall only one occasion 
 on which he had bought a paper, and that was from 
 himself. Instinct sanctioned by experience forbade 
 Adam to offer him another, and to-night he did not 
 even try to catch the eye that was thrown on him as 
 he passed. 
 
 Yet suddenly the gentleman, when freed from the 
 66 
 
Old Comet 
 
 pursuit of the other boys, turned back towards Adam 
 and produced a threepenny bit, holding it so that 
 the light from the electric street lamp shone on it 
 tantahsingly. 'I want a Mail,' he said briskly. 
 
 'Yes, your honour,' Adam smartly answered, and put 
 his hand to his mouth to call to the nearest of his com- 
 petitors, 'Patsy, gentleman here wants a Late Buff.' 
 
 The piece of silver instantly disappeared. 'Damn 
 your impudence. I asked you for a Mail and no one 
 else.' 
 
 'I've only the Herald, your honour,' rephed Adam 
 respectfully, knowing that it was not merely futile 
 but dangerous to betray temper. 
 
 'Then why didn't you say so when I asked you if 
 you had a MailV 
 
 ' You didn't ask him anything,' broke in the summoned 
 Patsy, disgruntled to the verge of war. 'You said you 
 wanted a Mail, I heard you, and here it is for a 
 penny, if you're a gentleman, and a halfpenny if you're 
 not.' 
 
 He whose gentility was in the balance beat the 
 pavement feverishly with his stick. 'You're a pretty 
 pair, the two of you,' he snapped, then swung on his 
 heel and marched off; but not quick enough to avoid 
 the repartee, 'And you're a muddy old snot,' flung after 
 him by a chorus of them whose hopes he had so often 
 deluded. 
 
 'That old blackguard, whoever he is, was on your 
 track to-night,' said Patsy. 'It's well you twigged it 
 about the Mail, and called me.' 
 
 Adam was about to tell him the real why and where- 
 fore of his having only the one paper when a stage- 
 whisper of prodigious strength reached them from the 
 other boys, 'Nix, nix. . . . Here's old Comet,' followed 
 by a crying of their papers in the dulcet and decorous 
 tones in which they used once a week to acquaint the 
 
 67 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 world that they were little Catholics and loved their 
 holy faith. 
 
 Adam straightened himself to present his best 
 appearance before 'Old Comet,' who, he understood, 
 was a Chief Inspector of PoUce or something equally 
 terrific. But, for all that he skinned his eyes and pricked 
 up his ears he neither saw nor heard any one in the 
 shape or carriage of a policeman approach; and, 
 although Patsy had lost heart and run across the street 
 under the pretence of seeing some one beckoning to 
 him from Gilbey's, the other boys were laughingly 
 shoving their papers under the spectacled nose of an 
 old gentleman who kept waving them aside, apparently 
 much distressed. Adam felt quite sorry for him, and 
 wished that he had the courage to protest against such 
 treatment of a defenceless old man. 
 
 'Sure I've no time to read, boys. What's the good 
 of offering me your papers?' Adam heard him say. 
 'Sure there's nothing in the papers a decent old man 
 hke me would like to read. . . . Whitechapel murder, 
 is it? Indeed and I'll not read about a murder this 
 night in dread that I might see a ghost. . . . Thank 
 God the noble Metropolitan Polls kape us all safe from 
 that sort of thing over here. . . .' There was a roar of 
 delighted laughter, but he continued to shake his head 
 stohdly and pathetically. 'Ah, let me be, now, I tell 
 you. And don't be laughin' at a harmless old man, 
 going home to his ma.' Suddenly he stopped. 'Well, 
 if I've got to buy a paper off one of you, I'd like to 
 have one that has nothing about that bloody murder 
 in it.' He looked round the group, which Adam had 
 gradually drifted into or been engulfed by, as though 
 he expected a serious tender of an expurgated journal; 
 but none came. 
 
 'Very well, then,' said he, 'if I've got to read about 
 that nasty murder, I'd like to read nothing about it 
 68 
 
Old Comet 
 
 that would upset my tea; so I'll just take a Herald. 
 I know that will have nothing wrong in it, for Mr 
 Murphy is a particular friend of mine.' . . . The end 
 of the sentence was drowned in roars of shrill 
 mirth. 
 
 Adam was standing open-mouthed and wondering 
 why he laughed at jokes about murder, when he felt 
 a curious thrill, of dreandike acuteness as the laughter 
 of the others oddly hushed and the eyes of all turned 
 on himself : the funny old gentleman was drawing one 
 of his last papers from his hand. For an instant a 
 cold sweat burst over him, and he mumbled a Hail 
 Mary under his breath, terrified by those powers of 
 darkness known to him vaguely as the Law. 
 
 The old gentleman took off very deliberately the 
 spectacles he was wearing when he had opened the 
 paper, but Adam was too frightened to think this odd; 
 he did not even wonder why he had not been paid; 
 he stood spellbound, waiting, as did the others, though 
 he thought he heard Patsy, somewhere behind, mutter- 
 ing, 'Run, you omadhawn, run.' Quite a number of 
 voices within as well as without took up the theme, 
 'Run, run, run for your life, run, run, run.' 
 
 Then the pursed lips of the old gentleman expanded 
 into a smile, which ended in a guffaw. 'That's grand 
 news, that Whitechapel murder,' he said, folded the 
 paper neatly and put it in his hat. ' I don't mind giving 
 you thrippence for the like of that,' and he pressed 
 three copper coins into Adam's rigid hand. Then he 
 turned with a grim smile that slew the vacuity of the 
 moment before, to the stUl gaping knot of boys. 'I 
 can tell you honourable young gentlemen, that I know 
 some one who has a far worse opinion of you than I 
 have myself.' He dropped his voice to add, ' And what's 
 more, I have the blessed privilege to inform you that 
 they breed as big fools in Belfast as in Dublin itself.' 
 
 69 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 The boys, freed from their ensorcelled restraint, 
 clamoured eagerly, 'Who is it you mane, sir. Is it the 
 old stinker in the top hat ? ' 
 
 'That would be telling you,' laughed the old gentle- 
 man with a cheery wink, that took in the whcAe circle, 
 and, abruptly dropping all pretence of a shuffle, he 
 stepped out like a guardsman and disappeared. 
 
 'Faix, you'd a worse shave than ever that time,' 
 said Patsy to Adam. ' I dunno how it was Old Comet 
 didn't have you.' 
 
 Adam answered not. He was clinging to the Gresham 
 railings, trembling in every limb. 'Look here,' said 
 Patsy, 'don't you go and swound or maybe the pohs 
 will let on you've a sup taken. You're all right now. 
 Didn't Old Comet give you the thrippence to own up 
 he was bet. He's a muddy old terror is Old Comet, 
 and he's hanged more men than any wan in Ireland, 
 but he loses like a gentleman and bears no malice.' 
 
 The three coppers dropped from Adam's hand and 
 rolled their several ways across the wide pavement 
 to the gutter. It Wcis perhaps the supremest moment 
 of Patsy's young life, when he elected to stand by 
 Adam instead of chasing them. Fat Sammie Horgan 
 collared the lot; but another bigger boy intervened, 
 took them from him at the cost of his naked shin 
 barked by the choralist's boots, and offered two to 
 Adam, keeping the third for himself by way of salvage. 
 
 Adam saw them not, and the boy stared at his white 
 face. 'He's dead surely?' he whispered, awestruck, to 
 Patsy. 
 
 Patsy shook a head that was contemptuous of the 
 bigger boy's ignorance. 'Not a bit of it. He's only 
 scared to death by Old Comet. Hold up his other arm, 
 and we'll get him home between us.' 
 
 'Is it far?' the other inquired judiciously, but not 
 without goodwill. 
 70 
 
Old Comet 
 
 ' Round in Count Street only. You'll be back before 
 you know you're there.' Patsy pleaded for his friend 
 and with success. 
 
 Adam was very vaguely conscious of being moved 
 along by hands that had not been trained to gentle- 
 ness, and screamed with terror; but a kindly voice 
 said in his ear, 'Be aisy now. It's only Patsy 
 Doyle and Big Finegan that has hold of you, bringing 
 you home.' 
 
 After that he glimpsed only sharp flashes of light 
 and heard a tram grinding familiarly through Count 
 Street; then an angry voice, his mother's, telling him 
 to wake up and not be an idiot, then his father's voice 
 and a stunning blow and he was reeling among the rags 
 on his bed. 
 
 But when he was wakened again it was by a voice 
 more like Emily Robinson's. He looked up expectantly 
 and saw a rosy-faced sister, and gasped out, surprised 
 at the piping of his own tone, 'What's this grand 
 place ? ' 
 
 He was prepared to hear that it was a bedroom in 
 heaven; and it had to be broken to him very slowly, 
 first by the rosy-faced sister, then by a cheerful, jocular, 
 baldish gentleman, who never tired of peeping (as he 
 called it) at his tongue, and finally by Father Innocent 
 Feeley, the only reliable authority, that he was still 
 on earth. 
 
 The previous Sunday Mr Sergeant Macfie had fastened 
 himself upon the minister as they walked up Gardiner's 
 Row and said, 'I notice that young blackguard I told 
 you of is gone from outside the Gresham Hotel. I bet 
 you now he's come to no good.' 
 
 The minister answered simply, 'I suppose we shall 
 see little of you after to-day?' So the great man 
 could not well pursue the subject of his little 
 triumph. 
 
 71 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 As they spoke, the astral body of one of them was 
 hovering above the prostrate form of a httle boy, 
 trying to drop the noose of a rope around his neck. 
 This curious scene was taking place just half a mile 
 away, at the Mater Misericordiae Hospital. At the 
 foot of the bed stood another figure, affable and respect- 
 able, jingling in one hand three coppers, and in the 
 other thirty silver shillings. 
 
 72 
 
chapter Nine 
 
 THE MOTHER OF MERCY 
 
 The weeks that Adam spent in hospital were of great 
 influence on his development, for as soon as he was well 
 enough to sit up the sister presented him with a penny 
 exercise book, in which his pencil had room to play, 
 and he filled it with oft-repeated words as: FEEVR, 
 FEEVUR, FEEVER ; DOKTR, DOCKTR, DOCKTUR 
 DOCTUR, DOCTER, DOCTOR; KYNS, KINES, 
 KINNESS, KINDESS, and at last, KINDNESS. 
 There were also pages with sinister looking adumbra- 
 tions of vocables, beginning with H eind M and P and 
 R, which the doctor advised the sister to tear up while 
 the patient slept. He never complained of their dis- 
 appearance, and soon ceased to waste paper on them; 
 but from time to time, he would scratch down anxiously 
 the strange symbol — OLCOMT, and burst into tears. 
 Concerning this he neither offered nor could be persuaded 
 to divulge any sort of explanation; so when the sister 
 saw the first three letters appear she would make some 
 excuse to take the pencil away; and Adam opposed 
 this in no way. He always smiled at her whatever she 
 did, and his gratitude failed not even when she washed 
 him; for he believed that the hospital belonged to 
 her, and that she was as powerful as the mad old lady 
 and Father Muldoon together, and incomparably 
 kinder. 
 
 She really was very kind, from the professional point 
 
 of view too much so; for when she ought to have been 
 
 A.D. F 73 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 asleep in bed, she would find some excuse to remain 
 by his side to read him Canon Schmidt's Tales, which 
 he regarded as a terrifying if delicious work; for it 
 convinced him that the police treated French noblemen 
 even worse than they did Dublin paper-boys. She even 
 allowed him to take this book in his own hands, although 
 it was very precious to her; for inside the cover was 
 pasted a certificate setting forth in appropriately chaste 
 form that she had won it as the First Prize for Deport- 
 ment, at the Loretto Convent, Rathfarnham, where it 
 had been presented to her at the end of the scholastic 
 year, terminating in the summer of the last year of 
 that gracious monarch whose name had been so often 
 on Adam's lips, though only in the way of business. 
 But Adam found it too alarming to read by himself, 
 the Sister not at hand to assiure him that these things 
 had never happened, or if they did that it was a long 
 time ago, before any one she knew could remember, 
 and there was no possibility of their ever occurring 
 again. Virtuous French noblemen were no longer 
 guillotined, just as priests and nuns were no longer 
 burned, or hanged, drawn, and quartered even in 
 London. Only really downright very wicked people 
 were put to death nowadays. . . . Adam perceived 
 that he must never let her suspect how narrowly he 
 had escaped the gallows. 
 
 On the back of the exercise book were sets of measures 
 and multiplication tables. When alone he preferred 
 their study to that of Canon Schmidt, and easily com- 
 mitted the tables to memory; though, as he did so 
 without seeing in them anything more than mere 
 arbitrary figures, he had difficulty in saying off-hand 
 whether it were twice two, or four times four or twelve 
 times twelve that produced the memorable total of 
 one hundred and forty-four. Had the terms of the 
 proposition taken the concrete form of twelve dozen 
 74 
 
The Mother of Mercy 
 
 copies of the Herald, he would have been quite clear 
 about it. 
 
 Father Innocent brought him a nice clean copy of 
 that scholastic masterpiece too modestly described as 
 the Penny Catechism, and the contents of that were 
 promptly stowed away in the receptive little brain, 
 nejct door to the multipUcation tables. He would 
 chant himself to sleep with alternate verses, so to speak, 
 from the Ten Commandments and Ten times Ten, 
 until they merged in each other and he slumbered. 
 Father Innocent proudly noted his name for Confirma- 
 tion. . . . 'Glory be to God, that dotey child wUl 
 live to be a saint,' he said to the sister. 
 
 She smiled. 'He is a dotey child,' she agreed, but 
 added, 'I wonder what wiU become of him when he 
 leaves us?' Even she was more worldly wise than 
 Father Innocent. Meanwhile she conspired with the 
 doctor that he should not be flung back into Count 
 Street in too great a hurry. 
 
 Not that anything was known at the hospital against 
 Adam's parents. Father Innocent would say no more 
 than that they were unfortunate poor people, but he 
 never heard anything against their being good Catholics. 
 Mrs Macfadden created a tolerably good impression 
 when she came once a week to see her son. She was 
 sober, better clad than they had anticipated from the 
 appearance of Adam, most respectful to every one, if 
 most of all to the hall-porter, which showed tact, and 
 her conversation with her son revolved round the idea 
 how glad he ought to be of the chance of dying among 
 Catholics now, instead of perhaps later on falling into 
 the hands of Prostutehsers, which was true and edifying 
 though crudely put and not perhaps as cheerful as the 
 sort of talk the doctor recommended. The sister herself 
 felt it necessary to warn him against the ways of 
 proseljH:isers, with whom he had obviously already had 
 
 75 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 some parley, if no more. He asked the sister if she 
 thought his mother was at all like the Blessed 
 Virgin. She said she had not noticed any resem- 
 blance, but could see that she was a very good, 
 kind, and wise mother; for she had not attempted to 
 smuggle in any presents for him, which was against 
 the rules. 
 
 Adam looked up at her round, comely face. 'You 
 really are like the Blessed Virgin,' he blurted. She 
 reddened and dropped her hand on his mouth, and told 
 him that if he said such wicked things he would make 
 her cry; but he heard her singing softly to herself 
 immediately afterwards, and she brought a fresh book 
 to read to him next day, with thrilling illustrations of 
 the different methods by which the curious might 
 anticipate being burned in Hell. But the doctor put 
 his ban on that at once, and she gave him a fresh 
 exercise book instead, which he after all preferred, as 
 he could now draw people burning in hell for himself. 
 He expected the sister to be much dismayed by these; 
 but, having closely scrutinised a whole series of the 
 eternally damned, she only asked, ' Who dropped their 
 dolUes on the grass?' . . . Nevertheless, he drew a 
 pictiure of a policeman, which was after a long process 
 of elimination, identified as such, so he felt encouraged 
 to attempt an elaborate composition embracing the 
 Bristol boat, the Custom House, and the Butt Bridge, 
 with the railway, but they got so confused that 
 he lost his temper and tore the paper and began 
 to cry, until sister came to him and soothed him 
 with the rhymed legend of a maternal house- 
 holder, possessing a dog whose variety was infinite as 
 Cleopatra's. 
 
 Telling the sister that she was like the Blessed Virgin 
 brought into Adam's mind his godmother, in whom he 
 had also long ago seen some slight resemblance. He 
 76 
 
The Mother of Mercy 
 
 wondered that she never came to see him. He asked 
 the sister if godmothers were not admitted. She said 
 she knew of no obstacle, and advised him to consult 
 his mother. But he knew better than to do that. He 
 made up his mind to ask Father Innocent, and one day, 
 when the little priest had arrived unwontedly sad and 
 silent he broached the subject. 
 
 'Father,' said he in a low voice, 'I do be often 
 thinJiing of my godmother. Miss Emily Robinson.' 
 
 The Uttle priest started and raised his eyes until 
 they fell upon the boy's face. Adam was plucking 
 nervously at the bedclothes, his own eyes dovm- 
 cast and unconscious of Father Innocent's scrutiny. 
 His mind might have been far away in place 
 and time, as far as the tether of his little life 
 allowed. 
 
 'Glory be to God, my boy,' said Father Innocent. 
 ' What put it in your head to ask me that ? ' 
 
 'I only thought she'd be more Uke to come than my 
 mother if she knew the place I was.' 
 
 'She does know, but she can't come,' said Father 
 Innocent. 
 
 ' Why can't she come ? Won't they let her ? ' Adam's 
 tone was peevish. 
 
 'No,' said Father Innocent solemnly, 'they won't 
 let her. God won't let her.' 
 
 Adam felt something chilly creep swiftly down his 
 back. He visuahsed a garden he had never seen. 
 'Where is she?' he asked in a frightened under- 
 breath. 
 
 Father Innocent did not directly answer. 'You said 
 you do be often thinking of her, Adam. Tell me, do 
 you ever pray for her?' 
 
 Adam was always at pains to give Father Innocent 
 not merely true but explicit answers. 'Sister makes 
 me pray for my father and mother every day, and I 
 
 71 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 always pray for you and Mrs Robinson and Patsy 
 Doyle, who was kind to me outside the Gresham, and 
 a Protestant gentleman, as once gave me sixpence, 
 and Father Muldoon, when I remember, but I never 
 pray for Mr O'Toole; for he's a blackguard and I hate 
 the sight of him.' 
 
 'If he is that, then maybe he wants it most of all, 
 except myself,' said Father Innocent. 'But I'm glad 
 you pray for your dear godmother; for she deserves it 
 most of all . . . except, of course, your poor mother, 
 who has more trials than you know of.' He was silent 
 for a moment as though uncertain whether to say more 
 or to take his departure. 
 
 At last he took Adam's hand. 'I'm going now, but 
 before I say good-bye, I want to ask you to do some- 
 thing for me. WiU you do it now? ' 
 
 Adam's little breast swelled with mingled awe and 
 self-importance as he asked what it was. 
 
 'It's just this,' said Father Innocent. 'Though God 
 help me, I can ill afford it, I want you to give my bit 
 of your prayers to-night to add to Mrs Robinson's 
 bit, and if you should wake in the night, to turn your 
 pillow, maybe, I want you to say to God with all your 
 heart and sovl, Be good to my godmother, Emily 
 Robinson, for she was good to me, a little child 
 there were few to care for. . . . And, then, may- 
 be, when the morning comes and you hear the 
 birds singing, maybe Emily Robinson too will 
 be singing in heaven, because God had heard your 
 prayer.' 
 
 Adam's ready tears trickled on the priest's hand. 
 'She's dead?' he tried to say, and the priest guessed 
 at the words and answered, 'She's dying surely. I 
 gave her Extreme Unction, coming- here. And I told 
 her I was coming here to see you, and she couldn't 
 get a word out of her, poor saint, but her eyes sent you 
 78 
 
The Mother of Mercy 
 
 her love. . . .' His own tears mingled with Adam's. 
 . . . ' You'll pray for her, my dotey boy, you're too 
 young to understand how needful it is that you should 
 be prayin' for her, but that will make your little offering, 
 from your own sick-bed, where the cruelty of the world 
 has sent you, as it sent her to hers, all the more gracious 
 in the sight of God.' 
 
 ' I'll pray for her. Father,' whispered Adam, and the 
 little priest hurried away. 
 
 'Father Innocent is a lamb,' declared the sister, 
 when she came on night duty. 'But sure I wish he 
 didn't make you cry.' 
 
 ' It isn't him,' Adam responded. ' It's my godmother's 
 dying, and I can't remember now how he told me to 
 pray for her.' 
 
 The sister was, of course, touched but equal to the 
 occasion. 'Oh, if that's all,' she said, and supplied 
 him promptly with a pretty little conventional appeal 
 for speedy recovery or happy death. She was sorry 
 for Miss or Mrs Robinson, but mainly concerned that 
 her patient should not lie awake pondering the mystery 
 of the departure of the soul. 
 
 Adam dutifully repeated the words after her, but 
 without any conviction that they could catch God's 
 ear, and yawned and said good-night, and kissed her, 
 and yawned again, and went to sleep. But in the 
 middle of the night he awoke with a vibrant desire at 
 all costs to help Miss or Mrs Robinson. At the end of 
 the ward he could see the sister nodding over the Life 
 of the Cure d'Ars. . . In perfect sUence he sUpped out 
 of bed and dropped on his knees. The words Father 
 Innocent had taught him came flooding now: 'Be 
 good to my godmother, Emily Robinson, for she was 
 good to me, a little child there were few to care for.' 
 He repeated this phrase again and again with an ever 
 growing fervour for the safety of his godmother's 
 
 79 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 soul; but still he was not sure that God heard. 
 . . . Then an inspiration seized him and he cried 
 aloud, -'Holy Mary, tell God that He must be 
 good to Emily Robinson, for she was good to me, a 
 little child . . .' 
 
 The next instant he was in the sister's arms and 
 back in bed, but she was too late to save him from 
 pneumonia. 
 
 80 
 
chapter Ten 
 
 MOTHER goose's FAIRY TALES 
 
 From first to last, what with typhoid and pneumonia, 
 Adam spent many weeks in hospital — he had been well 
 content to fulfil his mother's wish and end his Ufe there. 
 But the doctor, though he scolded the sister quite 
 unduly for her carelessness in letting him slip out of 
 bed, carried him through to a definitive convalescence. 
 . . . For a considerable period the pencil and exercise 
 book were put away, and he was allowed nothing to 
 read and no visitors. . . . Mother Hubbard's dog had 
 fallen a victim to custom and his excellent parts were 
 losing interest when Father Innocent reappeared at 
 last, phenomenally gay as are only those whose days 
 are sorrowful. 
 
 'I'd have a right to spank you for getting out of 
 bed and catching cold,' he said, 'but sure I'm a silly 
 old fellow with a weak heart, and instead of bringing 
 you a big cane, I've brought you a story book about the 
 most wonderful adventures were ever heard of, and I 
 greatly misdoubt if the half of them are true. But 
 you can form your own opinion, which is better 
 than mine, for it's many a long day since I've had time 
 to read it.' 
 
 Adam only said, ' Oh, Father,' but his eyes glistened 
 and his thin fingers clutched like a miser's at the book; 
 it was an honest square volume, neatly covered with 
 brown paper. 
 
 'Mind you,' said Father Innocent, 'it's only as a 
 
 8i 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 lend I'm giving it to you; and you're not to go tearing 
 the pictures out for sister here to hang on the wall, 
 nor are you to be doing your higher mathematics on 
 the margins. For my own dear mother gave it to me, 
 you'd never be able to guess how long ago, but years 
 and years it was, before ever there was a motor-car on 
 the streets of Dublin, or Mr Murphy's beautiful trams, 
 with the electricity streaming through them, that we're 
 going on one of these days maybe, you and I, to the 
 Park, maybe, to hear the Uons roar at the Zoo and the 
 crocodiles if they have any, or the Botanical Gardens, 
 where Mr Moore, Sir Frederick, I should say, makes 
 the palm-trees grow higher than they do at home in 
 Africa or the Coral Islands of the South Sea, bubbles 
 and all. ... I often think of the inimitable goodness 
 of God, making these coral islands out of nothing you 
 may say for babies yet unborn and thousands of miles 
 away anyway, to cut their teeth on. Oh, He's good to 
 children surely, and to none more than me, for He gave 
 me the best mother, I think ever was, and she gave me 
 that beautiful book long before I had the sense to 
 understand how fine it was, for I wasn't a clever fellow 
 like you, my dotey boy, and she had to put me in the 
 corner for three hours by an American clock she had 
 that the more you wound it the less it went, for blueing 
 Bluebeard's beard with a blue and red pencil I took 
 off my father's desk. He was at the head of an office 
 in Brunswick Street and would have been a very clever 
 man if he hadn't died. The Lord have mercy on him 
 . . . and that reminds me you'd better not read 
 Bluebeard, for it's hardly fit for a child, being too like 
 what you come across every day. Of course, there 
 never was a man with a blue beard out of the 
 Gaiety or the Theatre Royal, but he was a bad 
 Catholic even if his beard had been ordinary. . . . 
 God forgive me, but you might call him a perfect 
 82 
 
Mother Goose's Fairy Tales 
 
 heathen if not a heretic. But I may be wrong about 
 that.' 
 
 Adam promised to be careful with the book and to 
 refrain from reading Bluebeard, so Father Innocent 
 left it in his hands, and he opened it at the title page 
 to see that it was called Mother Goose's Fairy Tales, 
 and at the top of it was written in a graceful, not too 
 legible sloping hand, 'To Innocent Mary Patrick 
 Feeley, on his Sixth Birthday, from his Loving Parents. 
 I2th October, 1880.' 
 
 That was a gorgeous afternoon while he lay there 
 cosily, after Father Innocent was gone, turning over 
 the pictures, and discussing with himself and sister 
 whether he should begin with ' The Goose that laid the 
 Golden Eggs,' or 'Cinderella and the Glass SHpper,' or 
 'Jack the Giant-Killer,' or 'The Ugly Duckling,' or 
 'Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp,' or 'Goody Two- 
 Shoes,' or 'Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,' or 'The 
 Babes in the Wood,' or what. He told her that he 
 had promised Father Innocent not to read ' Bluebeard,' 
 and pointed out to her the remains of the pigment 
 which Father Innocent's mother had put him in the 
 corner for appljring to Bluebeard's beard. . . . Sister 
 advised him also to pass over 'The Babes in the Wood' 
 for the present, ' For I'm sure I couldn't read it to you 
 without crying myself,' said she. 'It's about little 
 children that lost their parents.' 
 
 Adam did not regard this as an overwhelming mis- 
 adventure, but he had no more desire for tears than for 
 horrors; so he eschewed the 'Babes in the Wood' as 
 readily as 'Bluebeard.' The sister then suggested as 
 a novelty that he should begin at the beginning, and 
 read 'The Goose that laid the Golden Eggs,' which 
 was the very first story in the book, and seemed by the 
 pictures to be agreeably bucoUc and healthy in tone. 
 She had an idea, or at least gave Adam that cheerful 
 
 83 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 impression, that thanks to co-operation, geese laying 
 golden eggs might yet be hatched in Ireland. Although 
 he politely insisted on her continuing to read t<? him, 
 and when his head ached it soothed him to hear the 
 drone of her voice, he found that he really enjoyed the 
 stories more when he spelled them out for himself; 
 and, at the second reading, he covered the ground 
 faster than she could read aloud. 
 
 AU the stories were interesting and mildly exciting; 
 though he thought their heroes very fatuous young 
 gentlemen. 'Jack the Giant-Killer' was the only one 
 that showed striking intelligence, some of his ways of 
 avoiding or circumventing leviathans might, he fancied, 
 be tried against the police, should the hke concatenation 
 of circumstances present themselves : he noted with 
 regret that John was an EngUshman. A particularly 
 silly fellow was the one who got the chance to wish 
 himself an5i;hing under the sun and only used it to get 
 himself into worse trouble than he was in already. 
 Adam had no patience with that fellow at all. 
 
 On the other hand, there was Aladdin. Adam felt 
 special interest in him because he was the son of a 
 tailor, a poor tailor, and lived in a great city, and had 
 an uncle who went to Africa. The parallel with his 
 own Ufe ended there; for Aladdin was a wicked Uttle 
 boy who (it was impUed, though not precisely stated 
 in the text) played pitch and toss in the streets, and 
 broke most of, if not all, the Commandments. Almost 
 the wonderfullest part of his story was that there was 
 no mention of his parents smacking him with a porter 
 bottle. Adam thought this a deplorable want of 
 common sense on their part; yet it seemed to have had 
 no ill effect on the development of Aladdin's character; 
 for, notwithstanding his unpromising beginning, he grew 
 up a well-spoken, modest, and charming young man, 
 quite without blatherumskite, and as ingenuous as 
 84 
 
Mother Goose's Fairy Tales 
 
 Father Innocent. It seemed incredible that he should 
 have neglected to give the wicked magician penal 
 servitude for life the moment he was freed from his 
 power. That was asking for trouble later on. He would 
 visualise the wicked magician as Old Comet, in a 
 dressing gown, with a Turkish towel wrapped round his 
 head, and a paralysing smUe of false benevolence playing 
 over his countenance. . . . Then Adam would shudder 
 and let fall Mother Goose's Fairy Tales from his hands; 
 for he had neither ring nor lamp to protect him from 
 those powers of darkness owning neither God nor man, 
 though latent in the mind of all. 
 
 85 
 
chapter Eleven 
 
 THE PRICE OF CONVALESCENCE 
 
 At last Adam was well enough not only to rise from his 
 bed but to walk, and not only to walk but to dress and 
 go out beneath the open sky. Though a cheerful 
 enough little patient in his bed, he left it as one who has 
 no will to Hve : he saw himself as flung out from fairy- 
 land to darkness. Between the sheets he was Haroun- 
 al-Raschid, Commander of the Faithful; leaving them, 
 he must clothe his naked fancy in the rags of Adam the 
 Dublin newsboy. 
 
 But the fairies had not left him yet. Instead of his 
 rags sister gave him a suit that, if not new, was in 
 perfect repair, and a little shirt and collar and eke a 
 tie, with, most admirable of all, stockings, and a pair of 
 boots. The latter were humanly speaking necessary; 
 for after so long an illness his bare feet had lost their 
 power of resistance to the stony ground. But Adam 
 did not think so much of this comfort as of the dis- 
 tinction which they lent to his appearance. He tried 
 to recall how they compared with Sammie Horgan's, 
 and longed to be back at the Gresham Hotel to show 
 them off. He did not, however, contemplate their effect 
 on Count Street. 
 
 Before he was discharged from the hospital. Father 
 Innocent was allowed to bring him, by way of an airing, 
 for the long promised excursion to the Botanical 
 Gardens. It was a June day and balmy, so they climbed 
 on top of the tram at the north end of Eccles Street, 
 86 
 
The Price of Convalescence 
 
 and off they went, swishing and roaring into the North 
 Circular Road, and round to the left up over the canal 
 bridge, and then round to the right at a place Father 
 Innocent called 'Dunphy's Comer,' though there was 
 nothing to indicate why it should so be called. But 
 anyhow it was a notable spot; for there one pair of 
 rails forged straight ahead to the left, to carry the 
 Phoenix Park tram past the tram depot and the famous 
 church of the Vincentians they were to visit some day, 
 the tower of which might have fallen down if God had 
 not held it up (said Miss or Mrs Robinson, the Lord 
 have mercy on her !), past the place where the cattle 
 were killed (there was a flock of lambs on the road 
 going there now, with queer red marks on their httle 
 gamey backs) to the place where the lions and tigers 
 were : cruel beasts that ate you if they got the chance 
 . . . only they never got the chance. It was satisfactory 
 to remember that. They were in cages with iron bars, 
 and even if they broke these when no one was looking 
 in the night, they would still have to get out of their 
 strong brick houses, and if they got out of them, there 
 were fences and ditches and turnstiles (Father Innocent 
 said a turnstile would almost surely baffle a Uon or a 
 tiger), and even if they got out of all the things that 
 were put there to keep them in, they would then find 
 the police from the constabulary depot drawn up out- 
 side, only too pleased to have something to shoot down 
 Adam carried the thought further still : even if they 
 killed and ate the police, guns and powder and shot and 
 bayonets and belts and boots and helmets and aU, 
 that would be still no good; for they would have the 
 Castle against them then, and sooner or later Old 
 Comet would get them, with poisoned herrings, maybe, 
 as you get rats. 
 
 Outside the public-house at Dunphy's Corner stood 
 an empty hearse, and the hke was to be seen at every 
 
 87 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 place of entertainment in the Glasnevin Road. There 
 were heaps more careering gaily home, the horses 
 tossing their Grenadier caps in the air. Adam took off 
 his cap to every one of them imtil Father Innocent 
 bade him forbear. ' My dotey boy,' said he, ' you needn't 
 be taking a fresh cold for the sake of these hearses, 
 any more than if they were so many wheelbarrows. 
 While they hold the mortal remains of the faithful 
 departed, we show them our respect; but empty, they 
 are no more than empty dustcarts.' He added, ' Indeed, 
 even with the coffins in them, I cannot see that they 
 are much better than dust-carts then. But the Church 
 sanctions the old custom of respecting the body even 
 when it has ceased to be the temple of the soul.' 
 
 'Why?' asked Adam; for as Father Innocent put 
 it, he could not but feel that it was absurd. 
 
 'I am too ignorant to tell you why,' the priest 
 answered. 'They may have told me at Maynooth, but 
 I forget. Luckily I've no time to think about these 
 things now; for when I was a young fellow there were 
 heaps of them that seemed to me to be preposterous. 
 Yet I heard men I know to be far wiser than myself 
 maintaining them to be above question. The only 
 coiu'se for a good CathoUc to follow is to beUeve what 
 he is told by those above him without question.' 
 
 'How do you mean those above him? ' Adam queried 
 anxiously. 
 
 The priest answered readily, 'I mean those whom 
 God in His wisdom has put over him, to be his natural 
 superiors.' 
 
 'But wouldn't that be the Castle?' Adam asked. 
 
 Father Innocent did not answer so readily this time; 
 but he did offer an answer, ' I'm afraid it would in a sense 
 be the Castie in some ways,' he admitted; 'but only 
 so long as the Castle told you to believe things that had 
 the approval of the Pope.' He corrected himself, 'I 
 88 
 
The Price of Convalescence 
 
 ought to have said that even the Castle wouldn't dare 
 to do anything at all without His Holiness's leave.' 
 
 ' How does it get it ? ' Adam insisted; ' by humbugging 
 him is it?' 
 
 'The Pope is infallible,' quoth Father Innocent, with 
 somewhat ruffled authority, ' and couldn't be humbugged 
 if he wanted to. But, of course, he can't be always 
 thinking about Ireland, which is quite a small part of 
 his dominion and perhaps seems a poor little out of 
 the way place that hardly matters to such a grand 
 monarch as him : the grandest in the world, mind you, 
 though he was once only a poor little priest like myself, 
 only ever so much better and wiser.' He stopped on 
 this side track, but Adam was not to be balked. 
 
 'But sure, knowing everything, he must know the 
 Castle's down on all Catholics?' he argued. 
 
 'You may be sure he doesn't know that,' Father 
 Innocent hastened to say, ' and you're wrong in thinking 
 the Castle's down on all Catholics. There are Cathohcs 
 earning as much as two or maybe three hundred pounds 
 a year under the Government.' 
 
 'Is there now really, your reverence?' asked Adam, 
 tremendously impressed. 
 
 'Indeed there are,' said Father Innocent. 'Father 
 Muldoon could tell you more about them than I. He 
 has had boys under him, when he was rector at 
 Clongowes, who are now making as much as a pound 
 every day of their lives.' 
 
 'I wonder could I ever earn the Uke of that,' cried 
 Adam, his mouth watering, like AU Baba in the robbers' 
 cave. 
 
 Father Innocent looked at him askance. 'Would 
 you be wanting to earn it from the Castle?' he 
 inquired. 
 
 'It's a lot of money,' Adam pleaded. 'Couldn't I do 
 a lot of good with that ? ' 
 
 A.D. G 89 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'Think of all the harm the people do that would be 
 giving it to you,' the priest rejoined with absent-minded 
 indignation. 
 
 'But doesn't the Pope tell them it's all right?' was 
 Adam's instant reply. 'And isn't anything wrong all 
 right if he says so?' 
 
 'Being infallible,' Father Innocent began, 'he couldn't 
 say that wrong was right. But of course bad men 
 might deceive him as to the facts, and believing some- 
 thing was true that wasn't true, he might say something 
 that would be perfectly true in itself, but not true 
 because he had been told what wasn't true and believed 
 it before he said it, for of course though he's infallible 
 that doesn't mean that he's infaUible when he's being 
 misled by bad men, as we may all be misled whether 
 fcdlible or not . . .' 
 
 'And is God no more infaUible than that?' Adam 
 asked, with ill-disguised contempt. 
 
 'The infallibility of the Almighty differs from the 
 infaUibility of the Pope, I forget how,' Father Innocent 
 was sapng, when luckily for him the tram grunted 
 beneath them and came to a stop. ' Here we are at the 
 Botanies,' he went on, 'so ask me no more questions, 
 my dotey boy. I tell you I'm a stupid fellow and 
 know no more than yourself. And anyhow we're out 
 to enjoy God's beautiful flowers and not to puzzle our 
 heads about things that have no real concern for poor 
 people like ourselves.' 
 
 Adam was only too willing to forget questions of 
 ethics and poUtics in the joy of bright colour and 
 fragrant scent, and eagerly clambered down from the 
 tram roof, notwithstanding the difficulties presented by 
 the fact that he had never done so before, even on his 
 naked feet, and his boots felt as stilts might to the 
 more luxurious. He reached the ground without mishap 
 and hastened after his mentor through the gate by 
 90 
 
The Price of Convalescence 
 
 the lodge, where false pride inspired him to inscribe 
 his name in the visitor's book while the custodian was 
 engaged in conversation with Father Innocent. 'That 
 will do you now,' cried the official when he realised, and 
 Adam had got no further than the publication in 
 capital letters of the words, ADAM BYRON O'TOOLE. 
 ... He left it at that, inadequate as was the state- 
 ment. He was dejected at the thought that the people 
 who read the book would believe his name to be that 
 of his godfather, though he had no greater satisfaction 
 in that of Macfadden. But he wished there had been 
 time to get in Wyndham, which had a grand sound, 
 and above all. Innocent, really loved both for its sound 
 and the connection it implied with his patron. 
 
 This day which had promised so brightly was perhaps 
 the first of conscious disillusion in Adam's life. The 
 very evergreens at the entrance depressed him, he was 
 overpowered by the stifling odour of tropical vegetation, 
 and the palm-houses frightened him so much that he 
 clung to Father Innocent's hand as he passed through, 
 dreading to see the fiery eyes of diabolical beasts glare 
 through the foliage. He had never yet heard of ghouls 
 by that name, yet they were ghoulish forms, he fancied, 
 lurking amidst the odoriferous foliage around him. 
 The heavy scents affected him much more than the 
 occasionally brilliant colours, and he grew not sad only, 
 but desolate. These plants came from Africa — Africa, 
 where his uncle had disappeared. Africa, where perished 
 that fated Irish baronet. Sir David B3T:on-Quinn. 
 
 Father Innocent wondered at his sullen answers 
 when he called upon him to praise the glory of the Lord 
 as illustrated in flower and leaf and spreading branch. 
 He felt the boy trembling as though he had brought him 
 to a Druid grove, where hung the stench of the sacrificed. 
 He was turning to take him home, when he felt the 
 grip on his arm grow easier, and Adam swung loose, 
 
 91 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 a smile breaking over his face. Three bars of well- 
 marked brazen music filled their ears. 
 
 ' Dear, dear ! ' said Father Innocent, ' I near forgot 
 the band. You'd like to hear the band, dotey?' 
 
 Adam owned he did love a band, and the priest's 
 heart lightened to see him stride blithely forward, 
 boots and all, towards the resounding blare of trombone 
 and big drum. The conductor of the 22nd Princess 
 Sarah of Cornwall's Own Lancers was giving the 
 burgesses of Dublin the music they deserved. Adam, 
 who savoured the passion aud death of Mark Antony 
 through hearing 'When Other Lips' tootled by an 
 asthmatic drunkard on a disintegrating comet, pressed 
 the pace to where he glimpsed the redcoats in the 
 bandstand, with the conductor's wand and white 
 gloves beating the air over all. The priest was less 
 excited, though the music pleased him with its vaguely 
 familiar lilt : withal that, it might equally well have 
 been Purcell or Bach or Sullivan or Strauss, for all he 
 knew about it. Abruptly he halted, hindering Adam 
 too. ' My poor father I ' he exclaimed. 
 
 The music had leaped like a dog out of water, with 
 a shake and a splash, from a whining sentimental cadence 
 to the smart tap of a martial air, and Adam was 
 surprised to hear Father Innocent repeat, more or less 
 in connection with the orchestral accompaniment : — 
 
 'Yes, let me like a soldier fall 
 
 Upon some open plain. 
 This breast expanding to the ball, 
 To wash out every stain.' 
 
 There were tears in his eyes as he took Adam's hand 
 and moved on towards the bandstand. ' Well I remember 
 how my poor father used to sing that of an evening 
 when he came back from the office, and now he's lying 
 92 
 
The Price of Convalescence 
 
 there.' He waved his umbrella vaguely towards a wall 
 bounding the promenade, where the band played and 
 gaily dressed groups sauntered to and fro. Adam was 
 about to ask how he could be over there, as he under- 
 stood from previous reminiscences of the priest that he 
 was long since in Heaven, but Father Innocent did not 
 give him time, for, with an air of determined cheerful- 
 ness, he went on, 'And well I remember my uncle, 
 Father Dan, my mother's brother he was, saying, 
 coming back from the funeral, " If only poor Jim had 
 expanded his breast to the air instead of singing about 
 expanding it to the ball, we wouldn't be after burying 
 him now.' He was a very humorous feUow was my 
 uncle. Father Dan. He would have been a great man 
 if he hadn't been so humorous. Some of his stories 
 would make you laugh if I could remember them.' 
 
 Adam was not in the mood for humorous stories. 
 The music grew dull and distant in his ears as he 
 envisaged the blank wall that bounded the promenade. 
 'Where did you say your father is now?' he asked. 
 
 The priest lifted his hat. 'The Lord have mercy 
 on him ! I believe he is in heaven with Uncle Dan,' 
 said he, 'but his poor dust, as I tell you, lies over there 
 beyond that wall.' 
 
 ' What's over there beyond that waU ? ' Adam inquired, 
 with a frightened air. 
 
 'Come here till I show you,' answered the priest, and 
 led him up to the wall and lifted him in his arms so 
 that he just peeped over the top. ' Glasnevina Cemetery 
 it is, where we laid your dear godmother, .Miss Robinson, 
 to rest a month ago.' He Ufted his hat to add, 'May 
 she rest in peace. Amen.' 
 
 Adam echoed the Amen, shuddering convulsively. 
 Was this immense, nasty-;smelling stone-mason's yard, 
 that stretched as far as the eye could reach, in a terrible 
 monotony of ugly symbolism which turned even the 
 
 93 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 primeval figure of the cross into a vulgar ornament 
 for a rockery, that glorious garden that fronted the 
 gates of heaven? Could poor Miss or Mrs Robinson 
 rest peacefully amidst such dismal sights? . . . What 
 if, instead of getting better, he had died and been 
 laid here to lie for ever and ever until the trump of 
 Judgment Day? 
 
 A storm of questions crowded his lips to ask Father 
 Innocent, but he was too frightened . . . too frightened 
 for the answers. 'That grand round tower you see, 
 towering over all, is the O'Connell Monument, where 
 Daniel O'Connell, who liberated us all, lies buried. 
 But his heart's at Rome, where he was trying to go 
 when God stopped him at Genoa to call him to Himself.' 
 
 No generous emotion was roused in Adam's breast. 
 He only wondered why ever the liberator's body was 
 brought home all this long way, to be laid at last in 
 this slough of despond. He said no word good or 
 bad as the priest lowered him down and led him back 
 towards the bandstand. He had lost all pleasure in the 
 music and stared, scandalised, at the callousness and 
 frivolity of the redcoats, whose business it was to kill 
 people, affronting with their trumpets and drums the 
 impotence of them beyond the wall, some of whom, he 
 knew for certain, they or their brothers in arms had 
 slain. He tried to convey this thought to Father 
 Innocent, but failed and said no more. 
 
 Pained by his dogged silence, and alarmed lest he 
 should have tired him, the httle priest turned their steps 
 homeward, and Adam heaved a sigh of relief as they 
 passed the ominous evergreens and the prison-Uke 
 gateway, and saw lumbering towards them that friendly 
 giant, the tram. He longed to get back for what time 
 he might to the world of Mother Goose, where none 
 perished but the wicked, and not even they if they had 
 the good luck to have a fairy take a fancy to them. 
 94 
 
The Price of Convalescence 
 
 He felt as he thought Moses must have felt when he 
 rejoined his cheerful, if naughty companions after a 
 prolonged scolding from Jehovah. Before the tram 
 reached Dunphy's Comer he was asleep; and Father 
 Innocent staggered with him in his feeble arms down 
 Eccles Street and up the hospital steps. 
 
 ' Sure he's twice the man he was when he came here,' 
 he said to the hall porter, who graciously accepted 
 the statement as a compUment to himself and answered 
 becomingly : — 
 
 'We do our best, but it's little thanks we get for it.' 
 
 Father Innocent sighed and turned feet that ached 
 worse than Adam's had ever ached, southwards toward 
 Marlborough Street. He could afford no more trams 
 to-day. But anyhow Adam had enjoyed the band, and 
 had seen the beautiful garden where that unfortunate 
 saint, Emily Robinson, and his own good father and 
 humorous Uncle Dan, and all the rest of the faithful 
 departed were buried. What a good thing it was to 
 be lying there with your body and your soul above with 
 God! 
 
 In the hospital ward his Uttle friend was fighting 
 grimly with red ghouls to save another Adam that was 
 and was not himself, lost in the black heart of a stifling 
 dreamland, Africa. And then, as the little priest 
 prayed for him, the tumult of battle died away and 
 peace soothed the tiny brain. Father Innocent could 
 do that for others he might not do for himself. Even 
 through the night his own brain burned as his feet had 
 burned throughout the day. 
 
 95 
 
Chapter Twelve 
 
 IN DALKEY TUNNEL 
 
 The morning after his outing with Father Innocent, 
 Adam awoke in abysmal dread; for he knew that his 
 last days at the hospital were running out, and not 
 even the pride of his new boots could sustain him 
 against the thought of returning to Count Alley. Sister 
 found him wanting in tenderness for his mother. She 
 strove to waken his filial feehng, but Adam was too 
 honest to affect what he had not. 'If I were your 
 mother it would hurt me to have a little boy like you,' 
 she said. 
 
 He looked at her from under his eyeUds, and asked, 
 ' Why haven't you a little boy of any sort ? ' 
 
 She vouchsafed no reply, probably because her 
 education led her to beUeve that the question was 
 indehcate. Adam then remembered too late that 
 Father Innocent had told him that to ask any question 
 bearing on the facts of life was immodest, and he was 
 very much distressed to think that sister might hence- 
 forth regard him not merely as impudent but depraved. 
 Happily she knew far less about the matter than he. 
 It faded at once from her mind, and to his rehef, she 
 kissed him as usual when she had heard him say his 
 night prayers. 
 
 The next morning came a joyful surprise. After 
 the doctor had sounded him with more than ordinary 
 care, he exchanged a roguish glance with sister, and 
 said, ' I can see this fellow's a great humbug.' 
 96 
 
In Dalkey Tunnel 
 
 'I've been thinking that myself,' quoth sister. 
 
 'The place for him is not a hospital at all but a pirate 
 ship stopping the packet in DubUn Bay,' the doctor 
 declared. 
 
 Adam grinned appreciatively. 'Who's humbugging 
 now?' he asked. 
 
 ' Not me,' the doctor protested. ' I'm sure your proper 
 place is on the roUing main, though you needn't 
 stop the Royal Mail if you're too good a Catholic and 
 devoted to the throne. But anyhow we've arranged 
 for you to go and look at the main before embarking 
 on it, just to see how you like it, at the end of this 
 week. . . . Unless, of course,' he added deferentially, 
 'unless, of course, you'd prefer to go straight back to 
 your home?' 
 
 ' I'd rather be a pirate,' said Adam promptly, throwing 
 all scruple to the winds, though in cold blood he would 
 have shrunk from the idea. Better to hang in chains 
 in Execution Dock than repose in the bosom of his 
 family. 
 
 So he found himself on the appointed day stepping 
 into a vermiUon cab before the hospital steps. It 
 already contained two httle girls, one notably thin, 
 and an ample nun. Sister kissed him for the last time, 
 and the horse proceeded to rattle the party in the most 
 alarming fashion down bumpy Eccles Street, across the 
 Drumcondra tram Unes, past St George's Church, into 
 Gardiner's Place and Mount] oy Square, and down the 
 hill to the Custom House, and over Butt Bridge, 
 past the Tara Street Baths, into Brunswick Street, 
 and on to Westland Row Station, where the nun 
 inquired anxiously of a porter for the 2.45 train to 
 Bray. 
 
 He assured her that the two o'clock for Kingstown 
 was but just gone, so she was in good time, being 
 unencumbered with luggage save for a paper parcel 
 
 97 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 or two, to take her tickets and shepherd her party up 
 the steps to the departure platform. 
 
 They had, in fact, more than half an hour's leisure 
 to admire the architecture of the station, and the 
 triumphs of art over nature which it illustrated. To 
 Adam, who knew it only by reputation, it was vastly 
 interesting. Apart from the occasional arrival of a 
 train or the passage of a light engine, there was the 
 enduring interest of the permanent way, and above 
 all, the bay where, thanks to a strike down the Une, 
 the coaches composing the Waterford Mail were Ijdng, 
 when they ought to have been one hundred and seventeen 
 miles away, pulling themselves together for the return 
 journey. This train, made up of corridor carriages, 
 was then and is now the latest achievement of the 
 Dublin and South Eastern Railway Co. in the direction 
 of luxurious transit. Not only did Adam demonstrate 
 to his companions the marvellous construction of this 
 apparatus and certain of its advantages on trips of 
 such long duration, but he pointed out that the coach 
 at one end of the train was numbered nineteen, and 
 that at the other end was thirty-eight, and he revealed 
 to them the remarkable truth that twice nineteen was 
 thirty-eight, which the two little girls, and more par- 
 ticularly the thinner one, agreed was worthy to be 
 noted, though not more noteworthy than Adam's 
 mathematical skill, knowledge of the world, and pleasant 
 conversation. They signified their approval to the 
 nun and found she shared in it; for, unlike other little 
 boys who had led their companions into mischief by 
 playing hide-and-seek through an open door in the 
 sacred train, he had beguiled the tedium of the party 
 by purely intellectual means. 
 
 She reported to her superiors : ' He talks like a book, 
 he's as good as gold, and I think you might even leave 
 him alone with most girls.' 
 98 
 
In Dalkey Tunnel 
 
 As a matter of fact, apart from passionate dream- 
 romances, inspired by the icons in the Pro-Cathedral 
 and the figures of pretty ladies in shop windows, Adam's 
 main feeling towards the opposite sex was one of dread. 
 His godmother he had loved and the sister who nursed 
 him; but he thought of them as sexless as his mother 
 whom, even to please Father Innocent, he could not 
 bring himself to love. The girls round Count Street 
 despised him for his timidity towards themselves, and 
 took advantage of it to tease him even in the Pro- 
 Cathedral during mass. He did not mind this, once 
 the time came for him to go to Confession; for he 
 learned from Father Innocent that it is better to be 
 tormented by little girls in this world than by demons 
 in the next. 
 
 But these were nice little girls that were travelling 
 with him down to Bray ; though both were dressed in 
 a manner which indicated a rank in society above his 
 own, they were as respectful as the ladies who walked 
 with Dante. One of them was called Anastatia Fallon. 
 She was about his own age, but stunted, and talked 
 through her nose, yet he thought her the prettier of 
 the two; for she had a lovely pink complexion and curly 
 fair hair, adorned with ribbons of more than one colour. 
 The other was older than he by perhaps two years 
 or more, and taller, he feared much taUer. She was 
 very slim, and her legs, of which he saw a good deal, 
 markedly thinner even than his own. She was not so 
 gaily dressed as Miss Fallon, being in a sort of 
 mourning that had the air of permanence, nor had 
 she her obvious attractions; she was very dark, 
 with beetling brows and thick eyelashes over 
 greeny brown eyes, and long black hair like a 
 hearse horse's tail, and a sallow skin. She might 
 have attracted him had they been alone, but com- 
 pared with Miss Fallon, she seemed to him elderly 
 
 99 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 and plain. Her name, he heard with little interest, 
 was Caroline Brady. 
 
 At last the 2.45 rumbled in from over the river and 
 ten minutes packed with excitement followed as they 
 clutched their parcels and scrambled for places in a 
 third-class compartment. Then its engine snorting 
 fierily against the roof, it started laboriously to rumble 
 out again, gathering speed as it crashed over ingenious 
 catchpoints, past docks and canals and gasometers, 
 through lowly Ringsend and lordly Lansdowne Road, 
 and comfortable Sidney Parade, and abandoned Merrion, 
 and rushed headlong (to judge by the noise it made) 
 round the skirts of Dublin Bay to Blackrock. Adam 
 had never beheld the sea, and at the first doubtful 
 glimpse — for the carriage was full and he sat in the 
 middle with his back to the engine, he took the hill of 
 Howth for some misty and terrible monster of the 
 deep. It seemed odd that no one noticed the apparition 
 but himself. He feared he might be suspected of 
 cowardice if he made a fuss about it, so, pray- 
 ing that the horrific beast might be left behind 
 before they reached Bray, he said nothing, but 
 turned his eyes landward where they were com- 
 forted by the sight of the familiar Kingstown 
 tram bustling along not far from the train and 
 nearly as fast. 
 
 At Blackrock some one got out and he was able to 
 stretch his neck far enough to see, ere they ran into 
 Kingstown, that Howth Head was not a leviathan but 
 a promontory. Kingstown, he could see, was a very 
 important place ; there was more bustle and noise 
 there than at Blackrock, and almost as much as at 
 Westland Row, and an engine on another line taking 
 water, and a dull gray building with a mast in the 
 garden and a white flag with a red cross on it or some 
 other foreign device, also there were glimpses of steamers 
 100 
 
In Dalkey Tunnel 
 
 and of sailing ships with their noses cocked over the 
 wall to look at you and such other things as you might 
 see in and about the Liffey, as you gazed down it from 
 Butt Bridge, and the same smell of tarry rope and 
 bilge water, only with a fresh sea smell mixed up with 
 it. He recalled that Kingstown was the port from which 
 his semi-mythical uncle sailed to Africa. Perhaps also 
 Sir David Byron-Quinn? 
 
 Four people got out and only one got in, so the little 
 party could sit together and take their ease, and Adam 
 was now next the corner seat where sat Miss FaUon. 
 When the train jolted over the pier junction switch 
 in the cutting, he put his hand on her knee to steady 
 himself, and it felt very pleasant, but he knew that he 
 ought not to find it so, and edged away from her, 
 though not far. His face was still flushed when they 
 reached the full light of day at Sandy Cove, and he 
 had a feeling that Miss Brady looked at him as if she 
 knew what he was trying not to think of, and might 
 tell their custodian if he were so unfortunate as to 
 forget himself again. But Miss Fallon was eating 
 sweets and taking no notice of him or any one else, 
 so perhaps he had really been only dreaming in that 
 queer way he had, particularly since he had been in 
 hospital. 
 
 Leaving Sandy Cove, he perceived that they were 
 now approaching the heart of the country; there was 
 no more sign of a tram, the cuttings were no longer 
 lined with masonry but sloping grass, gemmed with 
 wild flowers and the air had a quality quite unknown 
 to him. At Glenageary two more passengers got out, 
 and at Dalkey they were left in sole possession of the 
 compartment. 
 
 Adam rose and stretched his legs. These railway 
 journeys, however full of promise of the most enthralling 
 adventure were in some ways more trying than he had 
 
 lOI 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 foreseen. He was glad to be able to move about and 
 take a peep at the great world flying past. How quiet 
 these girls were : girls never took an interest in any- 
 thing. Yet he was liking girls very much to-day, 
 particularly his travelling companions, particularly 
 Miss Fallon. He would sit right away from Miss Fallon 
 that he might be able to teU Father Innocent that he 
 really was a good boy and grateful to God for sending 
 him first to that dear hospital and afterwards to Bray; 
 that would be almost nicer, perhaps, if only there were 
 such a kind lady as sister there. The nun with them 
 now was all right, as nuns went, but she was not like 
 sister and could not be if she tried. He would never 
 want to kiss her as he kissed sister. He would hardly 
 want to kiss her at all. He would rather kiss ... he 
 must try not to think of that, though what harm was 
 thereinit after all? . . . Sister would never do anjd:hing 
 wrong, yet she had kissed him heaps of times ... he 
 thought she was going to cover him with kisses some- 
 times. . . . But he thought wrong, for she never did. 
 All this he thought as he tottered to the open window 
 at the far side of the carriage. He looked out just in 
 time to see that the train was approaching a mountain. 
 Suddenly the engine whistled and they were whirled 
 into darkness. 
 
 For a moment Adam was terrified ! He felt something 
 creeping towards him while he thought the boards below 
 him threatened to spHt beneath his feet. The thing 
 near him was human, female, Miss Fallon who had 
 come to him for protection. She had offered him none 
 of her sweets but never mind. She was close behind 
 him, he put out a hand to steady her as he had used her 
 knee a httle while since to support himself. The hand 
 slipped round her body, she was not so plump as he 
 had thought. The carriage was rocking wildly now, 
 they both rocked to and fro with it, the wheels ground 
 
 102 
 
In Dalkey Tunnel 
 
 and growled ferociously beneath their feet, no wonder 
 if she was frightened, he must make her feel that he 
 could keep her safe. She could not hear him speak, 
 though he put his head forward where he thought her 
 ear should be. He found it close to her body, kissing it. 
 He had not meant to do this, he hoped she had not felt 
 anjTthing, he tried to find her ear to explain when her 
 lips suddenly descended from quite a long way and 
 rested for an ecstatic instant upon his. . . . There was 
 a blaze of dazzhng light. The nun, screening her eyes, 
 was gazing in rapt admiration on the sea between her 
 and Bray Head, Miss Fallon was sitting opposite her 
 gnawing chocolate, and beside Adam stood Miss Brady, 
 with rather a pretty colour mantling her sallowness 
 as she stared out of the window that rushed past the 
 inland rocks. 
 
 'Come and look at Killiney Bay,' said the nun, calling 
 them over without her eyes quitting the cherished 
 view. 'Isn't it lovely?' . . . The tension was broken. 
 Adam said it was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, 
 which was quite true. And Miss Brady in a subdued 
 voice agreed with him. Miss Fallon said nothing, her 
 mouth being full of chocolate. 
 
 Then followed another station that seemed almost 
 to rise from the sea itself, but was not very busy; and 
 then the train, after a serious conversation between the 
 engine-driver and the station-master, who was perhaps 
 reproving him for coming so fast down the gradient 
 from Dalkey, puffed out mighty slowly and cautiously 
 on the single track which carried them past derelict 
 Ballybrack and the MarteUo tower, and another set 
 of bumping points, and the wreckage of prehistoric 
 colliers and a level crossing into the sought-for haven 
 of Bray. 
 
 And then there was the culminating excitement of 
 collecting the paper parcels for the last time, and Adam 
 
 103 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 clambering up on the seat to get the nun's umbrella 
 and very nearly succeeding in doing so, and the tumbling 
 off the seat into the arms of Miss Brady, and being 
 helped by her out of the train, but disengaging her hand 
 to walk across the platform for himself into the vehicle 
 that stood waiting for them there, not unlike a cab, 
 but called a 'brome,' which carried them across the 
 very rails they had travelled over in the train, and 
 bowled them gaily along the sea front (called the 
 esplanade, which gave it the delightful effect of being 
 in an entirely foreign country like Africa, only handier 
 to get at), where a band in dark green uniforms was 
 playing 'Patrick's Day in the Morning' to an assembly 
 even more fashionable, to judge from its brilliant 
 costumes, than that which he had seen taking their 
 lugubrious and deceitful pleasure in the Botanical 
 Gardens. And behind all this was the magnificent 
 background of the open sea, stretching away to Africa 
 and America, and he could not at the moment remember 
 -where else. And on it were the white sails of ships, 
 apparently motionless like the ships in the picture 
 shops, going nowhere with spreading sail to catch 
 the windless air. How lovely it all was ! more like 
 heaven than, he thought, anything on earth could 
 possibly be. 
 
 There he sat in the lordly equipage, with his back 
 to the gallant horse. Miss FaUon beside him, sweet-bag 
 in hand, and Miss Brady's knees deliciously tickhng his 
 and adding to the heavenliness of it all; while, from 
 time to time, the nun smiled upon him benignly as 
 though to thank him for being such a good Uttle 
 boy. 
 
 And he smiled back a little wanly; for, after all, 
 he had no confidence in his own virtue, and this heaven 
 was the pagan heaven of his dreams and not the tedious 
 place advertised in the holy Catechism. But he was 
 104 
 
In Dalkey Tunnel 
 
 going to be exquisitely happy in it; for, whatever it 
 was, it transcended the promise of Mother Goose's Fairy 
 Tales. The Princess Badroul Badour was a pale shade 
 compared with either Anastatia Fallon or Caroline 
 Brady, and when he found himself tucked in bed, the 
 dark of the night served but to prolong to the infinite 
 extension of dreamland the mystical hght in darkness 
 of Dalkey Tunnel. 
 
 A.D. H 105 
 
Chapter Thirteen 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 
 
 When Adam again took observation of his surroundings 
 he found that he was one of four boys in a dormitory 
 at Saint Morwenna's Convalescent Home, conducted 
 by the religious of that charitable order. The other 
 three boys, though they had the advantage of him in 
 age and social position, proved to be his inferiors in 
 intelligence, and of lower vitality, so he held his own 
 against them and found their company preferable to 
 that of his father and mother. He sought no quarrel 
 with them, though experience taught him to bafUe 
 their researches into his birth and lineage. Even those 
 in authority knew Uttle about him beyond that he 
 was a protege of a well-known physician, and that the 
 nun who brought him down from Dublin expatiated on 
 his good behaviour, a judgment borne out by every 
 evidence; for he gave less trouble than any equally 
 lively inmate of the home. This held good not only of 
 his conduct but of his health, which the sea winds 
 blew to a rich glow, and he visibly waxed in height and 
 girth. Altogether it was a pleasure to have a boy like 
 Adam, who was a credit in every way and even willing 
 to be clean. 
 
 To Adam the convalescent home, with its outlook on 
 the sea and its beeswaxed rooms full of sunshine and 
 fresh air, was a terrestrial paradise. For the joy of 
 dwelling there he faced without demur the cruel ordeal 
 of walking into the sea until it covered his knees and 
 io5 
 
The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 then dropping down in it backwards (with all its dread 
 association with his escape from drowning in Fitzwilliam 
 Square), until it covered his head and the salt water 
 bubbled in his nose and mouth, forcing a passage to his 
 inmost parts. Three days later he voluntarily jumped 
 off the springboard into four feet of tm'ning tide and 
 was rescued with difficulty, and alternately smacked and 
 kissed by the bathing woman, a lady of kind heart, but, 
 he regretfully observed, not young for her age, nor even 
 showing traces of past beauty. Within a week from 
 that he could swim several strokes, if only to escape her 
 caresses. Now that he had regular meals to support 
 his courage, he was, as his poor godmother had boasted, 
 as brave as a hon : the lion of unembroidered fact, be 
 it understood, not that of fiction, which is an unnatural 
 beast. 
 
 Even paradise, however, he found wanting in perhaps 
 the greatest joy he had been led to look for in it. The 
 morning of the first day, he saw CaroUne Brady and 
 Anastatia Fallon only at a distance. They smiled and 
 nodded to him, and he fancied Caroline was wishful to 
 speak; but to speak she had no chance. She was 
 holding herself badly this morning, as though too tall 
 for her strength, and was hollow-eyed and her saUow- 
 ness was palely green. Anastatia was certainly the 
 prettier of the two : there were only five of the girls he 
 found prettier than Anastatia. He got the chance to 
 talk to one, but timidity or unwillingness to lose his 
 reputation, or a feeling that he ought to be faithful to 
 Anastatia and Caroline, nipped desire in the bud. The 
 next day he saw Anastatia without Carohne, and, having 
 some moments' talk with her on the beach (for he was 
 already known to be trustworthy), he learned that 
 Caroline was ill. He wished to know more, but Miss 
 Fallon said nothing of interest beyond that her own 
 father was sole proprietor of a tobacconist's shop in 
 
 107 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Clarendon Street, and she had no notion where Miss 
 Brady came from but that her father was not his own 
 master, for Caroline had to get up in the morning to 
 help her mother to get his breakfast for him, as he had 
 to be somewhere long before Miss Fallon's father found 
 it necessary to inquire into the doings of the tobacco 
 world. She guessed Miss Brady's age at seventeen 
 (she had such grown-up ways), and supposed Adam 
 himself to be twelve or more, he knew so much. This 
 was flattering, but Adam, despite her generous colouring, 
 perceived that she was greedy; for, even now, with all 
 her friendliness, she offered him none of the chocolate 
 she was for ever eating. When he turned to leave her 
 she followed him, but was called back by a nun, whom 
 he heard gustily reproaching her as a 'bold, forward 
 child.' He thought her nothing of the kind, but merely 
 dull; realising now that it was only Caroline that had 
 thrilled him and not the pedr of them as he had at first 
 supposed. 
 
 He was sorry that Caroline was ill, but now that she 
 was no longer to be seen in this great healthy world of 
 sunlit greensward, weedy rock, and sand, and tumbling 
 sea, his interest in her waned, until, towards the end 
 of his term at Bray, her image sprang upon him in the 
 night and haunted him till dawn. 
 
 And then at last came doomsday, appropriately dark 
 and cloudy, with spoutings of cold rain, when he was 
 declared to be sound and whole and fit in every way 
 to be handed over for sacrifice on the parental altar 
 in the foid alley off Count Street. He bade farewell 
 to his partners in the dormitory with an emotion that 
 surprised them, for they had accounted him, despite 
 his amiability, as aloof and priggish; and seeing Miss 
 Fallon, he ran up to her and incontinently kissed her. 
 She was on the point of giving him a crack off her 
 chocolate then, had he not confused her mind by 
 io8 
 
The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 saying, 'You'll give my love to Caroline Brady, won't 
 you?' 
 
 Whereupon she replied, 'Carrie's gone long ago. 
 They couldn't keep her, she was so bad. She's maybe 
 dead by this,' and from force of habit she put the 
 chocolate intended for Adam in her own mouth. There 
 was no 'brome' to-day to beguile Adam's melancholy. 
 He was marched to the station in company of another 
 boy under a big umbrella, which a nun he did not 
 know held over them both. When they turned their 
 backs to the esplanade, at the railway crossing by the 
 station, all hope seemed left behind. The station itself 
 was wet and dismal, even their engine bumbled in 
 with a hang-dog air, and rain trickled off the carriage 
 roofs as though they mourned the fate that recalled 
 them to DubUn. 
 
 Tears of self-pity welled in Adam's eyes as they 
 puffed out from beside the hoarding that advised him 
 that he ought to carry his custom to Clery's, caught a 
 last glimpse of the hotels about the level crossing, and 
 jolted on past the backs of houses, over a bridge, and 
 so on by the lost argosies and, leaping the mouth of 
 a tiny stream he had not noticed on the downward 
 trip, on to the single track to Killiney. He had no 
 heart to look farther on the beloved sea he was leaving 
 now, he supposed, for ever, so he sat with downcast 
 eyes, his right hand on his ear and the elbow resting 
 on the window ledge. Thus conveyed to his brain, the 
 thudding of the flatted wheels beneath his feet beat 
 out a melody not to be distinguished by him from St 
 Patrick's Day, as he had heard it that first unforgettable 
 hour bowling along the sea front at Bray. Life, though 
 sad, remained of interest, almost in spite of himself. 
 
 The train stopped : Killiney. The engine drew a 
 long breath and shook itself before starting again to 
 climb up to Dalkey Tunnel. Then amidst encouraging 
 
 109 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 shouts of 'right away' and whistles great and small, 
 the stern ascent began. Adam's eyes were carried 
 seaward by a trail of smoke that ran its curly way 
 from the little headland by Sorrento away to the very 
 circle bounding the waters, for the clouds had blown 
 away for a moment and the east was blue. He found 
 it pleasant to tell himself that this smoke was from his 
 friend the Bristol boat, the only ship that had a per- 
 sonality for him, starting on that wondrous voyage 
 he would so love to make. . . . And even as he fancied 
 himself Sindbad the Sailor, avid only for maritime 
 adventure, he found himself in the darkness of Dalkey 
 Tunnel, kissing the passionate ghost of Caroline Brady. 
 
 Emerging to daylight, the nun, not altogether unob- 
 servant, wondered why he had lost his -colour, and asked 
 if he were frightened by the tunnel. He assured her he 
 was not, but, dreading a coUapse, she watched him 
 closely. It struck her that he was different from any 
 other boy of whom she had found herself in charge, 
 but failed to tell herself wherein the oddity lay. 
 Gradually his colour returned and when they reached 
 Westland Row, she felt justified in allowing him to travel 
 on alone to Tara Street, while she brought the other 
 boy to his home on the south side. 
 
 Even the increasing volume of the railway traffic 
 as they approached the metropolis could not cheer 
 Adam's foundered spirits, and, though he had often 
 dreamed of the day when he might hope to look down 
 on Westland Row and Brunswick Street from the 
 railway bridges, to-day he forgot to attempt to 
 do so. At Tara Street he climbed slowly out of 
 the carriage and descended among the pillars sup- 
 porting that sOul-devastating edifice, as if descending 
 into his sepulchre. 
 
 How gray, how greasy, how joylessly noisy the 
 streets were ! How ugly Butt Bridge ! How heavy 
 no 
 
The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 with disillusion the railway viaduct ! How bleak the 
 colouring of the Custom House ! And how disappointing 
 of the Bristol boat to be lying there in front of it, when 
 his one agreeable thought that day, save the mad, 
 bad thought of Caroline in the tunnel, had sailed in 
 her out across the bay to the only certain glory of the 
 unknown. Even that Garden of Eden called Bray 
 had serpents lurking in its undergrowth. Caroline 
 Brady had been expelled for being too ill, and he for 
 being too well. And worse was their fate than the 
 first Adam's and his Eve's; for they had not known 
 the full savour of any fault, nor had they now the 
 solace of each other's company. 
 
 Company? . . . Would he ever have the mysterious 
 Carohne's again? If she were in her grave would he 
 willingly join her there? . . . What sort of a thing 
 was a grave when you looked inside it? Would it 
 matter what it was hke if only she were there with 
 him too? . . . Surely not, nothing could matter at 
 all, he thought, if only he could be with Caroline Brady. 
 ... He turned aside at the northern end of Butt 
 Bridge to contemplate the waters that drowned Fan 
 Tweedy. ... If only they had been rising, with the 
 tide fresh and green from the sea ! But the current 
 was running out, muddy as the gutters of Marlborough 
 Street. . . . 
 
 Besides even in death with all its risks, he could not 
 count on finding CaroUne again . . . perhaps she was 
 stiU alive. She was very ill, said that other girl, but 
 that did not say she was dead. He had been very ill 
 a few weeks ago, yet here he was now, feeUng more 
 alive than he had ever felt before. On the other hand, 
 there was Miss or Mrs Robinson. Father Innocent 
 had spoken of her iUness much as Anastatia Fallon 
 had spoken of CaroUne Brady's, and she had died right 
 enough and been buried in that awful place beyond 
 
 III 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 the wall at the Botanies. Adam shuddered at the 
 thought of Caroline lying there, of l3dng there himself, 
 even beside her; better to be carried on these muddy 
 waters out to sea. But if the sea held not Caroline, 
 what then? ... It all seemed hopeless, except that 
 he felt himself alive and weU, so very much alive, so 
 very well. On the whole he wanted to be alive, but 
 he did not want to be well, he wanted to be ill, and 
 enjoy again the past eight weeks, the only weeks of his 
 life that had been worth living. 
 
 A sickening crash against the right side of his head 
 wakened him from his reverie. His father towered 
 above him, an empty pipe in his mouth; very drunk 
 was he and livid with rage. ' Is this where I find you, 
 my fine fellow?' he roared, "when you ought to be off 
 out working for your Uving. Was it to be idle I bred 
 you, was it?' . . . 
 
 A blow on the left cheek followed. Adam made a 
 frantic plunge for freedom at any price, towards the 
 water's edge; but a third blow stopped him, and as 
 he yet reeled under it, a fourth drove him back towards 
 Count Street as sheep are driven towards the North 
 Circular Road. 
 
 So was Adam welcomed home. 
 
 iia 
 
chapter Fourteen 
 
 THE ABBEY THEATRE 
 
 According to our lights, we do not see it to be the 
 province of the artist to paint in detail the merely 
 sordid. It is his duty to realise the worst for himself, 
 but he must be careful how he allows that dread know- 
 ledge to colour his narrative, lest he suffer his reader 
 to see the broad ocean of life as a mere whirlpool of 
 despair. If his experience lead him so to regard it, 
 let him cherish the logic of silence, and refrain from 
 adding another stone to the monument of nothingness. 
 He that despairs is logically dead: if he live, his life 
 is a farce and the expression of his opinions an 
 impertinence. 
 
 It is unnecessary to pursue Adam to the family rat- 
 hole off Count Street, where his good mother awaited 
 him, to point with her tongue the moral lesson crudely 
 outhned by his father's fists. On one excuse or another, 
 he had idled two months of the best season of the year 
 and Uved on the fat of the land; while his father's 
 affairs had been going from bad to worse, so that he 
 might be sitting drinking porter all day for all the 
 tailoring he had to do. To prove that this was no 
 overstatement of the possibiUties of the case, he did 
 so most days. Consequently of his stock-in-trade 
 barely a pair of shears remained unpawned or unclaimed 
 by creditors. It was now for Adam promptly to set 
 to work, to restore the house his father was pulling 
 about their ears. 
 
 "3 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Whether Mrs Macfadden really believed a child of 
 Adam's age could perform this miracle was not definitely 
 stated by her, but she was wroth with him for leaving 
 her so long alone with her husband, who now vented 
 on her all the cruelty and suspicion the main burden 
 of which had for some years been borne by her son. 
 She could no longer come and go without question, 
 every movement was watched. She could not count 
 even on drunkenness keeping him quiet, for alcohol 
 was distilled in Malachy's liver less into intoxication for 
 his limbs than rage for his heart. One night he caught 
 her coming out of a public-house : forbidden ground 
 for her unless in his company or on his errands. A 
 terrible scene followed, so bad that she would have 
 left him altogether but for sheer laziness and a super- 
 stitious dread of the consequences. It was better to 
 hve with Macfadden than to be killed by him, for he 
 was one of those proud men who would rather be 
 hanged for killing their wives than acknowledge the 
 precedence of another in their wives' affections. 
 
 In this particular Mr Macfadden justly claimed all 
 the finest feelings of a gentleman; but his wife, though 
 she bowed to his will, deeming death the worst of all 
 evils, despised the man for his foolishness in expecting 
 her to find him money for drink when she dared not 
 go where she might earn it. He had come to persuade 
 himself that it was Adam who of late had made the 
 money that kept them; at all events he refused to see 
 where else it came from. It saved her some degree of 
 persecution to agree that things would be all right 
 when Adam was back at work again. 
 
 So once again Adam went selling papers outside the 
 Gresham Hotel, and, with his decenter appearance and 
 greater knowledge of hfe, drove a better trade than 
 any of the other boys, honest or otherwise; and drove 
 it too, without exciting their ill will; for any special 
 114 
 
The Abbey Theatre 
 
 windfalls he shared with his friends Patsy Doyle and 
 Big Finegan, or even others with less claim upon him, 
 if he thought them decent fellows and out of luck. 
 Simultaneously, whether through his exertions or not, 
 the fare at Mr Macfadden's table improved and his 
 most essential implements were released from pawn; 
 so that he was able to execute, in his fashion, an order 
 that opportunely arrived. 
 
 Now this order was for a sort of light coloured long 
 cloth coat, the sort of thing a gentleman of sporting 
 taste, not too professedly a sportsman, might wear at 
 a race meeting; and one might think that it showed 
 Mr Macfadden had still some chance of making his way 
 in the sartorial world. But there was a fly in the 
 ointment; for the order was given by Mr O'TooIe, who 
 had somehow got on in the world, while Mr Macfadden 
 was drifting so far backwards that he could no longer 
 afford to reject advances even from him. 
 
 The coat was finished and damned by Mr 'Toole 
 with faint praise; but it was paid for, and being paid 
 for, proved to be Mr Macfadden's last artistic triumph; 
 for it provided him with a whole golden sovereign and 
 some shillings to drink, and what could Mr Macfadden 
 do with the money of that dirty though victorious dog 
 of a B5nron O'Toole but drink it? Adam was present 
 at the discussion between his parents as to the appor- 
 tionment of this money. His mother said that the 
 sovereign must go in rent. His father answered briefly, 
 ' Rentmiyelbo ! ' and stumbled downstairs. He had 
 already been drinking then; but Adam thought nothing 
 of that; for he never saw him now that he had not been 
 drinking, the moment drink was to be had. 
 
 Besides, Adam was full of himself to-day, for it was 
 his ninth birthday, and he had determined, though the 
 sky fail, to treat himself to the Pictures at the Rotundo. 
 This last year Father Innocent's influence on him had 
 
 "5 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 been weeikened by the freethought of the streets, though 
 he had lost nothing of the boy's respect for his saintly 
 character; and Adam though he knew it not, was 
 passing through a phase of Hedonism. Little cared he 
 whether his father was drunk or sober, so long as he 
 did not interfere with him. He even found himself 
 laughing contemptuously to see his great body go 
 floundering and lurching up Cotmt Street in front of 
 him, as though the devil were driving from behind rather 
 than luring from ahead. It was nearly an hour past 
 sunset and the public-houses were lighting up. One 
 of them was called Clarence Mangan's, and he knew 
 his father never went there now, having quarrelled 
 with the manager, Adam knew not why. As he expected, 
 Mr Macfadden shambled past it, then suddenly stopped, 
 pulled off his hat to scratch his head, and, giving Adam 
 barely time to flee out of his way across the street, 
 turned back and went in. 
 
 Adam's mind was cleared of all hankering for the 
 Pictures by a scream that followed instantly, as his 
 mother burst out through the public-house doors, as 
 one shot from a cannon, her face bruised and bleeding, 
 and his father hot on her track clouting her as he had 
 clouted Adam all the way home from Butt Bridge, 
 only with a more rabid violence and the greater ease in 
 as much as he could hit straighter from the shoulder 
 without leaning down. In the background hovered a 
 rather well-dressed man, babbling mUdly, 'But aU the 
 same, you know, there's no call to do that.' 
 
 For once Mr Macfadden refrained from his usual form 
 of repartee. He seemed to be sparing his breath, that 
 he might drive his wife with the greater force before 
 him, and stagger after her with the closer resentment. 
 Just once he threw the white of his eye over his shoulder 
 at the man, who thereupon walked off as fast as he 
 could go, and in the direction opposite to that of the 
 ii6 
 
The Abbey Theatre 
 
 Macfaddens. Adam's instinct was to do the same, 
 leaving his parents once more to fight out their quarrel 
 without allowing himself to be made a whipping boy 
 for either; but a shriek from the alley down which 
 they had disappeared called him, as he thought no 
 word of hers could call him to his mother's help. He 
 bounded towards the sound like a young wild cat and 
 came up with the pair as they were struggling at the 
 hall door of the house in which they Uved. His mother's 
 shawl had somehow caught in the railing, and she clung 
 there helplessly, while his father battered her with 
 his blows, which he directed now on her body with 
 sickening thuds as though the bones were breaking 
 beneath her thick flesh. 
 
 ' Help ! ' she cried hoarsely. ' Murder, he's meaning 
 to kill me.' 
 
 'And if I am that,' roared her husband, 'I'd like to 
 see the one that's going to offer to help you.' And 
 indeed there was no offer; for though many windows 
 were thrown up and much interest shown, what was 
 there after all to do? It was only Macfadden beating 
 his wife. Every one knew why. 
 
 But to Adam it was a battle cry : the cry of that 
 woman, who, for good or evil, had given him hfe and 
 now was in fear of losing her own: for Macfadden he 
 had no feeling but hatred, contempt, and savage terror: 
 terror so great that he dared not revenge his own 
 wrongs. But to save his mother he would face 
 Macfadden and the devil too. Without a thought of 
 his own danger he rushed upon him and struck the 
 only blow that can avail a child against a man : with 
 his stoutly booted right foot in the pit of his father's 
 stomach. 
 
 There was a roar of deUght, mixed with religious 
 disapproval, from the denizens of Count Alley, as Mr 
 Macfadden went for an instant to earth, in a stupor 
 
 117 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 of drink, rage, and pain. Then he rose to his largest 
 self with a yeU : ' Bloody parricide ! ' he bellowed; 
 'let me do for him first and that rollicking mother of 
 his after.' 
 
 But he was confronted by the closed and bolted 
 hall door; for Adam (become in his own brain Jack 
 the Giant-Killer) had torn his mother's shawl from the 
 railing and pushed her through to the foot of the stairs, 
 then turned and closed the way behind them, ere Mr 
 Macfadden had recovered from the first shock of the 
 assault. He flung himself against it and it threatened 
 coUapse. Upstairs Adam, hearing the great weight batter 
 against it, recalled how Sindbad (following Ulysses) had 
 disabled the monster who ate his companions, and thrust 
 the poker in the fire : the rage of the man below was 
 at a heat less white and blasting than his own. Here 
 was not only hate, but hate fed with imagination, that 
 flung all cosmos into the fray. But he was not called 
 by fate to do execution on the ruf&an whose name he 
 bore. 
 
 The landlord, or more likely his deputy, for he had 
 a heav3nveight prizefighter's nose, thrust an impressive 
 head up from the area. ' That'll do you now, that'll do 
 you. Lave my dure alone ! ' 
 
 ' Duremiyelbo ! ' Mr Macfadden bellowed back at him 
 with a splendid gesture of defiance; but pain and 
 surprise had sobered him enough to realise that his 
 ship was almost on the rocks; for although you may 
 trounce your wife and children in Count Street to your 
 heart's content, property there has rights as sacred as 
 in Merrion Square. A policeman, who had ignored the 
 screams of Mrs Macfadden as merely harmless local 
 colour, suddenly sailed into the alley. Making himself 
 look as big as possible, he bore down on Mr Macfadden. 
 
 'What's all this about?' he demanded, twirling his 
 moustache, the better to conceal an irrepressible 
 ii8 
 
The Abbey Theatre 
 
 twitching of his Ups, as he realised the lighting form of 
 the beast he had to do with. 'What's all this, my 
 man? Not in trouble, I hope. ... No drink taken, 
 eh?' 
 
 The tailor's eye slowly measured the policeman 
 from head to foot, and a sly merriment glittered in it, 
 as he reflected that he could kiU him with one sledge- 
 hammer blow not far from the place where he himself 
 still smarted from his son's foot; but he had the Castle 
 behind him and maybe a sergeant or two waiting round 
 the corner, so there was no good in that. Mr Macfadden 
 was determined that his charity should begin nearer 
 home. He thrust his pipe with an abrupt movement 
 in his mouth and produced a matchbox. Then at last, 
 with leering deference, he made answer. 
 
 'Sure some one's been humbugging you, sergeant 
 dear. It's little trouble we ever have down here. There's 
 no rough element in Count Alley.' 
 
 The sergeant gained false confidence from this 
 disclaimer. 'WiU you tell me now that I didn't hear 
 the voice of a female raised aloud and catch you mis- 
 handhng that door with your boots?' he demanded. 
 
 'Ah, sure, not at aU,' retorted the tailor. 'If you 
 wiU want me to advise you about my family business 
 wasn't I just for belting my young bastard for turning 
 against his ma, and he up and banged the door in my 
 face, there, so that I slipped and fell, and wasn't I fool 
 enough getting up to hit it a kick, thinldng that was 
 the easiest way to open it with my hand hurted in the 
 fall. And then this gentleman objected, as he had a 
 right to, seeing that it's his duty to see the property 
 is not deteriorated, and thinking that by mischance 
 I might kick it off the hinges.' His eye sought and found 
 the policeman's. ' I do kick cruel hard, sergeant, that's 
 my misfortune, and that's a fact.' 
 
 The policeman's hand flew from his moustache to the 
 
 119 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 chain of his whistle. ' I hope it's the truth you're telling 
 me now?' he blustered. 
 
 Mr Macfadden laughed in his face. 'As if I'd tell 
 a grand man like yourself a bloody lie !' He waved 
 his hand with the pipe in it towards the now crowded 
 windows. 'Ask all these ladies and gentlemen whether 
 I'm the man to tell you a bloody lie.' 
 
 'Not so much language, my man,' growled the 
 policeman, anxious with the knowledge that he was 
 losing control of the situation. 
 
 ' Languagemiyelbo ! ' retorted Mr Macfadden, with a 
 sudden recrudescence' of triumphant drunkenness, 
 calling on him to draw blood then and there. The 
 audience strained forward thinking now that for the 
 honour of his cloth the policeman must surely try to 
 take him. The weights were not unequal, the constable 
 was sober, and if the tailor had the greater strength 
 and the longer reach, the policeman had his baton, if 
 only Macfadden was not too quick to let him draw it. 
 They could see that he was doubting whether he would 
 draw baton or whistle first, and that something desperate 
 in the leering face above the limp but muscular body 
 kept him inert. He dared not make himself ridiculous 
 in the sight of all by calling for help before he was 
 touched or even directly threatened by the drunken 
 tailor. So they stood at bay, the policeman, as the 
 onlookers were rejoiced for no defined reason to observe, 
 in the less dignified attitude of challenge. At last Mr 
 Macfadden, with the open insolence of victory cheaply 
 won, went on, 'As I was saying, when you interrupted 
 me, inspector dear, these ladies and gentlemen will tell 
 you that I'm the amibelest fellow in Dublin and never 
 kilt a bobby yet, and wouldn't unless I was conthraried. 
 And I'm off now to drink your honour's health in a 
 drop of Guinness at my own expense, just to show I'm 
 not a bit offended at all at all with you for staring at 
 
 120 
 
The Abbey Theatre 
 
 me as hard as if I was a bloody woman from round the 
 corner that you'd maybe get the better of if she'd let 
 you.' He touched his hat and strode past him and away 
 with a firm enough step, amidst roars of laughter at 
 the discomfiture of the policeman. 
 
 The latter, determined to have the last word as the 
 only possible step towards the recovery of his prestige, 
 called after him, 'I can smell the druik on you from 
 here.' But Mr Macfadden replied merely with a gesture 
 which did not necessitate the turning of his head, and 
 disappeared. Thereupon the constable stepped out 
 briskly with the air of being about to do great things 
 round the corner, but was careful on reaching it to 
 pretend to see him escaping in the direction which he 
 had not taken. And that policeman had acted for the 
 best in his own interests; had he crossed Mr Macfadden 
 further to-night he would have sacrificed himself on 
 the altar of duty, and few policemen feel their wages 
 to be high enough to support this altruism. 
 
 Though on fire with drink and not to be stayed alive 
 by the arm of the law, Malachy Macfadden walked 
 circumspectly now. He was not looking for vulgar 
 trouble, rather was he on his guard against its surprising 
 him while he bent his mind on higher things. He was 
 thinking how soon it would be possible to go back and 
 visit with certainty and free from all chance of inter- 
 ference upon his wife and son, his wife and her son, 
 heaven's wrath for their conspiracy in witchcraft and 
 rebellion. He besought his special Providence (for he 
 was a damnably devout man and never more so than 
 when he felt the emotions which we are taught belong 
 to God alone), to tell Him, as between master and 
 servant, if there had ever been such a Christian martyr 
 as himself. And his special Providence, made in his 
 own image, assured him there was not; so his case 
 called for special judgment such as the common law 
 
 A.D. I 121 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 does not provide. His rage was directed mainly against 
 his wife; for he could not imagine the meek and futile 
 Adam, fit only to sell newspapers, venturing of his 
 own accord to stand against him. He blamed her at 
 once for two deadly if incompatible crimes : firstly 
 that she had inspired his own son to rise in open 
 insurrection against him, and secondly for being the 
 mother of this son whom he saw now not to be his. 
 ' It was she that learned her bastard to kick his own da,' 
 he mumbled, as he strode. ' It was she that learned him 
 to kick his da where he did. Faix, I'U kick her where 
 she'll never bear another bastard ! ' and his eye saw 
 the room where Adam was bom strewn with his mother's 
 gore. 
 
 These are hungry thoughts for a strong man. He 
 went into a tavern on the quay and ate and drank, 
 without allowing himself to get more drunk, then he 
 swung into the street and crossed Butt Bridge, with a 
 notion of finding on the south side some place of enter- 
 tainment other than a pubhc-house. The music halls 
 he tried were full, or those in charge of them said so 
 to Mr Macfadden, perceiving him to be approaching 
 that happy state. Attracted by a placard in Hawkins 
 Street announcing Mr Oswald Onsin's London Company 
 in the enormous success from the Grand Theatre, 
 London : ' What Rot,' by Oswald Onsin, ' Produced 
 by Oswald Onsin,' he lumbered to the gallery pay-box 
 of the Theatre Royal and demanded ' sixpennyworth 
 of your bloody rot,' but the checktaker at the top of 
 the stairs, supported by a policeman, decUned to admit 
 him, and, receiving back his money, he retired under 
 cover of a fire of epigrams in which the name of the 
 advertised author of the play became Mr Oscar Miyelbo. 
 He was the more provoked because at the very bottom 
 of the gallery steps was exhibited a most intriguing 
 picture of a lady wearing a tall hat and pyjamas, 
 
 122 
 
The Abbey Theatre 
 
 pursued by a gentleman in a frilly nightdress. Above 
 this picture were printed boldly the words, "What Rot,' 
 and beneath: 'Who can stop It?' And as he gazed 
 on it the great heart of that patriotic Irishman, Malachy 
 Macfadden, was conscious of a feeling in common with 
 the great heart of the British public; he would, however, 
 have denied it. 
 
 He wandered on into Brunswick Street to see what 
 was doing at the Queen's. It was closed, so he turned 
 back again and crossed Butt Bridge and Beresford 
 Place. There was a crowd there, a very modest one, 
 listening to a short man with a black moustache who 
 addressed them from the steps of Liberty Hall, using 
 language not in Mr Macfadden's vocabulary. So Mr 
 Macfadden just roared ' Libert3niuyelbo ! ' at him and 
 passed on into Abbey Street. . . . There on his left 
 hand he caught sight of yellow bUls, such as those 
 which had attracted Adam's curiosity many months 
 before. They stood outside a building he still remem- 
 bered as the Morgue. He used to go there often when 
 he was a lad, to see the coroner's jury sitting on saUors 
 and women dragged out of the river, or murdered down 
 the quayside as far as the North Wall. Once he had 
 been called in as a juryman himself, as he was passing 
 by on urgent business, going to back Father O'Flynn 
 for the Grand National, no less, that had cost him 
 thirty-five shilhngs or more, and all to sit on a blasted 
 baby that had been dug out of a sewer tmder Mecklen- 
 burg Street. What fools men were ! How they wasted 
 their time and other people's money ! Now the place 
 was turned into a queer sort of theatre, not a real theatre 
 hke the Queen's, where you could see a railway engine 
 running over a policeman, or the British Army scuttling 
 for life from a patriot in a green tie, but where they 
 spouted like street peachers and see-sawed with their 
 hands. He remembered once on a Bank Holiday, seeing 
 
 123 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 the word, 'Kincora' on the bills. He was with two 
 other fellows who had a sup taken and they all thought 
 Kincora must be about a lad drinking Mooney's whisky, 
 and either getting funny on it or going grand and mad, 
 so they all paid sixpence each and went in. But sure 
 it was nothing of the kind. The place was as dismal 
 as a methody chapel and not a soul scarcely in it but 
 an old Protestant clerg3anan asleep in the stalls. As 
 for the play, you coiidn't make head or tail of it, 
 except that the leading character let on to be called 
 King Brian Boru, and talked as if he were tipsy, but 
 he said nothing about drinking Kincora; and the whole 
 thing being obviously a fraud, at the end of the first 
 act they threatened to wreck the theatre unless they 
 got their money back, and so came away and spent 
 their sixpences on real Kincora in Marlborough Street, 
 
 But the placard now in front of him was different. 
 That said, 'The Playboy of the Western World.' He 
 scratched his head to think. He seemed to remember 
 hear tell that was an immoral play, a play insulting 
 to religion and decency, that had been hissed off the 
 stage years ago. He was almost sure some one had 
 told him that (perhaps it was Emily Robinson, she 
 knew everything, the Lord have mercy on her !) when 
 Adam was just old enough to carry the jug to the public 
 bar. Was it possible they had the impudence to put 
 it on the stage again after Marlborough Street had 
 declared against it? He knew he had heard of some- 
 thing grossly indecent in it, but he could not recall 
 what it was, being a bit moidered by the drink and the 
 contrariness of everj^hing to-night ... he was curious 
 to know was this really the same play ... he fumbled 
 six coppers out of his pocket and went in. 
 
 Rotten hole the Abbey Theatre, you couldn't swing 
 a cat in it, and yet not half full. How did they make 
 it pay? Was it subsidised from Dubhn Castle to corrupt 
 124 
 
The Abbey Theatre 
 
 the people? The audience dotted about were mostly 
 young men, reading books or papers, without a spark 
 of excitement in them. They didn't seem to care if 
 the curtain never went up. Mr Macfadden was the 
 old enthusiastic style of playgoer : he stamped for 
 thirteen minutes until the orchestra came in, and quieted 
 him with familiar airs, he dozed a Uttle until they 
 ceased, and then stamped, hke a giant refreshed, until 
 the curtain at last rose. The play was not at all what 
 he had been led to expect : two gentlemen and a lady 
 in queer old clothes talked gibberish to each other 
 as politely as if they lived in Rathmines. One of them 
 was called Robert Emmet, but he was no more hke 
 the Robert Emmet that lived in Mr Macfadden's 
 spiritual world, than was the Brian Boru of 'Kincora' 
 hke Mr Macfadden's Brian Boru, that was done to 
 death by Strongbow on Mud Island. The whole story 
 might have been 'Kincora' over again, only for trifUng 
 differences in the costumes and scenery, and the presence 
 of a queer sort of piano-organ that played 'Let Erin 
 Remember,' when there was no one near enough to 
 lay hand or foot on it. Then Robert Emmet burst 
 out crying because it wouldn't let him get a word in 
 edgeways and the curtain came down. 
 
 'Is that tripe what you call "The Playboy of the 
 Western World"?' Mr Macfadden shouted to the 
 nearest group of young men. 
 
 They laughed shyly, and one of them, consulting 
 his programme, answered that it was called 'An 
 Imaginary Conversation!' 
 
 ' Conversationmiyelbo,' cried Mr Macfadden. 'I 
 paid my money to see " The Playboy of the Western 
 World," and if they can't show me that I'U take it 
 somewhere there's a bit of fun.' 
 
 'If you wait long enough you'll see the " Playboy " 
 all right,' they answered, and gradually sidled farther 
 
 125 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 from him, not fancying his truculent tone. So he led 
 off with his heels again and kept at it, orchestra or no 
 orchestra, until he fell asleep and snored solidly 
 through the first and second acts. But the clatter 
 of the last act woke him and he gazed around resent- 
 fully. 
 
 'What the hell is all this hullabaloo?' he demanded 
 in a voice that drowned the simulated bass of old 
 Christy Mahon. But the actors, inured to interruption, 
 took no notice nor halted in the wild business of the 
 tragic farce. Mr Macfadden was enthralled: half a 
 dozen men were holding another down that had his 
 teeth buried in yet another's calf, and a young girl 
 was trying to get at one or other of them with a pair 
 of red-hot tongs. Mr Macfadden clapped his hands: he 
 had never seen anything half so good on the stage 
 before. A fellow in a nightshirt chasing a girl in 
 pyjamas was poor fun compared with this. 'There's a 
 bit of humour for you,' he called delightedly to his 
 neighbours, who affected not to hear but huddled 
 still farther away. Louder grew the riot on the stage, 
 overwhelming at last even his approving voice, and he 
 gazed ^ellbound, forgetful even of his injured honour. 
 Then suddenly there was a hush : a half animal form 
 crawled in from the back of the scene, reared up, and 
 revealed a hairy monster of a man with a clotted 
 bandage round his skull. Mr Macfadden gathered that 
 he was the father of the young lad with the nippy 
 teeth, the others were holding down and the girl going 
 to bum with the tongs. Mr Macfadden was annoyed 
 with him as a kill- joy, and hissed and hooted, but still 
 the actors went on acting imperturbably : no one there 
 or in the audience took the smallest notice of him. It 
 was maddening in itself for so big a man to be ignored. 
 . . . But a moment later he could stand it no longer; 
 for the young lad was no sooner released from his 
 126 
 
The Abbey Theatre 
 
 captors, at his father's instance, than he turned on 
 the latter and drove him with violence off the stage. 
 
 This was the last straw. Mr Macfadden leaped on to 
 his seat and howled at the top of his voice, 'I call the 
 Almighty to witness that this play is a bloody scandal 
 to good Cathohcs. . . . Playboymiyelbo ! Playboy- 
 miyelbo ! ' But still the performance went on, until 
 against his own roar he could hear the girl shrieking 
 as though it were a personal matter between her and 
 himself which should have the last word : ' My grief 
 I've surely lost him now, the only playboy of the 
 Western World ! ' And the curtain fell amidst applause 
 chiefly intended to smother Mr Macfadden's language. 
 
 The audience drifted out. Mr Macfadden, shearing 
 half a dozen of the Intelligentsia of DubUn out of his 
 way, swept into the vestibule. He found there a very 
 little man struggUng into his overcoat. Mr Macfadden 
 descended on him with clenched fists. 
 
 'I want to see the author of that scandalous play,' 
 he cried. 
 
 'The first or second? ' asked the little man wearily. 
 
 'The man that wrote the Playboy. That's the lad I 
 want.' 
 
 The little man looked at a cab which stood with open 
 door awaiting him. ' Is it urgent ? ' he asked. 
 
 'Urgent's the word,' returned Mr Macfadden. 'I 
 want to knock his head off.' 
 
 'I see,' said the little man, with the condescending 
 humility of a shop walker. 'There's no time to be 
 lost.' 
 
 'There is not,' answered Mr Macfadden in a tone 
 which implied that the httle man's head might be 
 found to serve his immediate purpose. 'Be quick and 
 teU me now where I'll find him.' 
 
 'Mount Jerome,' answered the little man promptly. 
 'Take the Harold's Cross tram from the Pillar.' He 
 
 127 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 stepped briskly past Mr Macfadden into his cab, and 
 as it was moving off opened the window to add, 'You 
 needn't be afraid of his hitting you back. But you'll 
 want a pick-axe or you'll break your nails.' 
 . 'Is it a corpse you want me to kill, you snot ?' 
 
 Mr Macfadden sprang forward to splinter the cab 
 about its occupant's ears, but crashed in his blind 
 rage into the lamp post to which he held, kicking it 
 impotently. Then he dived thirstily across the road 
 into a public-house and drank there until closing time. 
 All caution had fallen from him when he came out. 
 He was as bereft of reason as the bull goaded by spear 
 and bandillero to charge the matador. Yet his soul 
 was possessed of a notion of outrageous joy : to avenge 
 all his manifold wrongs at one fell swoop upon the 
 naughty world. Earlier in the evening, when com- 
 paratively sober, he had thought mainly of the wrongs 
 he had to avenge upon his wife; then in the theatre he 
 realised from the sight of the action upon the stage, 
 the still greater enormity of Adam's offence; and now 
 in the first stages of delirium tremens, a yet more 
 provoking image rose before him : the handsome 
 whiskered, sniggering Mr Byron O'Toole, with his 
 fantastic claim to be a gentleman of blood and his fatal 
 fascination for the merry wives of Marlborough Street. 
 He would pay for presuming to patronise Mr Malachy 
 Macfadden with his dirty custom. First of all Mr Mac- 
 fadden would deal with him. Then no one could say 
 that he swung for a woman and child and let the man 
 who was the cause of all go free. 
 
 It wanted half an hom: of midnight as he hurried, 
 straight enough for all the drink he carried, swinging 
 his heavy hands up Marlborough Street. There was 
 little light in Mountjoy Court and the hall door was 
 closed. He lit his pipe and waited, patiently smoking, 
 until the stroke of midnight from St George's bells, 
 128 
 
The Abbey Theatre 
 
 when a woman opened it to come out. Hp gave her a 
 confident 'God save ye,' as though an inmate, and 
 passed through, closed the door behind him and found 
 himself in pitch darkness. By the light blown from his 
 pipe he climbed as softly as he could the great welled, 
 dilapidated staircase, the timber squelching under his 
 heavy weight. Towards the top floor where, despite 
 the improvement in his position, Mr O'Toole still 
 modestly elected to live, the flooring was so rotten he 
 had to strike a match to evade disaster. When reassured 
 as to his surroundings he blew it out, waited to take 
 his breath after the cUmb, and then tried the door : 
 it was fastened, but he could see a dim Ught within. 
 He tapped as gently as his iron fingers would allow. 
 There was no answer. He tapped again, louder. 
 
 A woman's voice called faintly, as one who wishes 
 no reply : 'Who's there?' 
 
 He said nothing but tapped again, louder. 
 
 'What do you want? ' asked the timid voice. 
 
 'Mr Byron O'Toole is wanted,' he answered, hoarse 
 with the effort to mufiie his tone and struggle against 
 the vapours bursting through his brain. 
 
 The voice came more than ever hesitantly, 'Who 
 wants him?' 
 
 Mr Macfadden's voice took it upon itself to answer, 
 'Emily Robinson,' and Mr Macfadden hearing, realised 
 that he was mad drunk and could no longer disguise it. 
 He heard a frantic whispering inside and knew for 
 certain that his enemy was there cornered so that he 
 could not escape; for Malachy was not the man to be 
 stopped by a lodging house door. ... He spat on his 
 hands and took a fresh grip of the door handle. The 
 whole floor of the house trembled with his nervous 
 rage. The voice from within came in awestruck accents. 
 'What are you saying about Emily Robinson? Sure 
 isn't she dead and buried?' 
 
 129 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'Never mind if she is that,' answered Mr Macfadden, 
 laughing at his own humour. ' She sent me for O'Toole.' 
 
 There was a scream in the question, 'Who are you 
 at all?' 
 
 Then he thundered through the door, 'TeU O'Toole 
 I'm Macfadden, come to call him to my wife and Emily 
 Robinson and Fan Tweedy, and all his other mops in hell.' 
 
 There was a scuttling inside and the sound of a 
 window thrown open, while Macfadden's pressure 
 threatened to start the panels of the door. The woman's 
 voice broke forth in a despairing waU. 'Sure Mr 
 O'Toole has never been in here this night. . . . For 
 Christ's sake go away now.' 
 
 ' Christmiyelbo ! ' answered Mr Macfadden, as a final 
 challenge to his enemies, and, stepping back to throw 
 his full weight against the door, dropped his heel in the 
 crunibling wood, waved his mighty arms vainly to 
 recover his balance, toppled through the broken balus- 
 trade, and fell, bounding and rebounding from side to 
 side of the handsomely welled staircase, until he 
 reached the hall four floors below. His ghost may rise 
 to haunt our pages still, but his body rested there. 
 
 So perished Malachy Macfadden, a victim to his 
 environment and the system of government that 
 created it. We do not state his case as one of Ireland's 
 wrongs : thousands of Macfaddens under other names 
 smell no sweeter in London, Liverpool, Newcastle, 
 Glasgow, or where you please, from Plymouth to 
 Aberdeen. And our Mr Macfadden had a privilege 
 not shared by aU; for the next day Father Innocent 
 knelt by his bier and prayed piteously to*God for the 
 soul of his poor brother. It is easy to beUeve that so 
 long as there be Innocents to pray for them, the 
 Macfaddens need not fear eternal damnation, but who 
 is so good a Catholic as to desire the pleasure of their 
 company in heaven? 
 130 
 
Chapter Fifteen 
 
 MR MACFADDEN'S LAST PROGRESS 
 
 Mrs Macfadden's mind had the limitations of a lusty 
 body, bred in darkness by bodies that for generations 
 had forgotten the light. One must not say she could 
 not live out of this darkness, but it is doubtful if she 
 would have been any the happier for it. Yet even her 
 blackness had been more atramentous for the companion- 
 ship of Malachy Macf adden : the dark of her mind was 
 not so pitchy that she was unconscious of the shadow 
 he had thrown upon it. Whatever tenderness hngered 
 in her once sordidly passionate and now soured and 
 twisted nature was roused to show itself that night 
 Adam saved her life: as well she knew, from the brutish 
 sot she had so rashly married longer ago than she 
 clearly recalled. Even in her abasement of terror, she 
 felt a pride in seeing the cub, begotten of her body in 
 the one moment of joy that haunted her memory, 
 spring into reality as something transcending her foul 
 experience of life. She had brought forth a David to 
 save her from her Goliath. These names did not occur 
 to her, but the mental picture was there somewhere in 
 her dazed brain. 
 
 Through the night mother and son sat side by side 
 on the bed, waiting for the worst. The door locked and 
 barricaded to stay the intruder while they parleyed, 
 the window open to scream for help if he would hot 
 listen. In her heart, she knew her husband would 
 listen to her ho more ! that he was thirsting now for 
 
 131 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 blood in preference to alcohol, and Adam betrayed his 
 topmost thought by keeping the fire redly burning 
 with the poker in it. He had never known such masterful 
 rage before, and his mother's tacit gratitude for his 
 prowess gave it an edge of self-confidence. Never 
 again would his father lay hands on him or on his 
 mother before his eyes. 
 
 With morning came brusquely a policeman with the 
 news that a body alleged to be that of one Malachy 
 Macfadden of Count Alley, had been found with the 
 neck broken at the bottom of a staircase in the premises 
 known as 3 Moimtjoy Court, and was now Ipng at 
 the City Mortuary, where an inquest would be held in 
 due course. The widow of the deceased would be 
 required formally to identify his remains and to answer 
 any questions the coroner or jurymen might see fit to 
 put to her. 
 
 Mrs Macfadden's apron flew to her eyes. 'Oh the 
 poor dear, to thinlc of it ! ' she cried. ' And me expecting 
 you home every minute aU the night ! ' She broke off 
 to tell the policeman triumphantly, 'I haven't had a 
 wink of sleep.' But he was unimpressed, and answered 
 roughly that anyhow he was not there to listen to her 
 gab but to order her what she was to do, and failing 
 to do would find it so much the worse for her. And with 
 that he took his leave. 
 
 Adam and his mother had breakfast silently. He 
 wondered of what she might be thinking as she sat 
 opposite to him, he in the dead man's place, munching 
 her bread and butter moistened with tea, leisurely as 
 a cow in a meadow. At last she said: as though aban- 
 doning a problem of some difficulty: 'I don't know 
 who to ask to the wake, only Mr O'Toole.' 
 
 Adam stared at her, his cup half-way to his lips. 
 'Will they let him come?' 
 
 She laughed in her apron to find that he supposed 
 132 
 
Mr Macfadden's Last Progress 
 
 his godfather to be under lock and key for slaying her 
 husband. 'Catch O'Toole standing up against a man 
 like Macfadden ! Sure he'd run from a hen he saw he 
 wasn't afraid of him, for all his high ways. It's little 
 you take after him.' 
 
 Adam was more than a trifle mystified by the close 
 as well as the opening of this statement; but, although 
 he saw he need no longer be airaid of his mother, shy- 
 ness forbade him to question her. Presently Father 
 Innocent called. The widow received him becomingly, 
 and, while he was there, Adam thought she really 
 seemed cloudily sorry for her loss. She became, as it 
 were, an abstract widow mourning her dead. She used 
 few canting words, but real tears channelled her grimy 
 cheeks. Perhaps she had known a Macfadden unknown 
 to him, a Macfadden that for a day, a week, or more, 
 had been clean and kind and honest in her eyes; perhaps 
 the Uttle priest created such an image from his own 
 fancy and gave it a momentary reality in hers. But 
 Adam had no feeUng for the dead man, even with all 
 Father Innocent's advocacy, but a childish hatred and 
 contempt. He was glad that Father Innocent told 
 him that he need not go with his mother to the 
 inquest : he wished never to see that brutal form 
 again. 
 
 The coroner found nothing over which to waste his 
 time and the jury's in the case of Malachy Macfadden. 
 The medical evidence showed that he died of a fracture 
 of the cervical vertebrae, which, as well as his minor 
 injuries, might well have been occasioned by an acci- 
 dental fall from a height. There was no mark of 
 violence. The police provided evidence that he had 
 been found drunk and disorderly outside his residence 
 early in the evening, but had evaded arrest by taking 
 flight into Count Street. There was reason to believe 
 that he had subsequently visited sundry pubUc-houses 
 
 133 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 and sought admission to more than one place of enter- 
 tainment, and created a disturbance at the Abbey 
 Theatre, also that the staircase at the premises, 3 
 Mount joy Court, was not in serviceable repair. Finally 
 Mr O'Toole, presenting a distinguished figure in his 
 new overcoat, bore witness that he had heard the 
 deceased's voice demanding admission to the apartments 
 temporarily occupied by him on the top floor of 3 
 Mountjoy Court, about midnight, and, fearing to disturb 
 the neighbouring ladies and gentlemen, called to him, 
 without opening the door, to go home, as he was in 
 bed and asleep. That he heard the deceased, as he 
 supposed, descending the stairs, and knew no more 
 about the matter imtil informed in the morning of his 
 melancholy fate, which shocked him very much as he 
 had regarded the deceased almost in the light of a 
 prodigy. Questioned by a juryman, he did not mean 
 prodigal, but would say protege, if the coroner preferred 
 that word. He and the deceased were on the best of 
 terms. He had recently given the deceased an important 
 order for which he had paid spot cash. Notwithstanding 
 the lateness of the hour for a business call, it was not 
 impossible that the deceased had come to sohcit further 
 commands. He was the sort of man to act on impulse 
 in matters of business, particularly with customers 
 who would consider the payment of spot cash. He 
 believed deceased and his wife to be on the best of 
 terms and that she was of great help to him in his 
 business. So far as he knew, deceased had not an 
 enemy in the world. He was not prepared to deny 
 that he was an uncertain tempered man when drunk 
 and might have been difficult to get rid of had he 
 admitted him. StiU, he regretted, now that it vvas too 
 late, that he had not taken this risk. Blood was thicker 
 than water. He did not mean to convey that the 
 deceased was a relation of his. He would be sorry to 
 
 134 
 
Mr Macfadden's Last Progress 
 
 think so. This concluded his evidence, which made a 
 good impression on those members of the jury who 
 knew nothing of him. 
 
 In fine, the coroner told the jury that as long as the 
 Abbey Theatre was allowed to exercise its pernicious 
 influence, he supposed such things would happen in 
 Dubhn. In Philadelphia and all enlightened American 
 cities you would be sent to jail for attempting to perform 
 such a piece as that the deceased was said by the 
 poUce (and he saw no reason to doubt their evidence) 
 to have been present at immediately before the fatal 
 act which prematurely ended his no doubt valuable 
 life. But he would take a charitable view and direct 
 them to return a verdict of death by misadventure. 
 This they cheerfully did, and the body was handed over 
 to the widow. Adam read the report in the Herald, 
 snappily set forth under the rubric, 'City Coroner sits 
 on Synge.' 
 
 Adam's first use of his new freedom was his refusal 
 to attend the wake. When he saw his father in his 
 cof&n he found it agreeable to reflect that he could 
 never get out of it, but would be put away at remote 
 Glasnevin until doomsday. To please Father Innocent, 
 he knelt beside him and joined his voice listlessly in 
 the prayers for the dead. No soul was ever damned 
 with fainter praise. As soon as Father Innocent had 
 departed, warning the widow against any paganism 
 in the funeral rites, Adam, despite his mother's half- 
 hearted remonstrance, went off to seU his papers as 
 usual. 
 
 When he returned, late as he could be, the festivities 
 were over, and the guests departing. It had been a 
 tame evening, tamer, said Count Alley, than the corpse 
 would have Uked. But what could he do, poor devU, 
 Lord have mercy on him, lying there in his cof&n, with 
 that O'Toole giving himself airs hke the Lord Lieutenant, 
 
 135 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 and canying on as if the place and ever3rthing in it, 
 including the corpse itself, belonged to him. They 
 consoled themselves by saying as they came away, 
 just loud enough and no more for their hosts to hear, 
 'Murder will out,' being all fuUy convinced that Mr 
 Byron O'Toole had for some motive which only God 
 knew and might never explain, lured Mr Malachy 
 Macfadden to the top of the Mount] oy Court staircase 
 and then pushed him through the railings. In the 
 other scale, they could not unreservedly censure the 
 widow for preferring O'Toole to the deceased, for there 
 was no getting away from it that O'Toole, when he 
 liked, was a perfect gentleman, particularly with ladies, 
 whereas the deceased. Lord have mercy on him, had 
 never been better than a public nuisance. Although 
 they hoped Mr Byron O'Toole would be hanged for 
 it, they congratulated each other that Mr Malachy 
 Macfadden was dead. 
 
 Adam went to the funeral, looking forward to the 
 enjoyment of it as his first pageant. . . . He, his mother, 
 Mr O'Toole, and Father Innocent filled a mourning 
 coach, following a hearse second only in dignity to the 
 one which Mr O'Toole, who had made the arrangements, 
 would have chosen for himself. Behind them streeled 
 sundry outside cars laden with neighbours who went 
 to all funerals, and woiild, in fact, go anywhere rather 
 than remain in Count Street. One of these failed to 
 round Dunphy's Comer, but rejoined the procession 
 on the return trip. 
 
 The most noticeable thing in Adam's eyes was the 
 melancholy splendour of his godfather. Usually he 
 remembered him at home as raffish and unkempt; not 
 so unkempt as Macfadden but almost equally dis- 
 reputable. Adam was too young to understand the 
 vagaries of a man of temperament, nor could he know 
 that the Bs^-on O'Toole who condescended to visit 
 136 
 
Mr Macfadden's Last Progress 
 
 or even lodge in Count Alley was not the Byron O'Toole 
 of the great world beyond. To-day he was clad in 
 almost irreproachably clean Unen, shiny, well-watered 
 tall hat, black frock-coat, black trousers, black patent 
 leather boots (enclosing possibly no less black but neat 
 feet), and black kid gloves with but moderate bursts 
 in the thumbs. The only article of clothing which 
 Adam recognised was a black bow tie. He had always 
 worn this, even when without a collar. His bearing, 
 too, matched his clothes : he treated Mrs Macfadden, 
 Father Innocent, and even Adam with Grandisonian 
 courtesy; and the undertaker's foreman could not look 
 towards him without raising his hat. He believed the 
 gentleman had come to bury the husband of an old 
 family servant. He venerated his noble character 
 and dreamed of largess. It was an idle dream. 
 
 Through O'Connell Street, like a trickle of ink through 
 a desert, the late Mr Malachy Macfadden, tailor of 
 DubUn, passed on his last progress; up the hill by the 
 Rotunda, out of Rutland Square, through North 
 Frederick Street and Blessington Street, and round to 
 the right into Berkeley Road, past the corner of Eccles 
 Street, and so on, the way the reader knows. As it 
 being now high noon, the shadow of the Mater Miseri- 
 cordise Hospital blackened the way, Adam feU a-crying, 
 and the priest leaned forward to pat his knee thinking 
 these were generous tears; but the boy was only saying 
 to himself that had things turned out less fortunately 
 it might have been his own httle body jogging on to 
 Glasnevin. 
 
 No, he had no feeling, absolutely none, for the 
 monster safely boxed at last, that was bumping over 
 the tramlines in front of them, across the canal bridge 
 to Glasnevin. ... To Glasnevin where Emily Robinson 
 was . . . and who else that he had known and cared 
 for? . . . CaroUne Brady . . . was she there or was 
 A.D. K 137 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 she not? . . . Had he ceased to care? . . . What 
 did it matter whether he cared or not? . . . Nothing 
 mattered but food and drink and sleep. The sleep that 
 was not death. 
 
 He felt sick and sorry for all dead people as he 
 entered the cemetery gates and he walked behind the 
 coffin to the chapel and the graveside. But he was only 
 sick at the crowded evidence of the abomination called 
 death, and sorry chiefly for himself, who too must die 
 and be laid in earth like this. As the coffin was lowered 
 away from his sight and the first clod of covering clay 
 thudded after it, he made a last effort to pray in his 
 heart for the thing that had called itself his father. 
 But he could not think of it as such and the prayer 
 would not come. He found himself pricking his ears 
 to hear Mr O'Toole whisper to his mother as he turned 
 his back complacently on the grave, 'We're well quit 
 of that fellow.' 
 
 Adam's heart, thanks to Father Innocent's entreaty, 
 was free now from all vengeful longing against the 
 dead man's peace; but he had seen no injustice in 
 graving these words on his headstone. 
 
 138 
 
chapter Sixteen 
 
 PLEASANT STREET 
 
 The death of Mr Macfadden led to material as well as 
 moral changes in Adam's Ufe : perhaps the most 
 notable to a child was the evacuation of the hated room 
 in which his childhood had, with the only alternative 
 of the street, been passed. To be out of that he 
 was willing to submit even to the patronage of the 
 misUked Mr Byron O 'Toole. The latter became the 
 tutelary genius of the family : to him they were beholden 
 for the means to move to vastly superior quarters; 
 and, much as he despised his character, Adam found 
 his relations with him far less disagreeable than with 
 the dead man. He had a vile tongue, but Adam seldom 
 had it turned upon himself; for commonly there was 
 some reason for what he said and did, and unlike 
 Macfadden, O'Toole, unless suffering from biliousness, 
 would hsten to reason. Besides, they came Uttle in 
 contact. In the new lodgings Adam was given a room 
 to himself : the tiniest room he ever saw. Father 
 Innocent's was palatial in comparison ; and its shape 
 being under the roof, was that of an ill-planned dog- 
 kennel; but it held a real if lop-sided bed in it, and it 
 was his very own. None else ever went near it; for 
 it was accessible only by a ladder, and Mrs Macfadden's 
 policy towards her son was now one of laissez 
 fane. 
 
 What part of the house she lived in he was not told 
 but he knew that the kitchen lay in her domain and 
 
 139 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 that he was welcome to wash himself in the scullery 
 every morning, and to eat his breakfast, and a better 
 dinner than he had ever had at Count Alley, with her 
 at the kitchen table. His other meals she left him to 
 provide for himself outside, biit, on the other hand, 
 she never asked him to account for his earnings, nor 
 did Mr O'Toole call upon him for monetary support. 
 So, in the dark and spidery recess under the roof, he 
 commenced to lay up a little hoard. He reckoned out, 
 with the famous pencil bought at Gerrard's and well 
 preserved as were all his few belongings, that by the 
 time he was eleven he might, with the aid of the Blessed 
 Virgin, possess a whole golden sovereign of his own. 
 He missed the sales of many papers, dreaming of how 
 he would spend it when he bad it. 
 
 The only restrictions laid down by his mother were 
 that he should enter and leave the house precisely at 
 hours upon which they had agreed, never to knock at 
 the hall door, but to whistle at the area-raUings until 
 she came to him, and on no account or pretence what- 
 ever to linger on the stairs, but pass swiftly and 
 silently as possible from the hall to his room, not visiting 
 even the kitchen but at the appointed hours. 
 
 Adam understood that these were the terms on which 
 he enjoyed his delicious freedom, and he kept them 
 loyally; for it was natural that the other denizens of 
 that seemly house should object to a young lad tramphng 
 up and down stairs all day, and hammering away at 
 the knocker. He hardly ever heard any noise from his 
 eyrie if he woke in the night, except perhaps queer 
 English accents talking with mincing uninteUigibility 
 on the stairs. Often there was a piano going gaily on 
 the first floor as he stole up to bed, and more than once 
 he heard a piercing voice in that room call entreatingly, 
 'Play "Love's Drame " Mr Moore; play "Love's 
 Drame ! " ' He imagined that it was the voice of a 
 140 
 
Pleasant Street 
 
 lady who, when he had opened the hall door one day 
 for her, kissed him and called him 'a perfect little 
 gentleman love,' an episode the flavour of which he 
 enjoyed until he remembered that the last person who 
 had "kissed him was Caroline Brady, and she would 
 never kiss him any more. What was the use of accumu- 
 lating wealth when you had to die in the end? And 
 what a terrible thing was kissing when you kept that 
 end in view ! He wished he could be a saint, hke Father 
 Innocent, or else that after all he had died in the 
 hospital, before he knew how delicious life could be, 
 even so near the Pro-Cathedral as Pleasant Street, 
 and how desolate was Glasnevin, to say nothing of 
 hell! 
 
 On Sundays Adam saw more of his mother than on 
 other days, for they went to half-past eleven mass 
 together, as they had done in his father's hfetime; 
 only then he was often sent on in front to the Pro- 
 Cathedral, or left behind in it, whereas now she never 
 failed to go out and return with him, carrying a large 
 Missal, to that mighty agreeable house. No. 7 Pleasant 
 Street. He had a pride in standing by her on the 
 steps, holding the great Missal for her, while she fumbled 
 her placket looking for the latch-key, which presently 
 came out in her gloved hand to open the door just as 
 if the house really belonged to her. Now that Macfadden 
 was dead, she dressed herself so decently, especially 
 on Sundays, that he thought she really might pass for 
 the landlady instead of being merely the housekeeper. 
 He wished Father Innocent would come and see them 
 there, it was such a change from Count Alley, and he 
 dreamed of persuading the little priest to climb the 
 ladder to his own retreat, which he promised himself 
 the glory of exhibiting by the light of a bull's eye lantern 
 bought at Lawrence's, for the further pursuit of 
 literature. 
 
 141 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Not that he possessed a library, but he read every 
 week The Irish Homestead, which he bought at first for 
 its agreeable name, and thinking that it treated of Ufe 
 in typical Irish residences such as 7 Pleasant Street. 
 Then he took an interest in it because it told him unheard 
 of ways of churning butter, milking cows, and feeding 
 pigs; and he remembered sister at the hospital telling 
 him how, if geese were made to co-operate, they would 
 in time lay golden eggs. He wondered if his mother 
 would aUow him to keep a couple of geese up in his 
 room, his very own room, and bring them down every 
 morning, before any one was about, to the scullery to 
 have a swim like their kind in Stephen's Green. Some 
 of the people who wrote to the Homestead seemed to 
 maintain that if you kept a goose quite quiet, so that 
 it concentrated its mind, it laid better eggs. His room 
 was just the place for an experiment of that sort, so 
 he summoned up courage and sent a postal order to a 
 lady in Cork who advertised geese for sale. He thought 
 one would be enough to start co-operating with, and 
 that if he took his mother by surprise, presenting her 
 with a real egg, even though not of gold, she would 
 not make a fuss; it being understood that none but 
 himself need ever see or hear of the goose, once he had 
 got it safely up the ladder. But it was he who was 
 surprised when it arrived in a brown paper parcel, 
 and showing no sign of interest in co-operation. . . . 
 Tears stood in his eye, for. here was the greater part 
 of his small capital in danger, if not lost. 
 
 Luckily the postman delivered the ill-starred bird 
 into his own hands, and he was able to convey it to his 
 mountain fastness without notice. At first he was 
 unwilling to believe it irrevocably dead, and placed 
 it between the blankets of his still warm bed in the 
 hope of reviving it. He left it there while he went out 
 and studied the appearance of other geese in the 
 142 
 
Pleasant Street 
 
 neighbouring poulterers. His deductions were fatal to 
 his hopes. When he returned he found a cat mewing 
 on the top rung of his ladder, unable to proceed farther 
 because he had fastened the door, or to descend because 
 of an attack of nerves. 
 
 He Ufted her down, and whispered to her to go away, 
 but she only purred and rubbed herself against his legs, 
 confident that he would not refuse her his hospitality. 
 Seeing that he must ather entertain her with a good 
 grace or submit to be blackmailed, he invited her up 
 the ladder, and there in the darkness, feebly illuminated 
 by the bull's eye lantern, and snowed under by the 
 feathers which Adam plucked unhandUy from the corpse, 
 he and the cat started to share the goose. For three 
 days this banquet went on intermittently. Then the 
 cat lost interest and came no more, disappearing as 
 mysteriously as it had come upon the scene. About 
 a week later, hearing the lady on the first floor question 
 his mother about the drains, he packed the remains 
 and a fair share of the plumage of the goose back in 
 the brown paper and threw the parcel over Butt Bridge 
 into the water by the Bristol boat, where not many 
 months before he had thought to throw himself. Thus 
 went seven and sixpence : seven and eightpence half- 
 penny, counting the postal order and the stamp and 
 notepaper. And he felt none the better for it; for even 
 a healthy, hungry lad cannot stuff himself with raw 
 gooseflesh for ten days on end, and escape all reproof 
 from Dame Nature. 
 
 For a Uttle while he was as biUous as llr O'Toole 
 commonly looked, and he developed a scrupulosity of 
 conscience that was new to him. He confessed the 
 adventure of the goose to Father Innocent, under the 
 headings of both gluttony and deceit. He asked if 
 he were bound to tell his mother about it. The priest 
 told him that it was a difficult point, but he took upon 
 
 143 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 himself the responsibility of saying that, as there was 
 no lie to be retracted, small good could be gained by 
 saying anything more about it. He proceeded forthwith 
 to have Adam confirmed, and the Lord Bishop of Canea 
 expressed himself as so struck by the young catechumen's 
 intelligence that the little priest announced that he 
 would now prepare him for his first Holy Communion. 
 
 Although these were familiar words in Adam's ears, 
 they rang with a new vibrancy when applied to the 
 great act looming up in his own immediate future. 
 So far, despite his glib verbal acquaintance with 
 elementary theology, his real reUgion had been crude 
 Mariolatry, and he was interested in the Second Person 
 of the Trinity only as being Mary's son. Now he 
 commenced to think of Jesus not only as true God but 
 as true Man : that is to say. He had in Him something 
 in common even with the late Malachy Macfadden. 
 As a result, one Sunday morning after mass, having 
 left his mother dutifully at her door, he announced his 
 desire to be excused from dinner (to which as Mr 
 O'Toole had important business to discuss with her, 
 she the more readily consented), and forthwith turned 
 back towards Nelson's Pillar and took the tram for 
 Glasnevin. There he knelt him down in the wet grass 
 about the place where he supposed his father's bones 
 to rest, and long and earnestly prayed for him, not 
 even now as his father, but as one who had a common 
 father with him and the Son of Mary. He felt as surely 
 as he felt the cold on his knees that, despite the hatred 
 which, by the devil's artifice, had severed them, he 
 and the dead man were members of one another; and 
 he strove to wish him quick and well again that he 
 might seek out a way of reconciliation. He asked also 
 the soul of Emily Robinson, surely by this time safe 
 in heaven, to think of some good to say for Macfadden. 
 And he ended by saying in a waking dream, 'Caroline 
 144 
 
Pleasant Street 
 
 Brady, if you're dead, will you too pray for him?' 
 It did not occur to him that the living CaroUne Brady's 
 prayers could have any value. 
 
 With an exaltation that turned the tram into a 
 fiery chariot he returned home, to encounter Father 
 Innocent at the place where Pleasant Street runs into 
 Marlborough Street. 'What makes you so happy?' 
 the priest asked, scarming him closely. 'Has any one 
 been telling you anything? Where have you had your 
 dinner?' 
 
 Adam made no secret of his doings at the hour when 
 the rest of the world was filling its stomach. He was 
 glad that the priest should understand that he found 
 happiness in other things beside geese. ' That'a a dotey 
 boy,' said the priest enthusiastically, stroking the back 
 of his neck. 'How I wish God would spare me to see 
 you a priest, the sort of priest I'd have been myself if 
 God had given me your head and heart.' 
 
 ' D'ye think I could ever be a priest ? ' Adam blurted, 
 awestricken at his own potential piety. 
 
 'I think you could,' answered Father Innocent, 'and 
 what's more, I think you will. D'ye remember the first 
 day you ever came to me for instruction, I told j'ou the 
 day you made your first Holy Communion would be 
 the happiest of your life : the very happiest day of all 
 the long days that might lie before you?' 
 
 'Indeed I do, father,' said Adam. 'I remember it 
 weU.' 
 
 'Well,' declared the priest, beaijiing with his own 
 happiness, 'this day week, please God, you will make 
 your own, and mark my words you wiQ find it aU come 
 true that I said to you.' He seemed bubbhng 
 over with the desire to enlarge upon the happiness of 
 the first communion day, but broke off, ' Go home now 
 to your mother, my dotey boy, and tell her with my 
 compUments, she must give you a good meal and that 
 
 145 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 before she attends to anything else in the house or 
 out of it.' He shook his hand warmly and hurried off 
 on the httle tired feet that grew ever more difficult to 
 urge to their journey's end. In the kitchen Mr O'Toole, 
 as well as his mother, received him with marked cordiality. 
 'I can see that lad of yours has been up to no good,' 
 said his godfather archly, ' and now he comes back like 
 the prodigal son, to eat your fatted calves.' 
 
 Adam looked straight at his godfather, noticing with 
 unaccountable satisfaction that the man really did have 
 a very gentlemanly appearance now that he always 
 wore a collar and pretty good clothes. ' Father Innocent 
 said I was to ask mother for a good meal with his 
 compUments.' 
 
 'Oh, he said that, did he?' returned Mr O'Toole 
 affably, and exchanged glances with the widow, as 
 Adam had often see them do in Macfadden's hfetime 
 but they were openly merry now. Nevertheless the 
 widow hastened at once to honour the priest's demand. 
 Tea, bread and butter, and hard-boiled eggs were put 
 before Adam on a clean napkin, with surprising 
 celerity. 
 
 Mr O'Toole produced a cigar from the inside of his 
 pocket-handkerchief bit off the end with aristocratic 
 languor, and ht it with a wax vesta. 'Did Father 
 Feeley say anything about anything else to you?" 
 he asked, with the air of a man who would have you 
 think he is just making conversation. 
 
 Adam blushed and answered with his mouth full of 
 hot egg, 'He said he was sure I'd make a good 
 priest.' 
 
 Mr B3^on O'Toole glanced again at the widow and 
 puffed out an impressive column of smoke, which he 
 watched as though expecting a genie to emerge from it. 
 'Thet's all cod,' said he. 
 
 Adam was justifiably offended, but he held his 
 146 
 
Pleasant Street 
 
 tongue. His godfather was not the sort of man to 
 understand the emotions he had felt to-day. Apart 
 from that he was keener now on his tea and eggs than 
 anything else. And at no time was the atmosphere at 
 Pleasant Street, though so near the Pro-Cathedral, 
 conducive to a spiritual train of thought. It was a 
 grand thing to be a priest surely, but it was also very 
 agreeable to live in Pleasant Street. 
 
 147 
 
Chapter Seventeen 
 
 THE HAPPIEST DAY 
 
 If happiness be a state of joyful expectation, the day 
 of Adam's first communion was, as yet, the happiest 
 of his life. It opened and closed in exultation that carried 
 him far from the trodden ground round Pleasant Street, 
 to which his physical being was on that day, as most 
 others, confined. He went no farther than Gardiner's 
 Street, whither Father Innocent brought him in the 
 afternoon that followed the morning's dream interview 
 with a God as childish as himself. As the dream faded 
 a httle towards the commoner thoughts of life, he found 
 himself expecting to be taken, in fulfilment of the 
 ancient promise, to the Zoo. Yet he did not allow 
 himself to be depressed by the change of plan; for he 
 saw by the priest's face (to say nothing of hints falling 
 from him in the course of several days' spiritual instruc- 
 tion), that truly remarkable things were about to 
 happen. He had felt so uncommonly good all the 
 morning, and looked so holy in the gUmpses he caught 
 of himself in the many mirrors at Pleasant Street, he 
 wondered if his sanctity were sufficiently estabUshed 
 in Father Innocent's eyes that he had made interest 
 with Father Muldoon to enable him to assist at the 
 performance of a miracle. He recalled that some beatific 
 gentleman in whom sister had striven to interest him 
 was allowed to see a miracle on his first communion 
 day. Turning into Mount joy Square, the priest was 
 edified by his rapt gaze, not knowing that he was 
 148 
 
The Happiest Day 
 
 weighing the joy of seeing a miracle against that of 
 seeing a rhinoceros. 
 
 Arrived face to face with the Presbytery bell, Father 
 Innocent cast a hasty glance over his young charge, 
 noticed regretfully that he looked again like other 
 boys, and exhorted him to blow his nose and answer 
 as briefly as respect allowed the questions that might 
 be put to him inside. Then he rang, and forthwith they 
 were admitted to the apartment Adam already knew 
 to be the antechamber to Jehovah's throne-room. 
 There sat the demi-god. Father Muldoon, and another 
 somewhat younger priest, whose face was familiar to 
 him, though he did not know his name. 
 
 This priest held in his left hand a letter, the envelope 
 of which appeared to be in the possession of Father 
 Muldoon. Adam noticed that it had a queer stamp, 
 and wondered if it came from that part of Father 
 Muldoon's dominions where the people walked upon 
 their heads. Perhaps he was about to be shown one or 
 more of these people now, that would be in a sense a 
 miracle . . . but in the Zoo he might have seen far 
 greater oddities. He found the strange priest studying 
 him while some formula of introduction was gone 
 through. He was at once attracted and perturbed by 
 him, his features weary as Father Innocent's but more 
 clearly cut and intellectual, brownish black, peering 
 eyes, a markedly oval face, and a smile flickering 
 between kindliness and ingenuous, priestly guile. He 
 spoke little and rather too quickly, for Adam's ear, 
 from a novel vocabulary. His name was Tuite. 
 
 It was the positive Father Muldoon who did the 
 talking : — 
 
 'Adam Macfadden,' said he, with the fluency of an 
 advocate who has read his brief. 'It is a particular 
 pleasure to me to see you here again in this room and 
 to learn from your good friend. Father Feeley, that my 
 
 149 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 little effort to help you has not been thrown away. 
 But, of course, that pleasure is multiplied a thousand- 
 fold when I think of you as having made to-day your 
 first Holy Communion. On such a day we know from 
 the universal experience of all who have ever held the 
 Cathohc faith that we realise in its full immensity 
 for the first time the ineffable goodness of God Almighty. 
 That is to say, we know as much about it as we are ever 
 likely to know in this vale of tears and that is, of 
 course, very little.' 
 
 Here he paused more from force of habit than for 
 any other reason. 
 
 'This happiness I speak of is, of course, as Father 
 Feeley I am sure hcis explained to you, a purely spiritual 
 happiness, and much as I can see that you feel it, you 
 would, as a good Catholic, feel it not a whit the less 
 if you were starving, or had toothache, or were wasting 
 away from some terrible disease, such as' — ^he paused 
 to find a word with the right cadence, and chose — 
 'influenza.' Father Tuite's eyebrows heaved, but 
 Father Iimocent sighed, 'My poor father died of 
 something like it.' 
 
 Father Muldoon pursued. 'This happiness, which is 
 the reflection in our souls of God's goodness, is inde- 
 pendent of all the things of this world, and is the 
 premonition and promise of that happiness which, if 
 we persevere in our faith, through sunshine and storm, 
 we may hope one day to feel in the actual presence of 
 God Himself. And, I need not add, for ever and ever 
 afterwards.' 
 
 He paused forensically as before. 
 
 ' But besides this great happiness which is of heaven 
 and not of earth, there is a minor happiness which, 
 though it be of the earth, can only be enjoyed with 
 any profit and any propriety by those whose thoughts 
 are fixed on heaven. And. by a fortunate coincidence, 
 150 
 
The Happiest Day 
 
 I am in a position to tell you on this day, so happy in 
 its heavenly sense, that you also have much reason to 
 feel happy, to rejoice even in a purely temporal and 
 worldly sense.' Here he made a very long and effective 
 pause, it seemed to Adam half an hour, and was, perhaps, 
 nearly a minute. 'I must not tell you too much, but 
 I may tell you this. A certain sum of money has been 
 remitted to . . . to' — he exchanged glances with Father 
 Innocent — 'to us, from a kind friend in a remote part 
 of the world, with instructions that it should be spent 
 on your education and general upbringing. This would 
 involve my acting in future, at all events for the present, 
 in loco parentis, that is to say, as if I were your father 
 And I have obtained, through Father Feeley's good 
 ofi&ces, your mother's consent to this.' He here paused 
 and looked inquiringly at Father Tuite, who smiled 
 and nodded. He then glanced at Father Feeley, and 
 went on, 'For the present Father Feeley has kindly 
 consented to act for me in the matter of your general 
 bringing up and guardianship, but, with regard to your 
 education, he agrees with me that we cannot do better, 
 in your own interests, than to hand you over to Father 
 Tuite here, who, as you must certainly be aware, is 
 rector of the famous college of Belvedere, where the 
 great man whose papers you earn your bread by seUing, 
 was educated, as well as ever so many other celebrated 
 people whose careers you would do well to study in 
 the college magazine.' Here his tone became godlike. 
 ' I was there myself more than forty years ago, so perhaps 
 you will be here, where I am now, forty years hence.' 
 
 'Amen,' said Father Innocent absentmindedly. All 
 the three priests exchanged glances and smiled. Father 
 Innocent was much affected. The Jesuits swapped 
 anecdotes about Father Tom and Father Edward 
 Kelly. Adam pinched himself and tried to make up 
 his mind whether he was living now or forty years 
 
 151 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 hence or when. The salient point was that he was a 
 miUionaire, or at least a gentleman of means. His 
 hand felt for Father Innocent's. He had no idea that his 
 first communion-day was going to be as happy as this. 
 Momentarily he preferred Father Muldoon to a rhino- 
 ceros, and yet he felt that he was not quite as happy 
 as he ought to have been. It seemed that he would 
 have to give up his Arcadian Alsatia in Pleasant Street. 
 He heard Father Tuite addressing him. 
 
 'All that being said so clearly by Father Provincial, 
 you understand, Adam, don't you,' said Father Tuite, 
 speaking perhaps quicker than it is wise to speak to 
 children. ' You understand that you will be moving in 
 quite a different sphere from that to which you have 
 been accustomed. In the school over which I have 
 the honour to rule, you will be associated with boys who 
 are not inferior, socially, perhaps, to any in DubUn. 
 It has been your misfortune, speaking in, I fear, a 
 worldly sense, to have been brought up so far, amidst 
 rude and rough and uncleanly surroundings. All that 
 must now be put right away for ever, or for so long as 
 I am to be held responsible for your education. I know 
 already from what Father Feeley has told me that you 
 will be a credit to Belvedere on the religious, on the 
 moral side, but it is my duty to see that you are also 
 a credit to the school on the worldly side. You must, 
 in short, learn to behave like a gentleman. . . .' He 
 hesitated and blushed as though he had caught himself 
 uttering an absurdity. 'You will not misunderstand 
 what I mean by a gentleman? ' 
 
 'No, sir,' said Adam promptly. 'Father Innocent 
 Feeley is a gentleman.' 
 
 The little priest turned scarlet and Adam was startled 
 to hear him groan. 'However could you say that? 
 you've disgraced us both now surely.' 
 
 Father Muldoon, too, sniffed discouragingly, but 
 152 
 
The Happiest Day 
 
 Father Tuite answered, with a smile that was bhthe, 
 'Precisely, Adam. I am glad to see that you under- 
 stand so perfectly what I mean.' 
 
 And so the interview ended, and Adam walked back 
 to Pleasant Street on air, praising the Trinity and Mary 
 ever Virgin and Holy Joseph and Michael the Archangel, 
 and above aU, Father Innocent Feeley, who represented 
 them on earth, for what was certainly the happiest 
 day in his life, surpassing even that on which he kissed 
 Caroline Brady in Dalkey Tunnel, for to-night he could 
 lay him cosily down with the confidence that the angels 
 were on his side. 
 
 A.D. 
 
 153 
 
Chapter Eighteen 
 
 THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED 
 
 The days that followed the happiest of Adam's life 
 were not altogether what he expected; they had their 
 merits, but they were disappointing; for, even as Mr 
 O'Toole with Fan Tweedy, he had expected too much. 
 It seemed to him that no earthly happiness really 
 surpassed that of dwelling amidst the rafters of 7 
 Pleasant Street and being beyond any other boy he 
 knew his own master. To be a man of property he 
 found had duties which went far to outweigh its advan- 
 tages. It is true it brought a certain accession of bodily 
 comfort. He was demonstrably better lodged and 
 better nourished, but he had been content with his 
 lodging and food at Pleasant Street, and the material 
 gain did not compensate for the spiritual loss. The 
 pleasure he derived from his removal to the second 
 floor front of 3 St George's Place, adjoining the church of 
 that name, was pure snobbery; he was only reconciled 
 to the change by the thought that he was now a 
 gentleman and must be prepared to accept the limita- 
 tions of that state of life. 
 
 The worst defect of his new condition was the virtual 
 disappearance of his freedom. He was put in the charge 
 of the lady who owned the house : she called it an 
 apartment house for gentlemen, and with her close 
 cropped hair, simpUcity of costume, severity of feature, 
 harshness of voice, and altitude of outlook, she was to 
 all intents and purposes a gentleman herself. Her name 
 154 
 
The Days That Followed 
 
 was Elizabeth Gannon. She was assisted in the work 
 of the house by the ughest and cleanest servant maid 
 Adam had ever seen; he thought it a pity she should 
 call attention to her plainness by putting so bright a 
 pohsh on it : her face reminded him of the beeswaxed 
 floor in the refectory at Bray — you felt it was asking to 
 be walked on. Miss Gannon, as owner of house and 
 maid, evidently shared this impression. The maid's 
 name was Attracta. Adam supposed that she was so 
 called because she worked like a traction engine, harder 
 even that Miss Gannon but not such long hours; for 
 the latter appeared never to rest. She came in at three 
 o'clock one morning by St George's Bells to blow out 
 his candle by which he was reading in bed. But that 
 staunch old friend the bull's eye lantern baffled her 
 researches. It did not escape her eyes that he possessed 
 such a foolish toy, but far was it from entering her male 
 and rigid imagination that he ht it in the small hours 
 to study the poetry of Mr Keats. 
 
 Mr Keats, as Adam had learned at Belvedere, was 
 the greatest living Irish poet. He was not so good as 
 Davis, nor of course the immortal Moore, but he was 
 as good as any one now alive. Adam had at first 
 imderstood that his name was Yeats, but the bookseller 
 to whom he applied, a gentleman with authoritative 
 red whiskers, smiled in fatherly reproachfulness, 'There 
 is no such author, unless you want Yeats's History of 
 Commerce, price five shillings, the only poet with a 
 name like that is Keats. I can do you his complete 
 works for a shilling or choice selection eighteenpence.' 
 Adam had no hesitation in taking the larger quantity 
 at the smaller price. It was a stunted, blue volume, 
 with a pleasantly decorated back and three hundred 
 and sixty pages which he read conscientiously from the 
 first until the last. But he had left Belvedere before 
 reaching this Ultimate Thule. 
 
 155 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 It must not be supposed that the perusal of Keats 
 or Yeats was the first step to Parnassus at the Jesuit 
 college. Even such excursions into hagiology as the 
 Eve of St Agnes were not made at the Preparatory School, 
 in the lowest class of which Adam made his academical 
 debut. He was nearly ten years old, but Father Tuite 
 very sensibly made him begin at the beginning. At 
 the end of his first term he romped home first in the 
 class in every subject, and the master reported that it 
 was fair neither to himself noi the others to keep him 
 there. So after Christmas he was promoted to the 
 second class, which was presided over by Mr Flood, S.J. 
 It was he who hinted at the existence of poets other 
 than the authors of The Fall of D'Assas and The Loss 
 of the Royal George, and he had in fact mentioned both 
 Keats and Yeats, and left the same sort of impression 
 on the brains of his audience as if he had said Box 
 and Cox. 
 
 Mr Flood himself merely intended to air his know- 
 ledge, and never dreamed that his pupils would pay 
 the smallest attention to what he said, unless given 
 out line by line as something to be learned by heart 
 under threat of the ferrule, and not a great deal then. 
 But Mr Flood was truly interested in poetry though he 
 valued it chiefly for its rhetorical quality. A big man 
 with a sonorous voice, he was a bom elocutionist and 
 longed for the sacred hour when he might hear himself 
 thunder from the pulpit. Meanwhile, on those days 
 when the world went well with him, he treated his class 
 to such brief, happily appUed excerpts from Shakespeare, 
 as ' Friends, Romans, Countrymen ! lend me your ears. 
 Tell me, Terence O'Brien, how would you say Table 
 in Latin ! ' or ' I'll put a girdle round the world in forty 
 minutes. Take your slate, Sullivan, and tell me how 
 many miles a minute that would be if the circumference 
 of the globe were forty miles, remembering, of course, 
 156 
 
The Days That Followed 
 
 that it's a lot more than that,' or 'Not all the perfumes 
 of Arabia, Patsy Scully, wUl take the ink off your 
 hands if you hold your pen like that.' 
 
 There were days when Mr Flood roared and thumped 
 and threatened the innocent and guilty alike with his 
 ferrule; but even his rages were a form of rhetoric, and 
 Adam saw there was no harm in him. Boys who were 
 willing to learn he did his best to teach, and Adam who, 
 when not listening to what he said, could show that 
 he was thinking over something that had previously 
 been uttered was his favourite pupil. At the summer 
 vacation he carried round to St George's Place the 
 nucleus of a small library : the English prize which 
 was Robinson Crusoe in French, the French prize, which 
 was Michel Strogoff in English, and the prize for Christian 
 doctrine, which was Aviation for Young Catholics, in 
 Messrs Billing and Cohen's admirable Science Without 
 Tears Series. The information contained in this did 
 not carry one far in the empyrean, but it sufficed to 
 convince Adam that for all ordinary purposes of 
 locomotion it was, if only for reasons of economy, better 
 for the present to take the tram. No doubt the day 
 would come when he might stable his aeroplane at the 
 rear of St George's Place and fly down occasionally to 
 Bray to hear the band play on the esplanade. He had 
 never seen a flying machine, and it figured in his mind 
 as an ingenious toy, not a solid triumph of the engineer 
 such as the Bristol steamer or the Waterford Restaurant 
 Train. Robinson Crusoe in French resisted his efforts 
 to read it, for the Abbe Pincenez, who had adapted 
 it for the use of his pupils some eighty years since, 
 represented the good Robinson as consoling his exile, 
 not with the Bible, but Bossuet's Oraisons Funehres. 
 Michel Strogoff in English was a Uttle better, but gave 
 Adam a gloomy impression of the Russian character, 
 nor could he understand the hero being on such good 
 
 157 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 terms with the poUce. His three prizes appeared to 
 him as prizes to be desirable, but as books to be poor 
 things — ^the only one he took at all seriously was the 
 first. When Mr Flood congratulated him on the prospect 
 of so much to occupy his mind during the summer 
 holidays, Adam mentioned that he was reading Keats. 
 
 The young but large Jesuit stared at him. ' Whatever 
 put such an idea into your head?' 
 
 'Didn't you tell us, sir,' Adam protested, 'that he 
 was a great Irish poet?' 
 
 ' Keats an Irish poet, is it ? ' roared Mr Flood derisively, 
 'he was an Enghsh cockney bom and bred. I don't 
 suppose he knew whether Ireland was north, south, 
 east, or west. The Irish poet I mentioned of that name, 
 I mean of the name you thought was that, was Mr W. 
 B. Yeats. He's a very nice writer indeed, author of a 
 beautiful poem called 'Innisfree,' though rather tame 
 as recitation. But at your age you're much too young 
 to read either Yeats or Keats except in selected passages. 
 Not that it really matters so long as you're too young 
 to understand. Browning is a much better poet for 
 boys, 'How we brought the Good News,' and 'A Legend 
 of Ratisbon.' You can't do better than Browning and 
 Ehza Cooke. But she's comic, remember that. You 
 mustn't confuse her with Mrs Hemans, the way you've 
 confused Keats with Yeats. If you do that people 
 will laugh at you. Good-bye.' 
 
 Adam was mortified to learn of his mistake about 
 Keats, though indeed he had been misled partly by 
 Mr Flood's unscientific method and completely by 
 the bookseller with the authoritative whiskers. If the 
 latter, who was the flower of Grafton Street culture, 
 maintained that there existed no such poet as Yeats, 
 or if such a poet did exist, his real name was Keats, 
 how could Adam doubt it ? Yet he found some comfort 
 in the fact that Keats was not an Irish poet, for he had 
 158 
 
The Days That Followed 
 
 failed to find in his works more than odd statements 
 here and there which he could understand. The- poems 
 seemed a jumble of jawbreaking words which he could 
 hardly make scan when he read them aloud; and he 
 knew from Mr Flood that if any poetry did not sound 
 grand when you read it aloud it simply was not poetry. 
 Of what he could understand there was little with which 
 he agreed, and he thought Mr Keats had an experience 
 of life quite unhke his own. He appeared to have been 
 a gentleman of unhmited means, fond of 'Elgin' 
 marbles, which was no doubt some Scotch variety of 
 that ancient game, and that was an agreeable trait 
 in his florid and bizarre character. But what was one 
 to make of such eccentricity as led him to apologise 
 to his friend Mr Hayden for not having eagle's wings? 
 Did any one ever hear of a man with eagle's wings or 
 wings of any kind? 
 
 Clearly he had been wasting his time, his eyes, and 
 the precious oil in the bull's eye lantern, reading the 
 poetry of Mr Keats, who was not an Irishman but a 
 cockney from London, born and bred. He put the 
 Uttle book away, determined to waste his time no more. 
 Yet that very night he woke to find himself sitting up 
 in bed by the bull's eye lantern and the book open in 
 his hand. He thought this witchcraft, but he surrendered 
 to it. 
 
 The next morning he asked Father Innocent after 
 he had been to confession and was leaving the box, 
 'What is a Grecian urn?' 
 
 ' I don't know, my dotey boy,' he answered, ' I never 
 heard of such a thing. You'd better ask them at 
 Belvedere.' 
 
 159 
 
chapter Nineteen 
 
 JOSEPHINE 
 
 That was a happy summer-time between Adam's first 
 and second year at Belvedere. Most of it he passed 
 with relatives of Father Innocent, who had a little house 
 at Sandy Cove, which backed on the seashore. You 
 could descend to the beach by stone steps from the 
 garden gate and when the tide Wcis out you could chmb 
 along the rocks all the way to Kingstown Harbour and 
 right round to the fort at the entrance, but no one had 
 ever done so because it was too far. If you went the 
 other way you came to the Forty Foot Hole, where you 
 could bathe, but Adam did not bathe there because Mrs 
 O'Meagher, under whose care he temporarily found 
 himself, believed that forty feet of water would drown 
 you more surely than twelve. Adam, himself, calculated 
 that the danger was increased three and one-third 
 fold. 
 
 Mrs O'Meagher had two twin sons, Patrick and 
 Columba, who were going to be priests, and a daughter 
 Josephine, who was going to be a nun. Josephine was 
 older by a few years than Adam, but in the parlour 
 there was a photograph of her as she was at Adam's age, 
 sitting on the knee of a gentleman Adam took to be 
 her father, but she laughed and said he was nothing 
 of the kind. He was only Mr Macarthy. Adam rather 
 liked the look of Mr Macarthy, though he did not 
 think Josephine ought to sit on the knee of any gentle- 
 man who was not her father or else her uncle. Father 
 i6o 
 
. Josephine 
 
 Innocent. He did not venture to express this opinion. 
 He inquired about Mr Macarthy, but learnt nothing. 
 Columba said, 'We haven't seen him for a long time.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher was in prison for a political offence. He 
 had said to an assembly in Galway 'that Dublin Castle 
 rule ought to be destroyed,' and the next day a man 
 had broken a window in the Dublin General Post Ofi&ce. 
 It was proved that this man came from Galway, that 
 he had attended a Sinn Fein meeting, on at least two 
 occasions in his life, and that he had asked if the 
 General Post Office were not Dublin Castle. Both were 
 returned for trial and the man from Galway being 
 refused bail, Mr O'Meagher dechned to make use of it 
 for himself. His wife explained to Adam that he was 
 tortured in prison. He was a delicate little man and 
 the authorities were so frightened of his dying on their 
 hands that they crammed him like a capon and gave 
 him no exercise. 
 
 Meanwhile the thirteen-year-old aspirants for the 
 priesthood spent their hohdays fighting in the garden, 
 the subject of contention being, the comparative sanctity 
 of St Francis d'Assisi and St Francis de Sales. Josephine, 
 who was nearly two years older, pooh-poohed both 
 saints, and vaunted gently her own St Anthony of 
 Padua. But she did not offer to fight for him, which 
 Adam thought very sensible of her, for what is the good 
 of fighting about saints, who had thought it wrong to 
 fight about themselves? 
 
 All the family were kind to Adam, but Josephine 
 kindest of all. She was a quiet, motherly person, and, 
 as he was small for his years, she loved to take him 
 on her lap, and tell him stories about St Anthony of 
 Padua. So, much of his holiday was passed in sleep, 
 for St Anthony was a powerful saint, but hot strong 
 enough to keep you awake on a summer day, with a 
 pretty young woman, rocking you about in her lap. 
 
 i6i 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 To Josephine he dedicated his first serious effort at 
 poetry : — 
 
 What a happy chap 
 Am I in your lap. 
 Where I have been. 
 Dear Josephine. 
 
 Behold my happiness. 
 If I may so express 
 Myself when I have been, 
 Not far from Josephine. 
 
 Josephine was surprisingly pleased with this, and 
 made a clean copy of it to send to her favourite sister 
 at the Convent of the Little Sisters of the Holy Ghost, 
 Bray, where it was, of course, read by Reverend Mother, 
 who passed it on to the convent chaplain, who posted 
 it to Father Innocent, who, not vmderstanding what 
 was in his correspondent's mind, proclaimed it a master- 
 piece, and congratulated Mr Flood, S.J., on Adam's 
 progress under his direction. He produced the ipsissima 
 verba and made the Jesuit read them in the street, or 
 rather between the crossing of O'Connell Bridge and 
 Westmoreland Street, amidst a whurl of competing cars 
 and trams. 
 
 'Hum !' said Mr Flood, "very nice indeed. Perhaps 
 rather too ordinary, but very nice. Undoubtedly 
 Macfadden will be one of our greatest poets if he per- 
 severes. Application, that's what he wants.' 
 
 ' Could Tom Moore have done it better? ' asked Father 
 Innocent point blank. 
 
 Mr Flood smiled. That was not the sort of question 
 to which a Jesuit ought to answer Yes or No, so he 
 encircled it in this fashion. 'What could Tom Moore 
 not do? What might not Adam Macfadden do? But, 
 162 
 
Josephine 
 
 was the present the future or the future the past? 
 Was what was true of one thing necessarily true in 
 precisely the same sense of something else? And yet 
 who should say which was which ? ' He took off his 
 hat to Father Innocent, and left him in a state of mind 
 as confused as his own. But he was a thoroughly 
 kind, if exalted man, and he wrote to Adam, congratu- 
 lating him on his poem and submitting this amplification 
 as making it more effective as a recitation. 
 
 Behold my happiness, 
 If I may so express 
 Myself when I have been 
 Near kind Miss Josephine ! 
 
 Miss Josephine is kind. 
 Because her noble mind 
 Impels her to be so. 
 That heav'nwards she may go. 
 
 So therefore I'U not sigh 
 When I behold her die. 
 For God doth her require 
 To help to swell His choir 
 His high and heavenly choir. 
 In the Land of Heart's Desire. 
 
 Adam was delighted with this communication and 
 with Mr Flood's poem, particularly as it did not pretend 
 to be more than an extension of his own, and he might 
 therefore claim to be the original begetter of it. Miss 
 Josephine also pleased him by affecting to prefer the 
 germ from which Mr Flood had developed it. Both 
 were astonished at his knowing anjTthing about it, and, 
 if Miss Josephine had any suspicion on the subject, she 
 kept it to herself. The Little Sister of the Holy Ghost, 
 
 163 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 preserved an icy silence in her reply and turned the 
 letter on the necessity of going to confession every 
 week, if one was to retain any hope of ever entering 
 heaven. 
 
 Meanwhile Josephine rocked Adam in her arms, and, 
 at times, forgot all about becoming a nun. Yet he 
 never forgot that this was her predestined future, and 
 it added an exquisite poignancy to his dreams in her 
 lap. He asked her one day why she was called 
 Josephine. 
 
 She answered, 'You know the statues in the haU.' 
 Adam could not deny it. They were the most striking 
 objects in the house. One represented the Sacred 
 Heart, in the predominating tone of red, the other 
 Napoleon Bonaparte, in the predominating tone of 
 blue. They had been bought as a pair and balanced 
 each other very nicely; for, apart from their colour, 
 and their essential symbols, there was little difference 
 between them. 
 
 'Well,' said Miss O'Meagher, " when father was yoimg 
 he used to think Napoleon was the greatest man that 
 ever lived, and Napoleon's wife was called Josephine.' 
 
 Adam's heart stirred within him. ' I think Napoleon 
 was the greatest man that ever Uved,' he said, and 
 tried to call up some evidence of the fact, but could 
 only remember that he had been beaten in 1815 at the 
 Battle of Waterloo. 
 
 Miss Josephine shook her head. ' Oh, no, father knows 
 better now. Michael Davitt was the greatest man that 
 ever lived. Napoleon was just like every other soldier, 
 cruel and mean and treacherous. Look at the way he 
 treated Josephine.' 
 
 'That was rotten,' Adam agreed. He judged from 
 her tone that he had treated her after the fashion of 
 Henry VHI. He could not remember that his history 
 book mentioned Madame Bonaparte at all, but he 
 164 
 
Josephine 
 
 was prepared to be guided by Miss O'Meagher, who 
 combined the attributes of Minerva, with those of 
 Juno and Venus, and could mention without hesitation 
 such obscure dates as the Bull of Pope Adrian, and the 
 discovery of America. Adam was considered pretty 
 good at dates but could arrive at any particular item 
 only by calling over his whole stores, beginning with 
 the coming of St Patrick in 400, and ending with the 
 passing of the Catholic Emancipation Bill in 1828. 
 That the people you read of in history were an3^hing 
 more than names, ticketed to certain numbers, had 
 not so far occurred to him. 
 
 He was interested in Napoleon because Napoleon's 
 wife had been called Josephine, and he was subcon- 
 sciously in love with, among others, a young lady who 
 had been called after Napoleon's wife. But he never 
 thought of Napoleon as a real person who once reigned 
 at Paris, as he thought of Haroun al-Raschid, who had 
 reigned at Bagdad. Not until he read Tom Burke of 
 Ours did Napoleon come alive to him. He commenced 
 the book at Sandy Cove, but the early part, describing 
 Tom's treatment by his father, depressed him too much, 
 and he abandoned it. If Josephine had bade him read 
 it he would have persevered, but it was only her brothers 
 who praised it. He found that they would rather have 
 been soldiers than priests, but there was, so far, no 
 Irish Army, and no self-respecting Irishman could go 
 into the British Army, and the French Army were all 
 infidels, and the German Army aU bulUes, and the 
 Italian Army £l11 excommunicate, and the Spanish 
 Army you couldn't call an army at all, and the Portu- 
 guese were atheists, and the American Army was only 
 used to suppress strikes and Red Indians, and the 
 Russian Army either Cossacks who were savages or 
 poUcemen who were worse. Practically the only possible 
 army was the Austrian, and their father would not 
 
 165 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 hear of that, as he considered the Emperor Francis 
 Joseph to be an old hypocrite. So they decided to 
 become priests, as that too, was a noble and self- 
 sacrificing life, though Latin and theology were no 
 end of a bore. They were healthy, jolly, dullish boys, 
 were Patrick and Columba, and gentleness itself with 
 Adam if cruel hard on each other's noses, whose shape- 
 hness had been sacrificed on the altars of the saints. 
 
 But they were common clay compared with their 
 sister, Josephine. He, decided that of all women she 
 was most hke to the Virgin Mary, so like that in his 
 dreams he confoimded their images, but he said nothing 
 of this, for he was learning reticence. He remained 
 from first to last, of this summer hoUday, the little boy 
 she rocked in her lap. It was not until he had returned 
 to Dublin, and was called from sleep by the bells of 
 St George's Church, to think on things past, present, 
 and to come, that he realised that he loved Josephine 
 O'Meagher, more even than he had loved Caroline 
 Brady, and Caroline Brady was already dead, he felt 
 sure just now she must be dead, and Josephine O'Meagher 
 would be a nun, before he would be old enough to 
 marry her. And what was the use of wealth in this 
 world that went always wrong, a world that among all 
 its mighty armies had none in which a man might 
 worthily serve. A world in which whole oceans of 
 love washed aimlessly as flood and ebb below the phases 
 of the moon. 
 
 He stole out of bed, lit the bull's eye lantern, and 
 opened the squat and dumpy Keats, where he had 
 left a marker at the Ode to a Grecian Urn. 
 
 'Thou still unravished bride of quietness, 
 Thou foster child of silence and slow time. 
 Silvan historians that canst thus express 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme. 
 i66 
 
Josephine 
 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 
 Of deities, or mortals, or of both? 
 
 In Tempe or the vales of Arcady. 
 
 What men or gods are these? What maidens 
 
 loath? 
 What mad pursuit, what struggles to escape ! 
 What pipes and timbrels, what wild ecstasy 1' 
 
 It seemed to make better sense than it did two 
 months ago. They had a Grecian urn at the O'Meagher's. 
 Mrs O'Meagher said that Mr O'Meagher had said that 
 it was made in Germany. Anyhow it was not what 
 Adam had expected. Patrick said urns were for making 
 tea. Columba said they were for burying people. 
 Josephine said she didn't see that their urn was much 
 use for anything. Mrs O'Meagher said everything was 
 of some use. Josephine had never heard of an 'Ode 
 to a Grecian Urn,' though she thought her father had 
 Keats among his books. She never read her father's 
 books. She read only what she brought home from 
 school; prizes, and such. Her prizes were sillier than 
 his, all about saints. She was half a nun ahready . . . 
 and yet she had held him for hours in her arms, and 
 kissed him freely. 
 
 Suddenly jealousy gripped him. He had sat on her 
 knee and loved her. She had allowed herself to be 
 photographed sitting on the knee of this Mr Macarthy. 
 Did she love Mr Macarthy? Mr Macarthy was old 
 enough to be her father. She had told him that Mr 
 Macarthy was very nice, but her mother did not care 
 for him and he never came to Sandy Cove now. 
 
 What did it matter? She was going to be a nun. 
 Caroline Brady was dead and Josephine was going to 
 be a nun. 
 
 If Caroline Brady had not died she would never 
 have been a nun, she had never sat on Mr Macarthy's 
 
 167 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 knee. Who was this Mr Macarthy that any one should 
 sit on his knee ? Why did Mrs O'Meagher never mention 
 him ? And why did Josephine remember no more 
 than that he was very nice? When Josephine was in 
 her convent how much would she remember of Adam, 
 who had sat on her lap? How fickle girls were ! 
 
 He would remember Josephine O'Meagher to his 
 dying day, nun or no nun . . . and Caroline Brady 
 too, for ever and ever. . . . Well, he would remember, 
 not being fickle like a girl, how he had kissed them 
 both. 
 
 i68 
 
Chapter Twenty 
 
 FATHER TUDOR ARRIVES 
 
 Little as he enjoyed returning to dull and stony St 
 George's Place from the beloved changeful sea and the 
 still more beloved constant Josephine, Adam once back 
 in Dubhn looked forward eagerly to the re-opening of 
 school. He had read much dtiring his holidays, books 
 of adventure and exploration such as Patrick and 
 Columba loved, and when not sitting in Miss O'Meagher's 
 lap he had made very successful voyages to the North 
 Pole, the sources of the Nile and Niger, the Andes and 
 the centre of the earth. He had visited too, the Blue 
 Lagoon and noticed its resemblance to DubUn Bay, the 
 Dublin Bay of his dreams. He dreamed more and more 
 as time went on, but his dreams were for the time 
 being less horrific than of old and the nymphs that rose 
 from Dublin Bay, however deadly their embrace, pressed 
 him otherwise than steam rollers and had no sardine 
 tins tied to their tails. Sometimes his visions were 
 theological and often he contended with Martin Luther 
 under the lee of His Majesty King George the Fourth's 
 obehsk at Kingstown, and flung him down the embank- 
 ment on to the railway line to the Carlisle pier; but 
 always followed in time to save him from the final 
 crushing argument advanced by the wheels of the 
 mail; for after all (although a bad one) he was 
 a priest. A very interesting question to ponder 
 that — ^how far moral obliquity affected the priestly 
 character. During the next term and still more 
 A.D. M 169 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 the term following that, he pondered it much in 
 class. 
 
 He was now in the highest class in the Preparatory 
 school, and was usually at the top of it when yachting 
 cruises in the Italian seascapes adorning the four 
 corners of the ceiling did not carry him into eclipse. 
 Father Strong was his new master : a misnamed man, 
 for he was weak and irascible, and flew into tempers 
 which made him the most childish person in the room. 
 But, like all the priests Adam had so far met, he meant 
 well and struggled to do his duty by the unruly and 
 mocking crowd of twelve-year-olds who had not been 
 a week under his care when they discovered his futility. 
 He liked Adam, because Adam, whatever his sins of 
 omission, never played the fool in class or was guilty 
 of intentional disrespect; and Adam liked him because 
 he tried to give the dry bones of their rudimentary 
 studies the dignity proper to the humanities. When he 
 heard them at their Latin grammar he talked to them of 
 Rome, and gave them as a reason for learning Latin, 
 not that it was a subject dear to the heart of the Inter- 
 mediate Education Board, but that it remained to a 
 great extent the Uving language of the wise. Although 
 Adam perceived that Father Strong himself was far 
 from wise, he was won by the nobUity of this plea and 
 made up his mind to study Latin. He succeeded in so 
 far that he could construe Caesar better than any other 
 boy in the class, and had a larger vocabulary, but 
 grammatical rules bothered him : he could not commit 
 a single page of the excellent Dr Smith's Principia Latina 
 to memory. And that in the eyes of the Intermediate 
 Education Board is (or was) not to be compensated 
 for by the most Ciceronian Latin prose. Not that 
 Adam ever knew much more about Latin prose com- 
 position than that the verb ought to close and clinch 
 a plain statement, but Father Strong suffered less 
 170 
 
Father Tudor Arrives 
 
 acutely from his efforts to turn De Bello Gallico into 
 English than from those of his other pupils. Only when 
 he caught Adam, his mouth open, beaming at the ceiling, 
 heedless of his exposition, did he fly into one of his 
 passions and order him to carry his books to the bottom 
 of the- class where sat Alexander Butler, who was said 
 to be nearly twenty and had hair on his chin, over 
 which he dribbled if you asked him the simplest ques- 
 tion. Father Strong never guessed that Adam, when 
 disturbed, had been flying with Scipio Africanus under 
 painted sails for Carthage : nor did Adam know what 
 fantasies made life a possibility for Alexander Butler. 
 He only found his company disgraceful and repugnant, 
 though it enabled him to finish his broken voyage in 
 peace; for no sooner had Father Strong sent him into 
 exile than he regretted his show of temper with the 
 one pupil whom it was a pleasure to teach. 
 
 Thus, one afternoon, Adam was sitting in solitary 
 disgrace on the last bench, near the window, with 
 Alexander Butler mumbUng and shuffling and fiddling 
 with books and ink bottles on his left. The scarlet of 
 shock £ind humiUation was fading from his face and 
 he had withdrawn his eyes from the bitter prospect of 
 North Great George's Street to plough once more the 
 blue Mediterranean above his head. He heard the 
 door open but paid no attention to it; for the worst 
 that could happen to him in one day had happened, 
 and there was nothing to do but beguile himself with 
 the wonders of the deep until it was time to go home. 
 To-morrow he did not doubt that he would be restored 
 to his rightful place at the other end of the room, which 
 was nearer the master and farther from the sea. 
 
 Then he was conscious of a creepy feeling of incom- 
 prehensible terror, such as he had felt often in his 
 dreams, but only once in real Uf e, the night he had found 
 Old Comet, the police spy, drawing his papers from under 
 
 171 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 his arm outside the Gresham Hotel. He thought he 
 must be dreaming to have such a feeUng here now, at 
 Belvedere, where there was much foolishness but, 
 surely, no harm. With an effort he drew his eyes from 
 the ceiling and looked around. His classmates were 
 concentrated on an empty blackboard; Alexander 
 Butler, who could not concentrate on an abstraction, 
 was perseveringly poUshing a slate and sobbing with 
 apprehension. Father Strong stood by the blackboard 
 with a piece of chalk in his hand, but his energy paralysed, 
 • for his eyes were nervously turned towards Adam and 
 — ^Adam's forehead bmrst into sweat — a shadow that 
 darkened the window near Adam's right. 
 
 A deep voice boomed slowly Uke a funeral bell in 
 Adam's ear. 'Tell me, you boy, what is it that your 
 master is going to explain to you?' 
 
 Adam did not know, and, if he had known, would 
 have forgotten the instant he met the baleful eyes of 
 the man who stood ominously between him and the 
 light of day. They seemed to be red and yellow eyes, 
 glowing like a wild beast's in a red and savage face. 
 Above and around stood black curly hair, below the 
 harsh white of the dog-collar threw into reUef the 
 extreme redness of the thick lips which disclosed, 
 when they opened, teeth that were strong to rend and 
 tear. The features were mobile enough to express many 
 varieties of fury, but, in repose, the brows were con- 
 tracted and the lips pursed. Had Adam been a Uttle 
 older he would have known that this was the aspect 
 of a Ijmatic; as it was, his childish instinct told him 
 no more than that he was looking up in the face of a 
 bad priest. 
 
 By this time all the class except Alexander Butler, 
 Struggling with Sisyphean despair to cleanse away a 
 flaw in his slate, were looking at Adam and the man 
 who had sprung from nowhere to torment him. The 
 172 
 
Father Tudor Arrives 
 
 voice boomed deeper and the right hand of the ogre 
 made monstrous, threatening movements as though 
 groping for something under the soutane. 'Don't waste 
 my time, and the time of the class. It is nearly half- 
 past two. TeU me what Father Strong said he was going 
 to explain to you.' Adam stared at him dim:ibfounded 
 while he produced an exceptionally large 'ferrule' from 
 under the soutane. 'I see you don't know. Hold out 
 your hand.' 
 
 Father Strong interposed. ' Father Tudor,' he called 
 across the room. 'I haven't told the boys yet what I 
 was going to show them on the blackboard.' 
 
 ' Quite so ! ' Father Tudor returned, without with- 
 drawing his eyes from Adam. 'And this boy was 
 pajdng so Uttle attention that he didn't even know that. 
 Hold out your hand at once, I tell you.' Adam drearily 
 obeyed. 'Left right, left right, left again, right again.' 
 
 Adam had been slapped before both by Mr Flood 
 and Father Strong, and, although he did not like it, 
 submitted to it readily; for he knew that etiquette 
 demanded a nodding acquaintance with the ferrule, 
 and only muffs escaped it cdtogether. But, to the 
 unpleasantness that attended these experiences he 
 attached no more importance than to the pain of a 
 shock from the electric battery in the laboratory, in 
 the schoolhouse proper, which it was a rare privilege 
 to enjoy. But, to be slapped by Father Tudor was like 
 being struck by lightning. The concussion in his hands 
 vibrated through his whole system, and he fell back 
 on his seat in much the same state of collapse as had 
 been brought about by his father's attack on him at 
 Butt Bridge. He had supposed that the days when he 
 had shame and brutality to fear had passed from his 
 life. This was a rude awakening. . . . 
 
 He heard Father Tudor address himself patronisingly 
 to Father Strong. 'I will not take up your time any 
 
 173 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 further, now that I have made an example,' and off he 
 went. The door had scarcely closed behind him before 
 everything was going on in the class the same as usual, 
 except that Father Strong, flustered out of his small 
 self-possession, had lost control for the rest of the day, 
 and Adam, under his breath, was consigning Father 
 Tudor to damnation in the foulest terms he could 
 remember to have heard in Sackville Street. As soon 
 as he could dismiss the class Father Strong hurried 
 down to his place and helped him to strap up his books, 
 which his hands were too painful to do unaided. 
 
 ' I'm sorry this has happened, Adam,' he said softly, 
 that not even the idiotic Alexander Butler might hear. 
 'We must try to prevent its happening again.' 
 
 Adam recognised that his tone was one of a com- 
 panion in misfortune and answered, 'Thank you, sir,' 
 very gratefully. Then he added, with a fiery resent- 
 ment burning his throat and flashing in his eye, ' What 
 right had he to slap me?' 
 
 He read two answers in the priest's face, but the one 
 given was : ' Father Tudor is the new Prefect of Studies. 
 He comes to Belvedere with a great reputation from 
 Clongowes on account of his successes in the Inter- 
 mediate. . . . But I didn't know that we should have 
 had him here in the Preparatory, or . . .' he looked 
 around to make sure no one was hstening, 'I'd have 
 warned you.' 
 
 Adam thanked him once again, and, shaking hands 
 with unwonted affection, they parted. 
 
 Adam passed mournfully down the stairs and steps 
 of No. 5 Denmark Street. Opposite the post office he 
 met Father Innocent, more than ever weary and 
 harassed, but he brightened on seeing Adam. 'You 
 look tired. How are you getting on?' he asked. 
 
 'I'm not getting on,' said Adam. 'And I never will 
 get on at Belvedere now.' 
 174 
 
Father Tudor Arrives 
 
 The little priest stared. 'You've been overworking 
 to get an idea like that into your head. Mr Flood told 
 me you were a grand fellow, and Father Tuite says 
 he's not prepared to deny it. Have you collywobbles 
 or something to make you feel tired of school ? ' 
 
 'No,' said Adam. 'It isn't that, but there's a new 
 Prefect of Studies at Belvedere and he's a bad priest.' 
 Adam's voice flew up in his indignation. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' whispered Father Innocent entreatingly. 
 'You mustn't talk like that. There's the Vicar of St 
 George's coming round the corner and will you look 
 who's with him?' 
 
 Adam discreetly turned his eyes towards Temple 
 Street and saw the vicar, Mr Cross, a tallish, clean- 
 shaven man, easy to mistake for a Jesuit were it not 
 for his round, soft hat, which in Ireland is never worn 
 even by a professed priest unless an occasional young 
 curate in the country. On his right side walked or 
 rather marched a lady, a stout lady, an old lady, the 
 lady who had dropped her letter to Mr Justice Harrison 
 on the pavement outside Gerrard's and had given Adam 
 a penny to take a bath. 
 
 When they were well out of earshot Father Innocent 
 went on in a low voice, ' I wouldn't for the world have 
 let her hear what you said.' 
 
 'Who is she?' asked Adam. 
 
 'Have I never told you?' said Father Innocent. 
 ' She's the worst woman in Dublin and that's a terrible 
 thing for me to have to say of any woman; for there's 
 very little wickedness in Dublin that I know of, thank 
 God.' He dropped his voice yet lower. 'You teU me 
 there's a bad priest at Belvedere, and, sure, I know it's 
 not impossible, but you know, yourself, that Father 
 Tuite's a good man, and do you think he'd tolerate a 
 bad man imder him?' 
 
 'I don't think he would,' said Adam, 'if he knew. 
 
 175 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 But Father Tudor's only just come, and perhaps he 
 doesn't know him yet.' 
 
 'Father Tudor, Father Tudor,' the little priest 
 repeated. 'I seem to have heard that name before. 
 Anyhow, one thing you can depend on is, that if he 
 really is a bad priest and not merely an ordinary man 
 with the failings of us all and gifts to compensate for 
 it, which we have not, he won't remain long at Belvedere.' 
 The httle priest's hands fell trembling upon the boy's 
 heaving shoulders. 'And, anyhow, Adam, my dotey 
 boy, just think, if he does seem to you to be a bad 
 man and a harsh master, of all -the other priests at 
 Belvedere who have been so kind to you.' 
 
 Adam promised that he would try to bear 'with 
 Father Tudor; but he had no shadow of doubt in his 
 mind that the worst woman in Dublin was a saint 
 compared with that anointed priest. 
 
 176 
 
Chapter Twenty-One 
 
 THE MISTLETOE BOUGH 
 
 Father Tudor remained at Belvedere but he did not 
 appear again in the Preparatory School that term. 
 Rumour said that Father Rector had expressly desired 
 him to concentrate his energies on the school proper, 
 so that Belvedere might 'capsize the stars,' to quote Mr 
 Flood, at the Inteimediate. But even had he revisited 
 Father Strong's class, he would have found it hard to 
 pick a quarrel with Adam Macfadden, for Adam had 
 learnt his lesson. The adventure with Father Tudor 
 had taught him that foolish, irascible. Father Strong's 
 heart yearned towards him as tenderly as might that 
 of an ideal elder brother. In response Adam flung 
 himself eagerly into all the work he did for him, and 
 remained permanently at or about the head of class 
 in everything except mathematics, which was taught 
 by another master. As, however, he had started with 
 a good working knowledge of arithmetic, and had a 
 clear head, he could keep himself afloat in this without 
 any trouble. He never drowsed over a sum or a pro- 
 position, and, if he allowed himself to embark on an 
 serial voyage during Father Strong's classes, the priest 
 recalled him gently and harmlessly to Mother Earth. 
 
 At Christmas Adam enjoyed his last triumph at 
 Belvedere. He was first in EngUsh, Latin, and Christian 
 Doctrine, second in French, and third in Arithmetic 
 and Elocution. Father Tuite was gracious, and Father 
 Tudor smiling ferociously, boomed across the room to 
 
 177 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Father Strong, 'You see my little excursion to yoiu: 
 classroom was not altogether thrown away.' 
 
 Father Strong looked back at him and piped almost 
 as loudly, 'Ah, sure, it wasn't that at all.' He was 
 indeed a foolish, an irascible man. Father Tudor 
 glanced appealingly at the rector as much as to say, 
 ' How can you allow such an imbecile to teach in your 
 school?' 
 
 Father Tuite shrugged his shoulders very slightly, 
 not meaning to shrug them at aU. He preferred Father 
 Strong to Father Tudor, but he could not defend his 
 siUy indiscretion. He was a man of ideas and had 
 thought at one time that it would be interesting to be 
 Head of Belvedere and to modernise the scheme of 
 education there. He had lost that illusion and wished 
 to be out of it. Father Tudor's zeal for doing the 
 inevitably dirty work of aU educational establishments 
 was a relief to him. Parents complained of his severity, 
 but he observed some valuable conventions. He con- 
 fined his punishments to the ferrule, and did not break 
 slates on the boys' heads as had happened to Father 
 Tuite himself, when he was a small boy at Belvedere, 
 in the ground-floor room to the left of the haU door of 
 No. 6. Besides, Father Tudor's methods, however 
 displeasing to him, promised to prove successful at the 
 Intermediate, and Father Muldoon's fiat had gone 
 forth, that the Jesuit Schools of Ireland must be second 
 to none in the Intermediate Examinations. The 
 ultimate responsibility rested with him and not with 
 Father Tuite, the philosophical lobe of whose brain 
 doubted of the efficacy of corporal punishment at all. 
 
 During the Christmas holidays he wrote in this 
 spirit to Father Muldoon. ' Father Tudor, whose energy 
 as Prefect of Studies I hope I have always praised as 
 it deserves, tells me that your proteg^, Adam Macfadden, 
 who did well at our recent examinations, would very 
 178 
 
The Mistletoe Bough 
 
 possibly pass in the Junior Grade of the Intermediate, 
 this coming year, if taken out of the Preparatory 
 School, and put under Mr O'Meagher, in Third of 
 Grammar. Father Strong, Macfadden's present master, 
 resents very much Father Tudor's interference, and I 
 do not Uke the principle of a move in the middle of 
 a year, though I consented to it last year when it was 
 clearly in the interests of all concerned. I am bound, 
 however, to say, that Adam is a very promising if 
 whimsical boy, and Father Tudor's hopes may be right. 
 In any case it is for you to decide what we are to do in 
 the matter.' 
 
 Father Muldoon replied verbally. 'You'd better do 
 as Tudor says. O'Meagher is a smart young fellow, 
 and I'm afraid dear old Strong is a bit of a molly- 
 coddle, he doesn't seem to do much good with his 
 class.' 
 
 'He's been very successful with boys of Macfadden's 
 stamp, willing but highly strung,' said the rector. 
 
 'We can't have favouritism,' returned the provincial. 
 'I'd be sorry to hear you encourage that at Belvedere. 
 Send along Macfadden to Mr O'Meagher and we'U see 
 what he makes of him.' 
 
 While this cloud was gathering Adam was spending 
 his Christmas joyfully at Sandy Cove with the 
 O'Meaghers, but not so J037fully as the summer. Three 
 months had woefully changed the aspect of the garden 
 and the sea beyond. The garden was muddy, dark, 
 and weather-beaten. The sea, which had played in the 
 rock-pools on the simlight, now drove before the bitter 
 south-east wind across the reefs to batter the garden 
 steps. One had been whipped away and the place gaped 
 hideously with crumbhng mortar, Uke the hole in the 
 jaw of some foul giant's skull. And four months had 
 passed in the lives of the young people of the house 
 and in his own. Josephine did not offer to take him 
 
 179 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 in her lap. On the other hand, he noticed that the 
 photograph of her sitting in Mr Macarthy's lap had 
 disappeared, and, encouraged by this knowledge, and 
 by Patrick and Columba, he kissed her under the 
 mistletoe that hung in the hall between the Sacred 
 Heart and Napoleon Bonaparte. A jocund and a 
 sweet experience. But when he had done it for the 
 tenth time she said that was enough. And the next 
 day his heart fell, coming downstairs, to perceive that 
 there was no more mistletoe. 
 
 Mr O'Meagher caught Adam looking wistfully at the 
 place where it had been. 'My daughter burnt it this 
 morning before going to mass, for fear there'd be none 
 of her left to become a nun,' he said, with an air of 
 grave apology. Mr O'Meagher had only just come out 
 of Mount joy Prison, and his hair had not yet grown, so 
 he looked rather a plain Uttle man, but he had glowing 
 eyes behind his queer green spectacles eind a warmth 
 of humour which almost consoled Adam for Josephine's 
 coldness. He explained to Adam that it was 'all 
 nonsense Josephine going to be a nun. It was her 
 mother and that dreadful old Turk at Bray had put 
 her up to it. I was against it, and what's more, 
 Macarthy was against it, but you don't know Mr 
 Macarthy, do you?' 
 
 Adam said he did not know Mr Macarthy. He tried 
 to express his regret, but Mr O'Meagher cut him short. 
 'You must know Macarthy,' said he. 'You and he 
 were made for one another. Macarthy is the greatest 
 man in Ireland. Though, mind you, I disagree with 
 everything he says, except about Josephine. And 
 now my wife's forbidden him the house, because we 
 
 agree, and she doesn't ' He broke off. 'Sure, I'd 
 
 be happier at Mount joy all my life, thinking of the 
 dreadful things I'd say when I got out, than Josephine 
 would be in a convent, knowing that she'll never get 
 l8o 
 
The Mistletoe Bough 
 
 out. I mean, of course, when the first blatherumskite 
 has worn off.' 
 
 ' Can't you prevent her,' asked Adam. 
 
 Mr O'Meagher looked away guiltily. 'That's what 
 Macarthy says, and I suppose I could if I was man 
 enough,' he said. 'But I am not, except when I'm 
 addressing a meeting and telling them to do the things 
 I ought to be doing meself.' He dropped his voice, 
 somewhat theatrically. 'You see I've the great mis- 
 fortime to be afraid of me wife. It's not that she ever 
 beats me with her fists, though I've no doubt she could 
 if she tried. It's moral power she has over me and 
 that's not fair when you come to think of it. Now 
 Macarthy's not a bit afraid of her, for she has no 
 moral power over him and that's why she says he's 
 immoral and can't bear the sight of him.' 
 
 Adam could not make up his mind whether Mr 
 O'Meagher was joking or not. He insisted that he 
 ought to have enough pluck to see that his daughter 
 did not enter a convent. 
 
 'I know you're right,' said Mr O'Meagher. 'You're 
 the wisest young man of your years I've ever come 
 across. You might be Patrick or Columba's grand- 
 father. But you don't know what it is to be married 
 to my wife, do you? ' 
 
 Adam answered that he did not, and inquired whether 
 Mr Macarthy did, a question which seemed to surprise 
 Mr O'Meagher, 
 
 'I never thought of such a thing,' said Mr O'Meagher, 
 'and I don't suppose he has either. But not being 
 married to my wife, you see, I have the advantage of 
 you, for I know what a terror she is, and you see she 
 has the whiphand of me, for she says she would have 
 been a nun herself, if I hadn't coaxed her out of it. 
 And if I do the same with Josephine I have two genera- 
 tions of spoiled nuns on my conscience.' 
 
 i8i 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'And is it she whose turning Patrick and Columba 
 into priests?' asked Adam. 
 
 'Well, I've had a hand in that myself,' Mr O'Meagher 
 admitted. 'They're fit for nothing else, poor lads, 
 unless they emigrate. And if they were fit for anything 
 better, sure there's nothing better for them to do, 
 while Dublin Castle stands one stone on another. 
 I've never been able to teach them GaeUc' 
 
 ' What's that ? ' Adam inquired. 
 
 Mr O'Meagher struck an attitude of comic horror. 
 'What's Gaelic?' he repeated. 'Glory be to God and 
 Belvedere must be a queer sort of school if you ask me 
 that.' 
 
 'Will you let the child come in to his breakfast, and 
 not keep him blathering there in the cold?' called Mrs 
 O'Meagher from the dining-room. 
 
 Her husband took Adam's hand and whispered in 
 his ear : ' Save me from her, and don't repeat what I've 
 told you about the mistletoe, and not a word about 
 Macarthy. She has a great respect for you because 
 she thinks you're like John the Baptist, and Josephine 
 might dance before you till she wore out her heels. 
 But I know you better, my lad. You and I are birds 
 of a feather. Save me now and I'll teach you GaeUc' 
 
 They went in to breakfast. Mr O'Meagher very 
 solemn and sheepish, his head down as though there 
 was no hope for him in this world. He fed gloomily 
 and said nothing. 
 
 'What's the matter with you, father, this morning?' 
 asked Mrs O'Meagher. ' I didn't mean to speak crossly 
 to you just now.' 
 
 'Oh, it isn't that at all I'm thinking of,' he assured 
 her. ' You know I've no resentment if you hit me with 
 the coal shovel.' 
 
 Mrs O'Meagher smiled faintly. "Ah, don't talk like 
 that before Adam or he'U think you mean it,' 
 182 
 
The Mistletoe Bough 
 
 'Mr Macfadden understands me perfectly/ he said. 
 'There's a rare lot of sympathy between us. He was 
 advising me just now how to treat yourself.' 
 
 'What did he say?' asked Mrs O'Meagher, her smile 
 broadening, while Adam sought to conceal himself in 
 his cup. 
 
 ' I wouldn't like to repeat it,' said her husband, ' for 
 it was more practical than polite, but I'd be sorry for 
 Adam's wife if she ever tries to bully him the way you 
 bully me, and I hope you'll all mark that,' said he, 
 with a side glance at his daughter. 
 
 'I don't bully you,' said Mrs O'Meagher, with half- 
 real indignation. 
 
 ' It's too late to say that now,' returned her husband 
 shortly. 'Adam knows all about it.' 
 
 Josephine's face was in harmony with her mother's, 
 amused yet protestant, but Patrick and Columba roared 
 with laughter. 
 
 'Tell us how Adam is going to treat his wife,' they 
 cried. 'Do tell us that, father?' 
 
 But Mr O'Meagher went on quietly eating bread and 
 butter until their clamour died down. Then he asked 
 his wife in his most absent-minded manner, 'Is it 
 twenty years that Josephine is older than Adam?' 
 
 Mrs O'Meagher clashed her cup against her saucer. 
 "Ah, what rubbish you're talking. Sure, you ought to 
 know the age of your own daughter.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher's face took a look of injured innocence. 
 'Did I say I didn't know her age?' 
 
 ' You let on,' cried the twins. 
 
 Mr O'Meagher turned to Adam. 'You're the only 
 one I can get any sense out of in my own house, Mrs 
 O'Meagher's own house, I would mean to say. Can 
 you tell me how old my daughter is? ' 
 
 'Fifteen and seven months,' said Adam promptly. 
 
 His host raised his eyebrows to where his hair ought 
 
 183 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 to have met them. 'Is that all, Mr Macfadden? Then 
 I suppose you and my daughter are about the same 
 age.' 
 
 The long-baited Josephine was drawn at last. 'Adam 
 is nearly six years younger than me,' she said, with 
 unnatural coldness. 
 
 ' I, not me,' said her father suavely. ' You'll have to 
 learn grammar if you're going to be a nun.' He turned 
 to Adam. 'A cold morning like this, I dare say, you'd 
 be glad to warm your hands at Josephine's cheeks.' 
 
 Poor Josephine bolted. Adam did not quite under- 
 stand why. 'You might have kept that joke till the 
 girl had finished her breakfast,' said Mrs O'Meagher, 
 with real reproach. 'She washout in the cold to Holy 
 Communion this morning, while you were still snoring 
 in bed.' 
 
 ' Don't let on you know anything 'about that,' said 
 her husband, outstaring her with a roguish solemnity, 
 'or I'll think it was you that took down the mistletoe 
 in the hall. I'm going to put it up again after break- 
 fast.' 
 
 But somehow he did not, nor did he attempt to 
 teach Adam Gaelic. That Christmas remained in 
 Adam's mind as a promise that never came to an5^hing. 
 The day before he returned to DubUn he carried into 
 effect the first deliberate exploit he ever adventured 
 in the field of love. In a greengrocer's near Glasthule 
 Church he bought a sprig of mistletoe, and, when bed- 
 time came, he rnanaged to catch Josephine in her 
 dressing-gown, a towel over her arm, going to the 
 bath. Patrick and Columba were already trumpeting 
 in the sleep of the just. From downstairs came muffled 
 eloquence of Mr O'Meagher, reading the draft of a 
 speech to his wife. 
 
 'Josephine,' called Adam softly. 
 
 She turned with a start, her long red hair swinging 
 184 
 
The Mistletoe Bough 
 
 over her shoulders. 'You, Adam, why aren't you 
 asleep?' 
 
 In an instant he was beside her, the mistletoe in 
 his hand. ' Because of you. Look ! ' He held the 
 mistletoe up. 
 
 She laughed softly, fluttering, with disdain perhaps, 
 but perceptibly fluttering. 'You're not tall enough to 
 put it over my head.' 
 
 Too wise to try, he answered only, 'Never mind. 
 Won't you kiss me anyhow?' He felt her fluttering, 
 fluttering, fluttering, though she beUeved she stood 
 quite still. Some mysterious inherited intuition told 
 him that her heart was beating faster than his own. 
 He pressed her closer, repeating, with his lips httle 
 higher than her breast, so that she scarcely heard, 
 'Won't you kiss me, anyhow? I love you.' 
 
 Then her lips slowly and solemnly descended on his. 
 He thought he had never been so kissed before. She 
 thought she must never be so kissed again. 
 
 The door below opened. Josephine threw up her 
 head so suddenly that Adam slipped on the floor, and 
 trying to save himself upset a chair. 
 
 'Who's that breaking the furniture?' Mr O'Meagher 
 called from below. 
 
 'It's me,' said Adam, with indiscreet promptitude, 
 and Josephine, more innocent yet than he, made things 
 worse by adding, 'It was all my fault.' 
 
 'You needn't tell me that,' said her father, with a 
 chuckle. ' Well I know, but you'll never be able to sue 
 Adam for breach of promise, if you tell the jury that.' 
 A whisk of skirts, announcing the approach of Mrs 
 O'Meagher, he added brusqudy, 'Stop your pillow- 
 fighting, children, and go to bed.' 
 
 A.D. N 185 
 
Chapter Twenty-Two 
 
 THE LANTERN BURNS OUT 
 
 The Josephine Adam met at breakfast the next 
 morning might have been a nun already. Her hair 
 was brushed off her forehead and tied in a pigtail. 
 She wore one of her school uniforms, she was unrecog- 
 nisable. 
 
 Mr O'Meagher regarded her with a sardonic smile. 
 'You remind me of Mountjoy this morning,' he said. 
 'It's a lovely place of its kind, but the wrong kind of 
 place.' 
 
 'What's the matter with Josephine?' asked her 
 mother, up in arms to protect her from her father's 
 ribaldry. 
 
 'Did I say there was an3^hing the matter with her? ' 
 he protested. 'Isn't she the living image of you?' 
 
 Mrs O'Meagher was, in Adam's eyes, very much like 
 most women, only a lot nicer. She could not always 
 repress her indignation. 'I can tell you,' she said 
 spiritedly, 'that when I was Josephine's age no one 
 ever saw me looking like a guy.' 
 
 Tears started into Josephine's eyes but she said 
 nothing. Her father rose from his place and passed 
 behind her. 'I won't have your mother laughing at 
 you,' he said, and, as he spoke, with nimble fimgers he 
 loosened her hair and flung it tumbling over her 
 shoulders, as Adam had seen it the night before. 
 
 He was exquisitely thrilled, and thought now for 
 sure her eyes must find his, but she sat downcast to 
 i86 
 
The Lantern Burns Out 
 
 the end of breakfast, silent, heedless, as though the 
 hair over which her father and mother contended, and 
 Adam gloated, were not sprung from the body which 
 was the temple of her soul. 
 
 Her hair was still flowing about her, in the disorder 
 which her father's hands had made, when the family 
 assembled in the hall, between the Sacred Heart and 
 Napoleon, to bid Adam good-bye. This time she bent 
 publicly to kiss him, but he saw by the strange Ught 
 in her eyes that she was going to imitate her mother 
 and touch his forehead. Angry at the thought he 
 turned his back on her, and leapt out into the street 
 where Mr O'Meagher was waiting to take him to the 
 station. 
 
 When the latter returned, his wife said to him, with 
 a sigh, 'Adam's getting quite the big boy. Did you 
 notice he doesn't like to be kissed any more? ' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher spread out before the fire the tails of a 
 garment which many beUeved to be an overcoat, but 
 his tailor called a frock, and was composed of Irish or 
 perhaps Japanese materials, and said, 'Adam and I 
 are going to be Trappists as soon as you divorce me.' 
 
 His wife answered, 'I'm always asking you not to 
 joke about serious subject^,' and he replied, 'You might 
 as well ask me to take a rope and hang myself.' And 
 then Mrs O'Meagher cried softly, until he kissed her 
 tears away. They played this little comedy pretty 
 often, but he did not enjoy it as much as she, for he 
 felt those bewitching tears of hers made misty his 
 view of Hfe. If he could keep cool when his wife wept, 
 perhaps Josephine. . . . 
 
 Anyhow, the worst hadn't happened yet, and two 
 years might make a difference. If only Adam weren't 
 quite so young and his family history quite so un- 
 promising. No one could guess his parentage from his 
 mind and bearing. Still there was no knowing when the 
 
 187 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 bitter fruit might burst amidst the fragrant flower and 
 leaf. Sexually the child was precocious, though the 
 signs he had given were devoid of ugliness. Mr 
 O'Meagher took it for granted that he glimpsed, more 
 clearly than his wife, the possibilities of what might 
 happen between the two children. To her they were 
 merely a girl and a boy. The girl already comfortably 
 labelled for her destination. The boy to be labelled in 
 another year or two. He said to himself that it would 
 never occur to her that Josephine might be seized by 
 a great passion, such as had dragged her from tran- 
 quillity to this stormy, tearful, glorious passage through 
 hfe, in the arms of Mr O'Meagher. Two such men do 
 not come in one century. Even the sons she had borne 
 him had only his moral worth. They lacked his worldly 
 genius. It was enough that they and their sister should 
 be privileged to Uft their prayers to heaven for his 
 feebleness, when he was dead. Her brother Innocent 
 had told her that she might make her mind easy about 
 the safety of her husband's soul, but she knew his own 
 mind was far from easy and his name never absent 
 from his prayers. Father Innocent shared her beUef 
 in Mr O'Meagher's colossal intellect, and looked up to 
 him as Lucifer, the yet unfallen Morning Star. Mr 
 O'Meagher treated Father Innocent with the humble 
 courtesy a St Bernard dog shows to a baby. When 
 they were engaged to be married he had referred to 
 Innocent, then at Maynooth, as the fool of the family 
 and had brazened it out that, if she did not see he was, 
 she must be the fool of the family herself, which was 
 ridiculous, as she had had the sense to marry him. . . . 
 And then there was the question of Macarthy. . . . 
 She would have broken off the engagement only Innocent 
 had begged her not, as O'Meagher was the greatest and 
 wisest man in Ireland. . . . Innocent had never known 
 Macarthy. . . . And, if she threw him over, he might 
 i88 
 
The Lantern Burns Out 
 
 go and marry a Protestant. O'Meagher thought that 
 she was not so much afraid of this as that he, being 
 then in his Napoleonic period, would have carried her 
 off by violence. 
 
 Anyhow, they had, as Mr O'Meagher considered, 
 married and hved happily ever after, whereas Adam's 
 love troubles were but faintly adumbrated, when he 
 put him into the train at Sandy Cove, bidding him to 
 remember that 'faint heart never won fair lady,' and 
 that the first thing he ought to do was to learn Gaelic. 
 Adapi had privately perused O'Growny's grammar, 
 finding it among his host's books, but it awakened little 
 response from his emotions or his intellect. He did 
 not feel that he woidd ever want to speak it as he 
 wanted to speak English, nor did he want to read it 
 as he wanted to read French. It was a more difficult 
 language than Latin and yet had none of its utiUty. 
 A medical prescription in Latin would be made up for 
 you in any country where drugs were scientifically 
 compounded. A GaeUc prescription you could not 
 count on getting made up in Dublin itself. Ancestor 
 worship was not a form of egoism which his experience 
 of life encouraged. He did not look backwards to the 
 Golden Age. Josephine knew Gaelic too, but then she 
 knew Latin much better than he did, and French, 
 and geography, and music, and drawing. Indeed, he 
 was under the impression that she knew everything 
 until he foimd that she had never heard of Keats, 
 
 But he thought of Letters less than Love as the train 
 puffed him grumpily through the Kingstown cutting, 
 down the seaward slope of which he had so often flung 
 Martin Luther in his dreams. In his future dreams he 
 would contend only with Josephine, at least he thought 
 so, plodding the short mUe through the railway cutting. 
 Emerging at Kingstown Station his ideas travelled 
 farther. He could see Howth, harshly outhned against 
 
 189 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 violet clouds, through the sharp winter air cleared by 
 the east wind. The first time he had seen it he was 
 with Caroline Brady. She would never have treated 
 him as Josephine had done to-day. There was a 
 steamer coming out of the Liffey. The wind carried 
 her smoke to what he knew, from Patrick, was her 
 starboard side, towards the train, so that in gusts she 
 disappeared altogether. 'The air hath bubbles as 
 the water hath,' Mr Flood had told him. He was a 
 grand man for language. But this was not the Bristol 
 boat he saw, for Columba said the Bristol boat went out 
 at night. He remembered that in Count AUey he used 
 to hear the hooter when it started. When he was 
 very young it frightened him. Afterwards he liked it. 
 It seemed to say, 'I'm not going to stand this any 
 longer.' It seemed as if the ship said, 'Let me go, 
 let me go,' and they had to let her go whoever they 
 were. He wondered why she ever came back. He had 
 not been to see the Bristol boat since. ... He had 
 been very much in love with Caroline Brady. It was 
 queer that kiss she gave him in Dalkey Tunnel. Perhaps 
 she gave it to him in that very railway carriage. The 
 number was 243, what was the number of the other? 
 He ought to have made a note of that. The numbers of 
 the first and last coaches, on the Waterford train, were 
 19 and 38. Caroline Brady had thought it clever of 
 him to know that thirty-eight was twice nineteen. 
 
 Caroline Brady was quite different from Josephine 
 O 'Meagher, they were both older than himself. . . . 
 No, Caroline was not, for she was dead. . . . Was she 
 really dead or was that only his fancy? Queer that you 
 should be wanting to kiss somebody and yet not be 
 sure whether they were alive or dead. He must really 
 have cared very little for poor Caroline, that he never 
 found out what became of her when she fell ill. But 
 then, in his father's lifetime, he never had a chance to 
 190 
 
The Lantern Burns Out 
 
 care about himself, or any one else. Why hadn't he 
 found out about her when he was at Pleasant Street? 
 There was no one there chasing and belting him all 
 day? He was working too hard for his keep. It was 
 only since he had been free from the risk of starvation 
 and had gone to Belvedere and read poetry, that he 
 had felt the necessity of love. And now it seemed to 
 him the greatest necessity of all since Josephine 
 O'Meagher. . . . What ! The words came to him 
 suddenly : ' Hath thee in thrall.' Now he understood 
 the meaning of that queer poem of Mr Keats the 
 Cockney, 'La Belle Dame sans Merci' (meaning the 
 Beautiful Lady without a Thank you). He remembered 
 some of it : — 
 
 ' what can ail thee, knight at arms. 
 Alone and palely loitering? 
 The sedge has withered from the lake. 
 And no birds sing.' 
 
 ' what can ail thee, knight at arms ! 
 So haggard and so woebegone? . . .' 
 
 What on earth came after that? Something about a 
 hare or a rabbit? Keats was no good at rhymes, he 
 only gave you one just now and then, when you'd 
 given up looking for it, not like Scott, who always kept 
 his promises even if he kept you waiting, and Moore 
 and Goldsmith, decent Irishmen who paid up at once. 
 Moore was the easiest of all, and Goldsmith the friendliest, 
 and Scott the most poetical : — 
 
 "And each St Clair was buried there. 
 
 With candle, with book, and with knell; 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild birds sung. 
 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.' 
 
 191 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 That was poetry. Mr Keats wrote blather compared 
 with that. Still the Belle Dame fitted his present mood. 
 How on earth did it go on : — 
 
 ' I see a lily on thy brow . . . 
 I met a lady in the meads . . . 
 I made a garland for her head. 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
 She looked at me as she did love 
 And made sweet moan.' 
 
 He found this particularly applicable to his case and 
 Josephine's; for he had, in a sense, made a garland for 
 her head and she had, in a sense, made sweet moan 
 and she had more than looked at him ' as she did love.' 
 He had not made her bracelets or a fragrant zone : he 
 did not know what a fragrant zone was unless it was 
 a poetical licence for fragrant ozone, which was a 
 comprehensible term in itself, though he did not see 
 how you could make it unless you caught it by the 
 sea and bottled it. Perhaps making it scent, mixing 
 it with lavender water or eau de Cologne. The lady 
 who asked her friend Mr Moore to play 'Love's Dream' 
 on the piano at Pleasant Street was very fond of scent, 
 perhaps she knew how a fragrant zone was made. He 
 might ask his mother to ask her. He had not seen his 
 mother for a long time, nor Mr O'Toole. They seemed 
 to belong to a murky past remote from the genteel 
 world he hved in now. Though Mr O'Toole looked a 
 gentleman when he dressed as one, and at Pleasant 
 Street he was always so dressed. He remembered that 
 poor Miss or Mrs Robinson said Mr O'Toole was a 
 charming man, and he had wondered why. He was a 
 bitter man, said Miss or Mrs Robinson, because of his 
 wrongs. What were Mr O'Toole's wrongs? He always 
 felt he was a villain, although since he dressed so well 
 192 
 
The Lantern Burns Out 
 
 he had partly forgotten the feeling. What was a 
 villain? Perhaps he was one himself if he only knew. 
 Or would he be when he grew up . . . if . . . Josephine 
 was going to be a nun. He shivered. 
 
 'O what can ail thee, knight at arms? 
 Alone and palely loitering. . . .' 
 
 A smell of gas and bilge water woke him up. The 
 express was palely loitering through Ringsend into 
 Westland Row. 
 
 He was nearly in his teens now, another year, and a 
 man of means. He had eighteenpence in his pocket. 
 He took a car. It sidled down to the roadway, then 
 the horse snorted with pleasure at the light weight 
 behind it, and threw out its legs in a sort of gallop, 
 striking fire from the tramUnes while the wheels boimded 
 grandly on the great paving stones, and Adam bounced 
 on the cushions above them; but he was not going 
 to hold on, not he; it was nobler to fall off than to 
 hold on. Yet he was glad to get off the stones of 
 Brunswick Street which really walloped him more than 
 was quite enjoyable and made him bite his tongue 
 twice. Bump, bump, over Butt Bridge. There lay the 
 Bristol steamer right enough. She was getting up 
 steam already. Up the hiU to Mount] oy Square. It 
 was grand to drive past Father Tuite in Gardiner's 
 Place and to salute him like a gentleman, grander still 
 to pretend not to see Father Tudor at the corner of 
 Temple Street. Grandest of all to give the jarvey 
 sixpence more than he had any sort of right to expect, 
 and to see him touch his hat and hear him say, 'Thank 
 your honour and God bless you.' And to think he 
 used to say that himself on the chance of making a 
 halfpenny ! Life was magnificent and only fools would 
 want to loiter palely through it. It was not one sort 
 
 193 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 of poetry but all sorts of poetry put together. He could 
 love Josephine O'Meagher until St George's bells had 
 rung the end of time; but no Beautiful Lady without 
 a 'thank you' was going to hold him in thrall. And 
 yet again, when he was undressed and getting into 
 bed, the bull's eye lantern forced its way out of the 
 cupboard and the dumpy little book sprang after it, 
 and fell open at a page thumb-marked like Lady Bland's 
 letter to Judge Harrison; but on a grander scale : — 
 
 'Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
 Not to the Sensual ear, but, more endear'd. 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
 Thy song, not ever can these trees be bare; 
 Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
 Though winning near the goal — ^yet, do not grieve. 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss. 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair.' 
 
 Keats had it after all over Scott. The lady who lived 
 for ever on the Grecian Urn transcended lovely Rosabelle, 
 eaten long ago by fishes. She was of the essence of life; 
 for she could but would not die. Neither sea nor land 
 change suffered she : hers was the now that has a future 
 but no past. . . . 
 
 The bull's eye lantern burned out and wakened poor 
 Miss Gannon from dreams of brimstone falling on the 
 cities of the plain; but no earthly odour could summon 
 Adam from that land where he would always love and 
 Josephine be fair. 
 
 194 
 
chapter Twenty-Three 
 
 THE SHORT WAY TO HEAVEN 
 
 In the basement of St George's Place dwelt St Kevin, 
 the kitchen cat, and Attracta: possibly they shared 
 the same apartment. On the ground floor was Mr 
 Gannon, a scion of the wealthy branch of the landlady's 
 family and a medical student; but a strictly brought-up 
 Catholic or she would not have trusted him in so pre- 
 carious a situation. The drawing-room floor was 
 occupied by a junior barrister of great age : his atmo- 
 sphere was whiskified, but his moral character impeccable. 
 He enjoyed as a bachelor a life-interest in the name of 
 Murphy, and Miss Gannon saw that he and young Mr 
 Gannon together went to long mass at Gardiner's Street 
 on Sunday. She, herself, brought Adam to eleven 
 o'clock mass, paying sixpence as they went in and 
 sitting with the nobility and gentry in the sanctuary. 
 It was by Father Muldoon's express direction that 
 they did this; but Adam ignored his further implied 
 command that he should take a Jesuit Confessor. 
 That would never be unless Father Innocent wished 
 it, and he knew very well Father Innocent did 
 not. 
 
 Adam had the front room on the second floor, and, 
 in that behind him, arranged also as a bed sitting-room 
 and packed with small photographs of unnumbered 
 priests, mostly in heaven and their names forgotten even 
 by her. Miss Gannon passed her innocent nights, haunted 
 by a smeU of paraf&n for which she never could account. 
 
 195 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Her reason, too little exercised to be efficient, -told her 
 that if it came from anywhere, which was doubtful, it 
 must come from the top floor, tenanted by a person 
 she never referred to otherwise than as 'that French- 
 man' or addressed but as 'Mr Frenchman.' When 
 she was notably out of temper, as on the monthly Sunday 
 she went to early mass, she called him 'that old 
 Frenchman.' To Adam he appeared to be younger 
 than Mr Murphy, B.L., whom she persisted to treat as 
 a promising youth. 
 
 The reason that Miss Gannon regarded Mr Murphy 
 as of promise and Mr Frenchman as not, was that 
 neither by fair means nor foul could she induce the latter 
 to fulfil his religious duties. When he first came to 
 her for lodging she had asked him if he were a Protestant 
 (for she was often troubled by Protestants wanting 
 rooms, on account of her being so near St George's 
 Church), and he had answered an emphatic negative. 
 Therefore he must be a Catholic like all other Frenchmen 
 (except that Captain Dryfoo who was a Jew and ought 
 to have been hung); but never once had he left her 
 house on a Sunday in time to hear a mass. It was a 
 scandal, and she would not have tolerated him for a 
 moment in the house but that she had to five, and for 
 twenty years now he had been paying his bills more 
 punctually than any other lodger she had ever housed. 
 It was an honour to have a gentleman like Mr Murphy 
 occupying the drawing-rooms, but she could not have 
 afforded it but for that Frenchman up in the 
 garret. 
 
 Adam was more interested in that Frenchman than 
 in any other of his feUow lodgers, but he felt shy of 
 approaching him, partly because he knew it might lead 
 to difiiculties with Miss Gannon and still more because 
 Father Innocent, from whom he hid nothing, would 
 have frowned on his acquaintance with any one, except 
 196 
 
The Short Way to Heaven 
 
 his brother-in-law (a man of genius not to be measured 
 by mortals), who did not go to mass. That Frenchman 
 was a music-master by profession, and, although he 
 received no pupils at St George's Place, Adam often 
 heard his piano giving forth soft sounds as pleasing 
 as they were unfamiliar. On Friday nights the man 
 with the obsolescent cornet, on whose performance 
 Adam's first theories of the subhme and beautiful 
 were based, would come down by the church and 
 play :— 
 
 When other lips and o — o— o — other . . .' 
 
 and then pause and look up for a signal from the 
 Frenchman's window. If nothing happened he would 
 take his second wind and continue : — 
 
 '. . . hearts 
 Their tales of love shall tell.' 
 
 and so on to the bitter, or, as it still seemed to Adam, 
 the rather sweet if flat and unworthy end. But, if 
 the Frenchman were at home, he would hasten down to 
 the hall door and they would have a brotherly Uttle 
 talk ending with a 'Thank your honour and God bless 
 you,' from the troubadour, who would go hence and 
 be heard of no more until the following Friday. Adam 
 noticed that if the wind was from the north he dis- 
 appeared towards the south, if from the south towards 
 the north. Always to leeward of St George's Church. 
 But if the Frenchman were out he was careless 
 whither he roved, and the more passionate or 
 better sustained notes of his comet vibrated through 
 the neighbourhood for an hour after his bodily 
 presence had passed from the precincts of St George's 
 Church. 
 
 197 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Thanks to Father Innocent, Adam was an excep- 
 tionally honest boy and he seldom told Ues which he 
 fully recognised as lies at the moment of their enuncia- 
 tion : he might exaggerate the importance of his part 
 in the Kosmos, but he would scorn to obtain by dubious 
 words any material good or thus to save his skin. On 
 the other hand, the higher principles of honour were 
 as Uttle taught at Belvedere as in Marlborough Street, 
 and he had no scruple about indulging his inquiring 
 spirit in the study of the outside of that Frenchman's 
 letters when he found them in the hall or even attempting 
 to read his post cards. These were written in an extra- 
 ordinary variety of styles as, ' Mr Baire,' ' H. Bare, Esq.,' 
 'Mr Bare,' 'All Illustrissimo Signore Enrico Bero,' 'Mr 
 H. Bair,' 'Monsieur Henri Bayire,' 'Heer Beijer.' One 
 from India was addressed to 'Serenest Wisely Hare 
 Bear.' On the back ran the mysterious message : 
 'If you make side winks at Dina Myte we have not 
 laid with her.' 
 
 It was not surprising that Miss Gannon, even after 
 twenty years, should find it easier to call him 'Mr 
 Frenchman' than choose the right name from so many. 
 But, to Adam's young brain, it was clear that if you 
 called him Mosyou Bare he would recognise himself as 
 the person to whom you spoke. And so he did, and, 
 when Adam said to him on the staircase, hfting his 
 cap, 'Bonjewer, Mosyou Bare,' he would Hft his tall 
 hat and say, 'Goot tay, Mistare Macfatten.' And if he 
 met him carrying his books to or from Belvedere he 
 would add, ' Larening, always larening ! Do not forget 
 dare is also Luff and Lippertee.' Now 'larening' was 
 presumably his way of saying 'learning,' but what was 
 'Luff' if not (as explained by Columba O'Meagher) a 
 marine term meaning to ptit the helm to port, and 
 'Lippertee' suggested nothing except Lipton's Tea, a 
 contemptible suggestion. 
 198 
 
The Short Way to Heaven 
 
 On the Black Monday that Adam returned to 
 •Belvedere, after spending his Christmas hoUdays 
 at Sandy Cove, it being then twenty-five minutes 
 past nine by St George's clock, a trifle fast at the 
 beginning of the week, he was overtaken by that 
 Frenchman in Temple Street and the usual greet- 
 ings passed. Then Adam raised his voice. 'What 
 exactly do you mean, Mosyou Bare, by Luff and 
 Lippertee?' 
 
 That Frenchman eased his pace to look down on 
 him, for he was a tall man, and walked naturally with 
 long defiant strides. ' You, an Irishman, ask that ! ' 
 Adam understood him to say, 'Why, die Liebe, die 
 Freiheit, 1' Amour et la Libert^.' He marched on, 
 leaving Adam prickling with electricity from the energy 
 he had put into the words 'L' Amour, la liberty,' there 
 was no mistaking what they meant. One minute of 
 half-past nine by Findlater's Church : he passed through 
 the sullen gateway at Belvedere and along the covered 
 way to the School House Chapel. Once upon a time 
 the Preparatory boys heard mass in the Oratory at 
 No. 5. He hated the schoolhouse proper because it 
 seemed to he in Father Tudor's domain. Sometimes 
 Father Tudor said mass. It was queer to think of 
 Father Tudor saying mass. It was a wonder God did 
 not strike Father Tudor dead for having the impudence 
 to say mass. Perhaps He was waiting to catch Father 
 Tudor, the way Father Tudor went about trying to 
 catch other people. Some day He'd cry, ' I've got you,' 
 and snap him away to the depths of hell. That would 
 be grand. 
 
 Father Elphinstone was saying mass this morning 
 with CharUe Bridgeman and Joe Macinemy as acolytes. 
 Father Elphinstone was rather hke Father Innocent 
 but older and more learned. If Father Innocent wished 
 it, he wouldn't mind going to Confession to him. 
 
 199 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'L'amour, la liberty.' French was a good language: 
 he wished he were a Frenchman Uke Mosyou Bare. 
 'Liberty, EgaJite, Fraternity,' that was what it said 
 on French stamps. Mr O'Meagher, too, said they were 
 grand words, only, he said, the French themselves did 
 not know what they meant. . . . Amen ! That was 
 over. The day's work was begun. He noticed one or 
 two new boys as they streamed out of chapel. Outside, 
 pressing his back against the staircase all black, white, 
 and red, hovered Father Tudor, peremptory, thunderous, 
 fussy. Adam passed him with averted eyes, a cuffed 
 left hand caught him and thrust him back, and the 
 Prefect of Studies boomed in his ear : ' Macfadden, 
 upstairs. Third of Grammar.' 
 
 The blow was too sudden, too severe for protest. 
 While Adam was waiting for God to catch Father 
 Tudor, Father Tudor had stolen a march and caught 
 him. 'L'amour, la Ubert6,' what a mockery were the 
 words singing in his ears as he climbed upstairs to the 
 Third of Grammar classroom. He had never been 
 upstairs before, except to the laboratory where Father 
 Elphinstone sometimes treated them to electric shocks 
 when Mr Tomhnson, the science master, was away. 
 He asked a boy which was 'Third of Grammar. He 
 answered: 'At the end of the passage. You'U be 
 under a holy terror spawned by old Tudor him- 
 self.' 
 
 'What's his name?' asked Adam, conjuring up a 
 hideous Afrite. 
 
 'O'Meagher,' said his informant. 'Tim O'Meagher. 
 He's not been at it long, but he's a muddy terror. 
 Tudor's whelp, I tell you.' 
 
 All that Adam took in of this speech was the word 
 O'Meagher. And that was a good omen. He could not 
 imagine any one of the name being personally hostile 
 to himself. If this O'Meagher were worthy of his 
 
 200 
 
The Short Way to Heaven 
 
 name Adam would work so hard for him that 
 Tudor or no Tudor, he could not find any fault with 
 him. 
 
 Mr Timothy O'Meagher's reception of him was not 
 unfriendly. It was even hearty in a perfunctory and 
 anxious way. He was a small, sturdy man, with a 
 desperately eager manner, outstanding ears that heard 
 and held everjrthing said to him, and brightly foolish 
 eyes. He was Father Tudor's triumph, discovered by 
 him at Limerick, carried off to Clongowes and borne 
 triumphantly on his afflatus through Intermediate 
 Exhibitions to the National University and the novitiate. 
 Father Tudor, while still himself a novice, had noted 
 the receptivity of his ears, had determined they should 
 receive nothing but what came from him or had his 
 approval, had indeed, sought to mould the mind of 
 Timothy O'Meagher in the likeness of his own. This 
 he could not do. Timothy O'Meagher had no mind : if 
 he inherited any from his parents it had fallen to pieces 
 under Father Tudor's energy; but he was an excellent 
 instrument for the reproduction of the cold cream of 
 Father Tudor's educational ideals, without reference 
 to the fanaticism which inspired them. Mr O'Meagher 
 knew exactly how and why his scholastic career had 
 been so brilliant; he knew exactly how to impart the 
 information to all other boys whose ears were big 
 enough to take it in. You had only to concentrate your 
 whole being on Mr O'Meagher's instruction and you 
 were made for life, as life is understood by good Catholics 
 in Ireland : you might even get a well-paid post in the 
 Civil Service. And you could enjoy bodily success 
 without peril to your soul; for it was an open secret 
 that Mr O'Meagher was the author, under the guise of 
 'Scholasticus' of The Jesuit Boy's Short Way to Heaven, 
 said to have been very nearly, but not quite, published 
 by Bums and Gates, and now to be obtained at Gill's 
 
 A.D. O 201 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 for one shilling. Father Tuite thought the original, 
 when he read it in manuscript, somewhat vulgar and 
 pedestrian. Father Elphinstone said it was dreadful 
 nonsense and might have been written by a mad 
 Dominican. Father Muldoon had frowned upon it at 
 first but, after Father Tudor had rewritten it with a 
 certain fire the author lacked and offered to find a 
 tactful publisher, the provincial's bann was withdrawn. 
 Like everything else Timothy O'Meagher had done, 
 it was a success, and, from that day, Father Tudor 
 and he outweighed Father Tuite and Father Elphinstone 
 in the Provincial's estimate alike as educationalists 
 and theologians. 
 
 This was the first paragraph in the book : — 
 
 'I see a handkerchief in your pocket. It is a white 
 handkerchief. You have not had it long. Take it and 
 tie a knot in it, a hard knot. Always tie a knot in every 
 clean handkerchief you get. Then, when you wipe 
 your nose, you will be reminded that one day you will 
 be scourged with knotted ropes in Pvurgatory. Be 
 sure, while there is time, that you will not be scourged 
 in hell. 
 
 'When tempted by ba'd thoughts, wipe your 
 nose. 
 
 ' In evil company, wipe your nose. 
 
 'If you have nothing else to do, wipe your 
 nose.' 
 
 Adam was so anxious to please Mr O'Meagher that 
 he bought his book and would have read it but that this 
 opening paragraph distressed him too much. It con- 
 vinced him that he could never please Mr O'Meagher. 
 He noticed, too, that the boys in Third of Grcimmar 
 either had not read Mr O'Meagher's opening paragraph, 
 or were not afraid of going to hell. They seldom, or 
 never, wiped their noses : few, indeed, had handker- 
 chiefs in which a knot would attract attention. The 
 2oa 
 
The Short Way to Heaven 
 
 whole class lived in too great a hustle to regard the 
 decencies of life. Mr O'Meagher kept them scam- 
 pering through his short ways to success in the 
 Intermediate Junior Grade subjects, and woe betide 
 you if you failed to foUow him, for his ferrule was 
 scampering over your fingers before you knew where 
 you were. 
 
 But Adam saw that poor Timothy took no real pleasure 
 in punishing you, he had not a mind for it like Father 
 Tudor; he hurt you badly not through adroitness, but 
 through clumsiness. His one idea was to hustle from 
 one thing to another, if he had had to give you medicine 
 he would have flung it in your face; that was the way 
 you got things done in this bustling vale of tears. The 
 boys scrambled into class in the morning, blear-eyed 
 and sullen except for the brilliant fellows with big ears; 
 they scrambled through their lessons, they scrambled 
 downstairs again and up again, finally about half of 
 them scrambled home at three and the other half waited 
 huddled together the coming of Father Tudor, who would 
 slap them some more for faults for which Mr O'Meagher 
 had already slapped them. 
 
 At this hour of the day Adam felt almost sorrier for 
 Timothy O'Meagher than for the boys he betrayed to 
 Father Tudor. Once the proper class was over and the 
 vivacity of teaching had gone out of his face, the lively 
 eyes decUned into pitiful foohshness, the man shrank 
 into nothing. He listened as nervously as the victims 
 for the executioner's step in the corridor. He vaguely 
 dreaded the scene to follow. He was only the lion's 
 jackal. Father Tudor 's creature, and merely despicable. 
 So it would be for half a century to come; that was his 
 short way to heaven. 
 
 Mr O'Meagher continued to be friendly with Adam 
 for a week, two weeks, even three. ' I know all about 
 you,' he would say. 'You're brilliant, you'll do 
 
 203 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 splendidly. All you want is application. Work, 
 work, work, morning, noon, and night. Then you'll do 
 splendidly.' 
 
 Adam worked, according to his lights he worked 
 hard, but he preferred Keats to Alvarez's Latin Prosody 
 and knew, from the first, that he was doomed, sooner 
 or later, to wait for Father Tudor after the boys with 
 big ears had gone home. 
 
 204 
 
Chapter Twenty- Four 
 
 THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 The catastrophe came unexpectedly after all. He had 
 told Father Innocent of his increasing difficulties at 
 Belvedere and of the fatuity of Tudor's creature; and 
 Father Innocent, sad and worn and hollow-eyed, had 
 begged him to make the best of things. 'It's been a 
 cruel world for you, my dotey boy,' he said. 'But 
 surely, even if some hours in every week are a trial 
 to you, your Ufe as a whole is happier than it 
 was?' 
 
 'I don't know,' said Adam. 'I've more to eat and 
 a better bed and a chance to keep clean and all that, 
 but I'd rather be selling papers outside the Gresham 
 any day than sit listening to old O'Meagher gabbHng 
 nonsense and knowing that Tudor may sail in at any 
 moment and catch me over the back with his ferrule if 
 he thinks I'm not listening hard enough to please 
 him.' 
 
 'Father Tudor,' repeated the Uttle priest. 'Father 
 Tudor, h'm. There's something I'm going to say to 
 you in confidence about Father Tudor. You'll promise 
 me it'll go no farther? ' 
 
 Adam smiled. 'I think perhaps I know what it is. 
 He had a great shock to him when he was young and 
 he's got a screw loose?' 
 
 Father Innocent looked a reproof. 'It's not a 
 laughing matter for the poor man to be mad. It's a 
 great misfortune.' 
 
 205 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'It's a great misfortune for me,' said Adam, 'to have 
 a madman waiting behind the doors for me with a 
 thing he could brain me with in his hand. And it 
 isn't me only. ... I give him no chance to get at me, 
 but I've seen him cut a piece out of Jack Walsh's 
 thumb.' 
 
 'That must have been an accident,' said Father 
 Innocent. 'Poor Father Tudor's not so mad as to do 
 a thing like that on purpose.' 
 
 'I wonder,' said Adam. 'I've seen him look like a 
 demon in the pantomime, rolling his eyes and tongue 
 as if he were going to have a fit.' 
 
 'Men who are doing their best may have fits,' said 
 the httle priest gently. 'You or I or any one might 
 even be afiiicted with delusions.' 
 
 'Do you think that men Uke Father Tudor ought to 
 be allowed to teach?' Adam asked point blank. 
 
 'I do not,' admitted Father Innocent. 'But I think 
 that boys like yourself ought to put up with it as well 
 as you can and try not to make things worse for 
 them.' 
 
 So that night Adam worked at his lessons particularly 
 hard and came to school next day so word-perfect that 
 Mr O'Meagher could not catch him out. But he had 
 not learnt them in the way Mr O'Meagher had taught 
 them, and whenever he questioned Adam and received 
 the right answer in what he considered the wrong way, 
 he gave a discontented sniff. This irritated Adam as 
 much as his contempt of his short way to learning 
 irritated him. He put to him many questions, always 
 with the same results. At last he turned his back on 
 him in dudgeon and gave himself to the fruitful long- 
 eared. It was the first class of the day, they were 
 reading Ovid. Adam had construed and parsed his 
 line not incorrectly in schoolboy fashion, his troubles 
 were over for the moment and he knew he would do 
 206 
 
The Church Militant 
 
 equally well with everything else. His mind was at 
 ease. He regretted the absence of mural decoration 
 in the new classroom, but there was a large map of 
 the world on Mercator's projection which showed you 
 where you could go, though it gave you no painted 
 sails to carry you. He vaguely heard Mr O'Meagher 
 linking the Metamorphoses with some catchword of 
 his own. 'You all know that I am Mr O'Meagher, 
 S.J. You all know S.J. stand for Societas Jesuitium, 
 or Company of Jesus. Now, keep these letters in your 
 mind and think of all the other things connected with 
 the lesson they can stand for, as Sublime Jupiter, 
 Smiling Juno. . . . You, Fallon, can you suggest any- 
 thing? Come now, words beginning S.J. mentioned 
 in Ovid.' 
 
 'SiUy Owl, sir.' 
 
 'Fallon, you never attend to what I am saying. 
 Hold out your hand.' Three hurried cracks and a crash 
 on an ink-bottle followed. 
 
 'Hazleton, you. Two words beginning S.J.' 
 
 'Sunny Jim, sir.' 
 
 'Hazleton, you are almost as bad as Fallon. Hold 
 out your hand.' A crash on Hazleton's hand and 
 another on the donor's knees. Adam was looking 
 contemplatively at Mr O'Meagher and thinking what 
 a clumsy Jack-in-the-box he was to hit himself when he 
 meant to hit Hazleton, when their eyes met. ' Macf adden, 
 I suppose you have not been attending either. Two 
 words beginning S.J. which might occur to you after 
 reading what we have read just now?' 
 
 Adam looked at the passage and answered : — 
 
 'Supreme Judge.' 
 
 Now this was a better answer than Mr O'Meagher 
 had expected, but they were not the words he had in 
 his own mind and they had been arrived at by a process 
 which was not his. Adam was thinking of Ovid and 
 
 207 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 not of his short way to learn Ovid. So he sniffed and 
 said : 'Those the only words you can think of beginning 
 S.J.?' 
 
 Adam felt himself on his mettle, and said, 'Superb 
 Joy.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher sniffed twice indignantly. 'Superb 
 Joy. Whoever heard of such a thing? What is joy? 
 Eating and drinking and so on. How could that be 
 superb? That's a nice reward you give me for all the 
 trouble I've taken trying to drive some method into 
 your lazy skull. Have you no better notion of what 
 S.J. stands for?' The question was not honestly 
 meant, he anticipated a silly answer and sniffed before 
 it came. But when it came it astonished him. 
 
 'S.J.,' said Adam, feeUng himself for the moment 
 to be the true centre of the world, 'might stand for 
 Sniffing Jackal.' He had not said the words ere he 
 repented them, for he saw Mr O'Meagher dwindle to 
 nothing in front of him, an opponent unworthy of his 
 steel. He would have apologised if the man had stood 
 up to him, but, instead, he turned away to his desk, 
 scribbled feverishly on a piece of paper, and called, 
 'Joe Ccirberry.* Joe Carberry had the biggest ears in 
 the class, he was sure to win a Two Pounds Prize for 
 Books. He would never read them, because he could 
 not read books unless some one was there to reduce 
 them to a formula. ' Joe Carberry, take this to Father 
 Tudor. Be quick about it. Hustle ! ' 
 
 Adam clenched his teeth.' He was in for it now. The 
 jackal knew himself for what he was. He chuckled at 
 the grim humour of it. Father Tudor saw the humour 
 of it too. He came in grinning all over, with Uttle 
 savage snorts to cover the fact that he was laughing 
 at his poor jackal, hurt in beating up the game. 
 
 'What's this?' What's this?' he said repeatedly, 
 pacing up and down and round the room, so that all 
 
 208 
 
The Church Militant 
 
 the boys could see the long ferrule waving hke a caudal 
 appendage behind him. 'What's this? Who has been 
 twisting the lion's tail? I have the name of the person 
 here in my hand, but I can't quite read it . . . because 
 it was written in a hurry. The master of this class is a 
 busy man, he has no time to waste on writing clearly 
 the names of foolish, impudent, wretched little boys. 
 He has no time to punish them himself. He has to 
 send for me, whose duty it is to punish fooUsh, impudent, 
 lazy, wretched Uttle boys. I wonder which of all the 
 f ooUsh, impudent, lazy, wretched little boys I see before 
 me I have to punish now. I wonder whose name it 
 is written on the paper in my hand. It is not your 
 own name, Joe Carberry, is it?' 
 
 Joe Carberry answered in an ecstasy of mirth at 
 Father Tudor's humour, 'No, sir, it is not. Catch me 
 at it.' 
 
 'Be serious, Joe Carberry,' boomed Father Tudor, 
 and, turning away, his ferrule somehow caught the 
 young gentleman across the shoulders. Joe Carberry 
 howled. Father Tudor burst into a roar of leonine 
 laughter. 'Pride goes before a fall, Joe Carberry. 
 Always be serious when you see me. You never know 
 what may happen. I look into the very hearts of idle, 
 lazy, impudent little boys. I know that there is no 
 such thing as a really good little boy. Boys are only 
 made good by men like myself, who are appointed to 
 go through Ufe finding out their faults and punishing 
 them. If it were not for men like myself hell would be 
 fuU of such idle, lazy, impudent good-for-nothing little 
 boys, as I see before me. Why doesn't the idle, lazy, 
 impudent little boy, whose name I can't read, speak up 
 like a man and save me from slapping every other boy 
 as he deserves. ... I will ask Adam Macfadden to 
 tell me, if he knows, why a certain idle, impudent little 
 boy does not speak up hke a man and save me from 
 
 209 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 slapping every one all round.' He strode over to 
 Adam and tapped the desk with force. 'Stand up, 
 Macfadden, dnd answer me.' 
 
 Adam stood up, trembling but unawed. 'I am not 
 impudent or lazy,' he said. 
 
 ' So ! ' said Father Tudor, laying down his ferrule on 
 the desk in front of Adam. 'I have made a mistake.' 
 He turned to Mr O'Meagher, with affected concern. 
 'It seems I have misread your letter. Who is the 
 impudent boy whom you think it essential for me to 
 punish?' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher blushed to the roots of his hair, his 
 lively eyes fell to the ground. ' It was Adam Macfadden's 
 name I put in my note. Father Tudor,' he said faintly, 
 and wished he were back in Limerick and had never 
 heard of Father Tudor. It was not so long ago that 
 Father Tudor had hit him; he was not quite sure he 
 might not do it again if he contraried him. 
 
 ' Ah, I see,' said Father Tudor. ' I see. My impression 
 was right, that it was Macfadden who was idle and 
 impudent.' He made a parade of baring his right arm 
 to the elbow. It was a muscular arm, with black down 
 on it. 'You think you were not idle and impudent, 
 Macfadden, at least you say you were not idle 
 or impertinent, but, unfortunately, Macfadden, Mr 
 O'Meagher thinks otherwise. What am I to believe, 
 Macfadden, tell me that ? ' He affected to wait patiently 
 for the reply which he knew would not come. Then 
 he sighed heavily, ' I see. You have nothing to say in 
 your defence. Hold out your hand.' He Ufted the 
 terrule high in the air as Adam held out his hand, then, 
 the ferrule still in the air, Father Tudor went on : 'I 
 think I have seen that hand before. I know every hand 
 I have seen before. Where was it? I remember now. 
 Ah, I remember now. I had to punish you for inatten- 
 tion in the Preparatory School. You see, I forget 
 210 
 
The Church Militant 
 
 nothing. You are the only boy I have had to punish 
 in the Preparatory School. I see, I must be severe 
 with you. Hold your hand well out. I don't want to 
 break any ink-bottles.' He gave the ferrule two pre- 
 liminary waves in the air, then, just as Adam braced 
 his strength to meet it, he lowered it and said to Mr 
 O'Meagher, 'Let me see, for what exactly was it you 
 wished me to punish Macfadden?' The reply was 
 inaudible but Father Tudor answered his own question. 
 'Ah, yes, of course, idle and impudent.' Up went the 
 ferrule again and came down on the instant with enough 
 force to drive the knuckles of Adam's left hand against 
 the back of his desk. 'You clumsy fellow,' boomed 
 Father Tudor. 'Why don't you hold your hand out 
 properly. Keep it up, keep it up.' He flicked the 
 fingers with the ferrule as he carried it upwards to wave 
 once more in the air. Adam met the blazing red eyes 
 as defiantly as he could, thinking to himself, 'Perhaps 
 God will strike him dead now, now He has him surely ! ' 
 A change came over Father Tudor's face, the grimace 
 of rage melted into an almost more hateful grin. He 
 pulled out his watch and dropped the ferrule. ' Eleven 
 o'clock,' he said. 'I'm sorry, Mr O'Meagher, but I've 
 no more time to deal with this wretched, idle, impudent 
 boy now.' He struck Adam with the side of the ferrule 
 across the shoulders. ' Out there, by the wall, Macfadden, 
 and stand there until I have time to deal with you 
 further. I must apologise to you, Mr O'Meagher, for 
 this delay. You will understand that it is for the best. 
 You know me.' 
 
 ' Yes, Father Tudor,' said Mr O'Meagher, and meekly 
 opened the door for the splendid despot, who had ruled 
 over his whole life, to pass out. 
 
 Adam took his stand defiantly by the wall. His left 
 hand felt as though a brick had fallen on it from a 
 height, the knuckles were blue where they had struck 
 
 211 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 against his desk. He could not remember that he had 
 ever been hit so hard by any one before, and he knew 
 that worse was to follow it. But, for Father Innocent's 
 sake, he was going to bear it. He was partly to blame, 
 since he had lost his temper with Tim O'Meagher and 
 cheeked him. He had no right to do that. O'Meagher 
 was not really such a bad chap, he was merely a cad 
 and a bit of an idiot. He couldn't teach but he meant 
 well. 
 
 Eleven to twelve was mathematics, taken by Mr 
 Hagan, a lay master. He and Adam were pretty good 
 friends. 'Sit down, Macfadden,' he said. 'We're late. 
 Not my fault.' 
 
 'Please sir,' Adam answered huskily, 'Father Tudor 
 told me to stand until he came back.' 
 
 Mr Hagan raised his eyebrows. ' You out for punish- 
 ment ! ' He whistled, but said nothing more. It would 
 have been as much as his place was worth to fly in the 
 face of the Prefect of Studies. 
 
 A quarter past eleven, said St George's bells, half-past, 
 a quarter to twelve. Mr Hagan noticed that the flush 
 had gone from Adam's cheeks, he was pale, and his 
 knees were knocking. 'Father Tudor must have 
 forgotten you, Macfadden,' he said. 'You'd better 
 sit down.' 
 
 'Thank you, sir,' Adam muttered, and obeyed. 
 Now that the hot fit was spent he felt depressed and 
 miserable. His left hand was stiU insensible, both 
 hands would be insensible before the day was out. 
 He did not care about that if only he could get it over. 
 Waiting for Tudor made him feel sick. Sick in his 
 head and in his entrails. 
 
 Twelve o'clock called the bells of St George's Church. 
 The class broke up for the luncheon interval. The 
 boys made for the door. He rose languidly and followed. 
 He felt frightened of the stairs but he got down them 
 
 212 
 
The Church Militant 
 
 somehow. At the bottom a cuffed arm seized him, and 
 a voice boomed, 'Who gave you leave to come down- 
 stairs?' 
 
 'I thought . . .' 
 
 'Don't think. Upstairs again, and don't dare to stir 
 from the place I put you until I have punished you for 
 your impudence to Mr O'Meagher.' 
 
 If Adam had not felt so ill he would have bolted for 
 freedom then and there. But Father Tudor had him 
 firmly by the arm and he had no strength to resist. 
 Thoroughly shaken, he crawled upstairs again and drifted 
 back to his place, leaning against the hot-water pipes 
 between the windows from which you could see St 
 George's Church. The bells struck a quarter past 
 twelve. The boys were coming upstairs again, and 
 taking their luncheon bread-and-butter out of news- 
 paper wrappings. The sight of the others eating made 
 him feel deadly sick. He dropped on his knees. 'Will 
 you look at Macfadden?' some one cried. He felt a 
 score of eyes riveted on him, and quickly regained his 
 feet. 
 
 'Were you saying your prayers?' one boy asked. 
 
 Adam nodded. 
 
 'Praying to be let off?' said Fallon contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 Adam did not reply; he did not condescend to teU 
 Fallon or any one else, that his prayer had been that 
 God might save him from the disgrace of being sick in 
 the classroom and that He might condemn Father 
 Tudor, once and for all, to eternal perdition. As he 
 stood up he had a momentary illusion that the first 
 part of his petition had been answered; about the 
 second he was less hopeful. 
 
 Half-past twelve — writing class; another lay master 
 who had no interest in Adam nor Adam in him. A 
 quarter to one. One. Mr Hagan reappeared to take 
 
 213 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 the Elementary Science Class. As he passed Adam he 
 paused to say under his breath, ' I'm sorry, but Father 
 Tudor has forbidden me point blank to let you sit down. 
 You do understand it's not my fault.' 
 
 'Thank your honour,' said Adam, ' and God bless you.' 
 He wondered why Mr Hagan looked at him as if he 
 were mad. Perhaps he was going mad. His head felt 
 very queer. He had been standing a long time. But 
 he had been used to that. He had stood for hours 
 outside the Gresham. That was in the fresh air. A 
 quarter past one. He was very hot about the head and 
 hips, very cold about the shoulders and feet. He hoped 
 he was not going to be sick after all. A quarter to two. 
 Mr Hagan was trying to whisper something to him. 
 What was it? Oh, something about Tudor. Tudor 
 was coming, was he? Let him come. The sooner the 
 better. He did not feel quite so sick now. Two o'clock. 
 Mr Hagan was gone but Father Tudor was not yet come. 
 Mr O'Meagher, very subdued and uneasy, was taking 
 the last class of the day; he sedulously avoided a glance 
 at any one in Adam's neighbourhood. A quarter past 
 two, half-past. Only half an hour more. His feet 
 were asleep, he felt clammy all over, but he was buoyed 
 up by the thought that the day was nearly done and 
 that even for Father Innocent's sake he would never 
 risk passing such a day again. He did not count to 
 end his life in Richmond Asylum. 
 
 A quarter to three. The big-eared boys were beginning 
 to pack up their books to go home. He edged down 
 softly towards the window on his left and shot a glance 
 at St George's Church. Joy, Superb Joy, it was seven 
 minutes to three. Soon he would be looking at the 
 other face of that clock from his own dear little room. 
 . . . The door clicked, the class hushed. Father 
 Tudor's voice boomed: 'What's this? What's this? 
 Who is that boy I see looking out of the window ? ' 
 214 
 
The Church Militant 
 
 So he had waited till the end. What was it that 
 his mother had once called somebody, when he was a 
 little chap, before he sold newspapers? A 'crawling 
 snake.' Tudor was that and many other things besides. 
 At the moment he looked like a mad buU with his, 
 "What's this, what's this?' Anyhow this was going 
 to be the end of him so far as Adam was concerned. 
 Since God had not damned him perhaps he really was 
 only a poor lunatic, more wretched in himself than with 
 all his perverse ingenuity he could make others. Adam 
 held out his hand that he might let him vent his wrath 
 on him and be done with it. He knew Father Innocent 
 would never ask him to come back to Belvedere after 
 to-day. He waited for Father Tudor to strike, but 
 Father Tudor did not strike. He began to feel sick 
 again; in spite of himself he trembled, partly through 
 fear of being sick, partly through fear of Father Tudor. 
 That fear had infected the whole class. 
 
 Three o'clock rang out cheerily on St George's bells. 
 All down the corridor there was a burst of clamour 
 from boys released from school. But in the Third of 
 Grammar none stirred. Father Tudor stared at Adam 
 as though he were considering where to commence an 
 experiment in vivisection. 
 
 'Mr O'Meagher,' he boomed. 'I am sorry to have to 
 keep you and the class in on this fellow Macfadden's 
 account. But, sometimes, we have to make a public 
 example. So I know you will blame him and not me. 
 I would, of course, prefer to let him off.' He produced 
 the ferrule and laughed loudly. The class tittered to 
 please him, but quietly lest they should share the fate 
 of Joe Carberry. 'Mr O'Meagher, can you give me 
 any reason for letting Macfadden off? We know that 
 you have told us that he is impudent and idle, but, 
 perhaps, you can recall something in his favour. Has 
 he, for example, ever shown any industry or attention? ' 
 
 215 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 He looked at Adam. 'Now I'm going to hear if there 
 is any loophole of escape for you,' he said, and laid the 
 ferrule on the hot-water pipe beside Adam so that he 
 was tempted to seize it and strike him across the face 
 with it. But he waited patiently for the comedy of 
 Father Tudor's mercy to play itself out. 
 
 'I've nothing to say for or against Macfadden, 
 Father Tudor,' quavered Mr O'Meagher. ' He's neither 
 the best nor the worst boy in the class. And he knows 
 his lessons in a way that is not very satisfactory to me, 
 but I can't say that he is habitually idle. In fact, he 
 is rather above than below the average.' 
 
 ' I see,' boomed Father Tudor. ' Clever, but careless 
 and disobedient. Just the sort of boy it is my special 
 function to keep on the right path, that very narrow 
 path which all boys leave if they get the chance.' He 
 caught up the ferrule and swung it about him as he 
 might swing an Indian club. 'Let me see. It was at 
 your Latin lesson this morning, I think you told me, 
 Macfadden behaved so abominably, Mr O'Meagher?' 
 
 'It was then I thought I had reasonable ground to 
 complain of his conduct. Father Tudor.' 
 
 'I see. Macfadden considers Latin unworthy of his 
 attention. Is there any subject in which he is good 
 enough to take an interest?' Father Tudor's voice 
 was genially judicial, but the ferrule swung rustling 
 against his soutane and rapping against Adam's knees. 
 
 Mr O'Meagher's chief desire now was to get Adam 
 ofi if he could; at all events to end the suspense melting 
 his own marrow. 'He's very good indeed at Christian 
 Doctrine,' said he. 
 
 Father Tudor frowned. 'Hum,' he boomed heavily. 
 'He knows his Catechism and yet he remains idle and 
 impudent. It is incredible. I must see, Macfadden, if 
 you really know your Catechism. You have only to 
 answer me one elementary question and I will, perhaps, 
 
 2l6 
 
The Church Militant 
 
 let you off your punishment or part of yotir punishment. 
 At all events, not to waste the time of others, if you 
 answer correctly I'll let you go home now. You will be 
 glad of that, won't you?' 
 
 'Yes, sir,' said Adam, pulling himself together at 
 the thought that he was reaUy to go free at last. Sick 
 as he felt he did not think Tudor could puzzle him in 
 the Catechism. He had learned it by heart at the 
 Mater Hospital. Father Innoceiit had explained any 
 difficulties that had bothered him and no one had ever 
 tripped him up in it at Belvedere. Even Mr O'Meagher 
 had just borne witness to his proficiency. ... If 
 only his head did not ache.' 
 
 'Tell me, Macfadden,' said Father Tudor, tapping his 
 own left hand with the ferrule, 'if you really know your 
 Catechism. How many persons are there in God?' 
 
 'Three,' cried Adam joyfully, and wondered why Joe 
 Carberry sniggered. 
 
 ' Is that supposed to be an answer to my question? ' 
 Father Tudor's ferrule flew up as his voice thundered, 
 'Three what?' 
 
 ' Three persons, of course,' Adam cried again. ' Really 
 distinct and equal in all things : the Father, the Son, 
 and the Holy Ghost.' 
 
 'Nonsense, nonsense. Hold out your hand.' Down 
 came the ferrule with the wrath of Father Tudor's God 
 behind it. 
 
 It seemed to Adam, after the third stroke, that things 
 became a blur. His whole body was dull with pain, at 
 any moment he would be sick. One, two, three, four, 
 five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleyen, twelve. 
 
 Father Tudor stopped breathless and panted between 
 
 the words, as he roared, ' Now perhaps you will remember 
 
 that in God there are not three persons, but three 
 
 Divine Persons.' 
 
 — And Adam, hfting his clenched hands above his 
 
 A.D. p 217 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 head, shrieked in his face, 'Damn you and yoiir three 
 Divine Persons.' 
 
 A deadly silence reigned in the Third of Grammar 
 classroom as the bells of St George's Church tolled a 
 quarter past three. 
 
 Then Adam's entrails followed his spirit in revolt 
 and he vomited over Father Tudor's soutane and 
 boots. 
 
 218 
 
chapter Twenty- Five 
 
 ADAM CROSSES THE LIFFEY 
 
 The class broke up in confusion. 'Disgusting raga- 
 muffin!' bellowed Father Tudor, and, like a mediseval 
 demon exorcised by holy water, he fled from the room, 
 leaving his ferrule behind him. In an instant Fallon 
 had hidden it somewhere round his waist. Mr O'Meagher 
 said nothing. He was hopelessly out of his depths. 
 'You'd better be off and don't let this happen again,' 
 he said to Adam, who answered sullenly, 'It never 
 wiU.' 
 
 Somehow, Adam, not troubling to collect his books, 
 crawled down to the yard, found some water to put 
 on his face and hands, dried himself in his handkerchief, 
 and walked as quickly as he could through the covered 
 way to the street. He was not fully conscious of what 
 he did, he crossed to George's Street. 
 
 Fallon overtook him. 'That was grand what you did 
 to Tudor,' he said. 
 
 ' I couldn't help it,' Adam explained, almost inaudibly. 
 
 'Go on,' cried FaUon. 'Don't spoil it by saying it 
 was an accident. All the decent fellows think it was 
 grand. Sullivan says he'll try to do it to-morrow if 
 he can. How did you manage to do it just at the right 
 moment?' 
 
 'I tell you it was an accident,' Adam groaned, sick 
 again at the thought of it. 
 
 'Well, it was a jolly splendid accident, that's all I 
 can say,' said Fallon. 'You got Tudor fine,' and he 
 
 219 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 thought of hurrying off after his fellows to tell them 
 that Adam was not really the Homeric champion they 
 supposed. 
 
 'Anyhow,' said Fallon. 'You did mean to damn 
 the Blessed Trinity, didn't you?' 
 
 'No.' said Adam, 'I did not.' 
 
 'Aren't the three Divine Persons the same as the 
 Blessed Trinity? I thought they were?' 
 
 'Yes,' said Adam. 
 
 'Well, you damned them right enough, for I heard 
 you. " Damn you and your three Divine Persons," 
 said you to Tudor. It was grand. You'd think he 
 was a Divine Person himself, the way he looked at 
 you.' 
 
 'I didn't mean to say that,' said Adam. 'I must 
 have said it just as we may say anything in a rage.' 
 
 ' It sounded grand. " Damn you and your Divine 
 Persons," ' Fallon insisted. 
 
 'But it's pure nonsense,' Adam remonstrated, with 
 equal pertinacity. 'It doesn't mean anything.' 
 
 ' I don't see that. It seems to me no end of a jolly 
 awful curse.' 
 
 'But how could you damn God? ' 
 
 'Why not, if you get the chance. Just as He does 
 you if He gets the chance.' 
 
 'But no one can damn God but God Himself.' 
 
 'Oh,' said Fallon. 'I never thought of that. I 
 suppose it is rather blatherumskite when you come 
 to think of it. But it sounded grand when you said 
 it. Joe Carberry was frightened out of his wits. Any- 
 how, I've got old Tudor's pandybat under my coat. 
 I'll sell it to you for sixpence.' 
 
 'Thank you,' said Adam. 'I've had quite enough of 
 it already.' 
 
 At the north end of Marlborough Street they parted 
 company, Fallon going west along Great Britain or 
 
 220 
 
Adam Crosses the Liffey 
 
 Pamell Street. 'Where are you going? And what 
 have you done with your books?' he asked, as a last 
 question. 
 
 'I don't know,' was Adam's last answer. Fallon's 
 questions had steadied him a little bit, but, he believed 
 himself to be going to Butt Bridge. He could never 
 face Father Innocent and teU him he had damned Father 
 Tudor and his three Divine Persons. It was only 
 yesterday he had promised to do everything in his 
 power to keep his patience with him. If he could have 
 held his tongue and borne his torture as Father Innocent, 
 himself, would have borne it ! He felt it was despicable 
 of him to lose his temper with Father Tudor. It wasn't 
 his slapping him he cared about, that was mere brutality 
 such as he had long suffered unquestioningly from his 
 own father, it was the beastly maUce of keeping him 
 cooped up in the classroom and standing against the 
 wall, to be mocked at by sneaking fools, like Joe Carberry. 
 It was that had driven him to despair and made him 
 care no longer whither he went so long as he never went 
 back to Belvedere. 
 
 He moved on down Marlborough Street, hurrying 
 past the shop where Mr O'Toole now carried on some 
 mysterious business, ostensibly connected with news- 
 papers, sporting papers; there were papers in the window, 
 oddly cdled The Police News, with pictures of prize- 
 fighters, race-horses, murderers, and ballet girls. He 
 shared the premises with an odd soft of apothecary, 
 some of whose wares were also in the window; piUs 
 that looked like small shot and ready-made bandages 
 and bits of hose-pipe. The window frames were Uned 
 with picture post cards of the Pro-Cathedral or Nelson's 
 Pillar or the Parnell Memorial or fashionable ladies 
 adjusting their garters and winking at you. It was a 
 queer shop, the Sporting and Medical Stores. Two 
 Trinity boys came out of it, sheepishly, angrily, jinghng 
 
 221 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 silver coins in their hands. 'I'll swear he's done us 
 over the S.P.,' said one. 
 
 These words caught Adam's ear as he scuttled past, 
 and told him, what he ought to have guessed before, 
 that his godfather had turned bookmaker. That was 
 the business he carried on under cover of the newspapers 
 and the picture post cards. Adam felt a sudden zest 
 in life at this discovery. Mr O'Toole could humbug 
 the police but he could not deceive him. Still, it did 
 not give Adam courage to face Father Innocent and 
 tell him that he had been guilty of a kind of blasphemy. 
 For he had been guilty of a kind of blasphemy though 
 he hadn't meant it. Fallon thought he meant it, so 
 did that sneaking jackass Joe Carberry. He could 
 not face Father Innocent, he could not return to St 
 George's place, he could not go to Pleasant Street; 
 but he no longer wanted to drown himself. He wanted 
 to live, he wanted even, immediately, to eat and drink. 
 He had a whole florin in his pocket. He would go 
 forthwith to eat and drink. 
 
 Where to eat and drink? That was the imperative 
 question surpassing even the Belvedere crisis and the 
 peril to his soul. The outsides of many restaurants 
 were known to him, but the interior of only one. He 
 did not know the name of it but it was at the other 
 end of Westmoreland Street, near CoUege Street police 
 station. Father Innocent had brought him there once 
 because it was a vegetarian place where you could go 
 on Fridays; besides, it was a grand place where Mr 
 O'Meagher and all sorts of famous people went. And 
 not so expensive as you would expect; you could have 
 a good meal for sixpence. He scuttled past the Pro- 
 Cathedral, as he had scuttled past Mr O'Toole's, turned 
 down Sackville Place, and took the tram from Nelson's 
 Pillar to Tom Moore's statue by Trinity College. Even 
 empty-bellied and rather sea-sick, it was pleasant to 
 
 222 
 
Adam Crosses the LifFey 
 
 ride on the top of a tram on a balmy February after- 
 noon, even in a state of mortal sin it was jolly to risk 
 your life jumping off it before it slowed down. And, 
 how grand it was to march into a tea-shop, or a caf^ 
 as the French called it, all alone and order a meal for 
 yourself without any intermediary between you and 
 the pretty and witty young lady who could see that 
 you got whatever you might choose from a list you 
 could take half an hour to read and perhaps not then 
 understand the quarter of it. Adam was quick to 
 choose. 'A pot of tea and two portions of buttered 
 toast,' said he. 
 
 'Two portions,' said the witty, pretty one, noting 
 it down. 'Dear me, what a hungry young gentleman 
 you must be.' 
 
 'So would you be,' said Adam, 'if you were me.' 
 
 'Mark, learn, and inwardly digest,' said a not very 
 young man sitting opposite. He addressed the girl, 
 but Adam was sure he had met him somewhere before. 
 
 ' Indeed, now, Mr Macarthy, you ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself talking about my digestion before the lad,' 
 said the girl, and went off. 
 
 'I hope you are not shocked by my conversation.' 
 He addressed himself this time to Adam, who was 
 looking at him with painful curiosity, for, surely, it 
 was on his lap that Josephine O'Meagher had once 
 sat, he who figured in a well-remembered photograph. 
 
 ' I am not,' said Adam. ' I'm used to aU sorts, though 
 I've not been here before but once. I came with Father 
 Innocent Feeley of Marlborough Street. I dare say 
 you know him.' 
 
 The man nodded, but only said, 'Nice old houses in 
 Marlborough Street.' 
 
 ' A bit slummy it's getting now,' said Adam judiciously. 
 'It's not what it was.' 
 
 'You mean before they built the Pro-Cathedral?' 
 
 223 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'Sure, that's a hundred years old,' said Adam. 
 
 'And how old are you, if the question is not imper- 
 tinent ? ' 
 
 'I'm going on for thirteen,' Adam confessed, and 
 further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of 
 his tea and toast. While eating and drinking he studied 
 the face of the man opposite. He was clean-shaven, 
 with smallish blue eyes, fat nose, and hair white as 
 snow, yet he gave, what Adam thought, a regrettable 
 impression of youth. There was nothing distinctive 
 about his dress, more noticeable was the attire of the 
 man next him, frock coat, wide opening to his double- 
 breasted waistcoat disclosing an enormous bright 
 crimson scarf, but his face was hidden by a newspaper 
 held by long, thin hands; the hands of a nervous, still 
 lively, old man. It occurred to Adam that he had seen 
 those hands and that red scarf somewhere, but, before 
 he could recall where, Mr Macarthy asked him, 'You 
 find Marlborough Street changed much in your time?' 
 
 ' It gets worse every day,' said Adam. ' I remember 
 the time when my father said it was a very good 
 address. 
 
 'And what does he say now?' Mr Macarthy asked, 
 without a smile. 
 
 'He says nothing now,' Adam answered simply. 
 • He's dead.' 
 
 'I beg your pardon for my curiosity,' said Mr 
 Macarthy, and asked no more questions. Adam 
 would have liked him to go on, but he finished his cup 
 and took his bill, his gloves, his hat, and stick. Adam 
 thought he might be any age from twenty to fifty. He 
 laid his hand on the arm of the man behind the news- 
 paper. ' I must get back to the library.' 
 
 The newspaper dropped and disclosed the white 
 moustache and chin tuft, the close-cropped white hair, 
 the ruddy complexion and still bright eyes of 'that 
 
 234 
 
Adam Crosses the LifFey 
 
 Frenchman.' 'Ah, pardon, pardon,' he cried. 'I was 
 lost in the speech of Wilson; he is a bourgeois but a 
 great man. What is your Lloyd George compared to 
 him?' 
 
 'You are mistaken in supposing that Mr Lloyd 
 George belongs to me,' Mr Macarthy answered gravely. 
 'I am not a man of property nor am I a great man, 
 but a bourgeois.' 
 
 'A bourgeois! You!' cried the Frenchman. 'My 
 dear Macarthy, you are a man of no time or place. 
 You are a divine person? ' 
 
 'Which?' asked the other man, but did not wait for 
 an answer. 
 
 That Frenchman looked at Adam, not sharing his 
 astonishment at their meeting, and asked, 'Which of 
 the divine persons, think you, is our friend Uke?' 
 
 'I wonder,' said Adam, 'if you mean he's the third.' 
 
 'Good,' said that Frenchman. 'Very good. I see 
 there is some elementary education in Ireland after 
 all. Your learning has not been for nothing, it would 
 seem. Have you learnt yet what is love and what is 
 Uberty, or are you wise only in Divinity? And, teU 
 me also, why have you been crying.' 
 
 Adam, with his mouth full of toast, began by teUing 
 him why he had been cr3dng and ended by confessing 
 that he no longer thought of drowning himself but of 
 stowing himself away in the Bristol boat and working 
 his passage overseas. With his tummy warmed with 
 tea and his headache gone, this seemed to him an adven- 
 ture of some promise. 
 
 'It is interesting,' said that Frenchman, 'to go to 
 sea. That would say it is more interesting to go to sea 
 than to go to Belvedere. But what of our poor, dear 
 Miss Gannon? What of poor myself if I have to tell 
 her that I met you here on your way to sea and gave 
 you no good advice to return to her? ' 
 
 825 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'I'm sorry for Miss Gannon,' Adam answered. 'But 
 I don't feel that she matters very much to anybody . . .' 
 
 'You say that,' the old man indignantly broke in. 
 'You say that, because you do not think her beautiful.' 
 
 ' I don't,' retorted Adam. ' I say it because she's as 
 hard as nails. She won't care much more than my 
 mother wiU care.' 
 
 'Ach,' said that Frenchman. 'To talk like that is 
 to break the heart.' 
 
 'The only one who really cares a lot about me,' said 
 Adam, 'is Father Innocent Feeley.' 
 
 That Frenchman nodded. ' You have made me wonder 
 whether you were old enough to see that. You who 
 could go to sea without asking his blessing, without 
 bidding him farewell ! ' 
 
 'He might have stopped me,' said Adam, but tears 
 of shame and regret were welling in his eyes, and one 
 fell among the toast crumbs on his plate. He added 
 pitifully, ' I'm not gone yet.' 
 
 That Frenchman's countenance softened. 
 
 'I do not know your Father Innocent Feeley, and 
 I am one of those who declare Clericalism to be their 
 enemy, but, I think, I will take you now to call upon 
 Father Innocent.' He called for Adam's bill to be 
 added to his own and led him unresisting from the 
 room. In the street he waved his stick. 'We shall drive 
 upon a car. That will be a merriment to distract us 
 from sad thoughts.' As the car pulled alongside he 
 went on, 'We'll both sit together to help each other 
 to hold on.' And to the jarvey he said, 'Drive to that 
 horrible building in Marlborough Street they call the 
 Pro-Cathedral, and be quick about it, for I'm an atheist.' 
 
 The man touched his hat and grinned. 'Sure I 
 know your honour well,' he declared. 'And there's not 
 a word of truth in it.' 
 
 226 
 
Chapter Twenty-Six 
 
 FATHER INNOCENT GOES 
 
 Notwithstanding the betterment in his fortunes the 
 joys of car driving had not yet paled for Adam, and that 
 brief scurry from College Green to Marlborough Street 
 had one fine thrill in it, for, at that very spot where 
 Father Innocent had consulted the oracular Mr Flood, 
 as to Adam's poetical merit, they encountered Father 
 Tudor and the wheels missed his toes by a bare six 
 inches, the step grazed his frock-coat, and he stared 
 after them to see that Frenchman wave his hand to 
 him reassuringly. 
 
 'We nearly had that fellow, your Honour,' said the 
 carman, with sang-froid. ' And I wouldn't have minded 
 if we'd had him altogether.' 
 
 'You know him?' asked that Frenchman. 
 
 'Indeed and I do not, your honour,' said the jarvey, 
 'but I never see a man that looks like that, let alone 
 a priest, but I want to let the mare trample on him.' 
 
 'Ach,' said that Frenchman. 'You are an artist, 
 Mr Jarvey. But you may be wrong. I am an anti- 
 clericalist but there are good priests. And perhaps the 
 best of them have not the prettiest faces.' 
 
 'I'm a great one for going by the face,' the jarvey 
 maintained. 'And I've never been wrong yet.' He 
 looked at Adam. 'What did you make of him, your 
 honour?' 
 
 'He near made an end of me to-day,' was Adam's 
 answer. 
 
 227 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 ' Hey I ' said that Frenchman. ' So it was our dear 
 Tudor. I guessed it the way he loolied at us. But it 
 seemed too good to be true.' 
 
 'What did I tell you? ' cried the jarvey triumphantly. 
 
 Adam had taken it into his head that that Frenchman 
 would be present at his interview with Father Feeley, 
 and, perhaps, take it upon himself to explain precisely 
 what had happened with Father Tudor at Belvedere; 
 but he felt, on the whole, that he was acting for the 
 best, in leaving him alone once he had assured himself 
 that Father Innocent was at home and could see him. 
 He then remounted the car and was carried south 
 again, nor did he exact any promise from Adam to 
 repeat to him what happened. He merely said, 'You 
 know thirty steps upwards will carry you out of any 
 trouble at St George's Place.' 
 
 Father Innocent's face was even older than Adam 
 had ever seen it before to-day; also it was stem. The boy 
 felt that the worst part of the whole day was to come 
 now. But that Frenchman had given him courage to 
 face it; for he had blamed him for nothing except the 
 hint of indifference to Father Innocent's feeUngs. If 
 he looked at him kindly instead of with reproof he 
 would have knelt at his feet and kissed them. Perhaps 
 his eyes told the little priest as much; for his gaze 
 softened before he opened his lips and said, 'So you've 
 come back at last.' 
 
 'I'd have come at once if I'd dared,' said Adam. 
 
 'What have I done that you wouldn't come to me 
 when you're in sin?' asked the priest. 'What am I 
 for?' 
 
 'What am I for?' returned Adam, 'that I should be 
 always troubling you? ' He was more than half sincere 
 in this, but his tone betrayed the doubt of his own 
 sincerity. 
 
 'You have not distressed me so much by what you 
 
 iJ28 
 
Father Innocent Goes 
 
 have done, God forgive me,' said Father Innocent, 'as by 
 leaving me to hear of it first from others. And I thought, 
 perhaps, I thought perhaps . . . Oh, my dotey, dotey 
 boy ! ' He caught Adam passionately in his arms and 
 they mingled their tears together. The latter now truly 
 repentant since he found the priest's attitude was one 
 of grief and not of blame. He would have gone through 
 the whole hideous experience with Father Tudor again 
 to win the sweet joy of Father Innocent's loving tears 
 when all was over. 
 
 It seemed that earlier in the afternoon Father Tuite 
 had rung up Marlborough Street and asked Father 
 Innocent to call. He had hurried to Belvedere at once, 
 dreading "bad news of Adam. Adam saw that he did 
 not find the news as bad as he had dreaded. Father 
 Tuite had told him that the Prefect of Studies had reported 
 Adam to have been guilty of a long list of offences, 
 culminating in blasphemy, and a particularly revolting 
 assault upon himself, which called for the very severest 
 corporal and other punishments that could possibly 
 be administered to a boy of his years. Father Innocent 
 had asked if Father Tuite himself had seen Adam and 
 he said 'No,' that he had been away while the alleged 
 offences took place, and dropped a hint that they might 
 not have happened had he been on the spot. Father 
 Innocent then suggested that Adam should be heard 
 and Father Tuite wilhngly agreed; but, when Father 
 Innocent flew off to St George's Place, Miss Gannon 
 could not tell him anjrthing more than that Adam had 
 gone off as usual in the morning and had not been seen 
 since. Returning to Belvedere with this news he dis- 
 covered the further sinister fact that Adam's books 
 had been left in the Third of Grammar classroom and 
 Father Tudor now accused Adam of stealing his ferrule. 
 
 At this Adam burst out laughing and Father Innocent 
 was constrained to smile wanly at the irrepressibility 
 
 229 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 of his sense of humour. Without mentioning names 
 Adam recounted his conversation with the desperado 
 Fallon. 
 
 Father Innocent brightened. 'I knew you didn't 
 mean to blaspheme,' he said. 'I told Father Tuite so 
 and he said Father Elphinstone had also spoken up 
 for you and said it was impossible. Even that poor, 
 wretched Uttle O'Meagher (what a mockery for him 
 to have a great name like that), owned that he didn't 
 think you meant what Father Tudor thought you 
 meant. But he thought you ought to be flogged for 
 losing your temper and spoiling Father Tudor's clothes.' 
 
 'That was Father Tudor's fault, not mine,' said Adam. 
 ' He thought he was doing something clever by keeping 
 me cooped up upstairs . . .' 
 
 Father Innocent held up his hand. 'That was only 
 he forgot . . .' 
 
 'He didn't forget to torment me,' Adam cried 
 hoarsely. ' He didn't forget to turn me back when I'd 
 got to the very bottom of the stairs. If that was 
 forgetfulness he ought to be imder lock and key at 
 Richmond.' 
 
 Father Innocent drooped his head. 'You mustn't 
 talk like that, Adam. You must never forget the man's 
 a priest.' 
 
 ' But if he forgets it himself,' said Adam relentlessly. 
 
 'Even so,' answered Father Innocent. 'Even 
 supposing he does, and we've no right to suppose it. 
 . . . That is no excuse for you and me to forget it.' 
 
 'You?' asked Adam, astonished. 
 
 'Do you think I've no natural feelings at all,' blurted 
 Father Innocent. 'Do you think I can hear of him 
 treating you like that without wanting to go and knock 
 his head off — ^which, of course, I couldn't do, God help 
 me, for he's twice the man I ever was. But, even if I 
 could take him across my knee and smack him (did 
 230 
 
Father Innocent Goes 
 
 any one ever hear of such a thing?) two wrongs wouldn't 
 make a right.' ... He stopped and looked at his 
 watch. 'Why, it's near time you were in bed.' 
 
 He walked up with Adam to St George's Place, Adam 
 deUciously happy and at ease, clinging to his arm, little 
 dreaming how the tired body ached as he tugged at it 
 in the stress of his grateful emotion. Delicious to climb 
 George's Street beneath the placid stars and think of 
 the despair of life itself that had curdled his blood as 
 he had descended with Fallon, six hours before. Even 
 the fafade of Belvedere itself had no unfriendly look. 
 It was only the hateful, staring red school building 
 behind that he quarrelled with. It Wcis there that 
 Tudor reigned and not in the old house, that he asso- 
 ciated with Father Tuite from whom he had no unkind- 
 ness. Still, he was determined that, unless Father 
 Innocent made it the price of his friendship, he would 
 never pass through the sinister gate that led to the 
 schooUiouse again. 
 
 He stopped the priest in front of it and pointed to 
 the closed gate and the portal beyond. 'You'll never 
 ask me to go through there again? ' he asked, trembling 
 with trepidation at his own words. 
 
 'God forbid, I ever should, my dotey boy,' answered 
 Father Innocent. 'But you must remember it is not 
 me alone who will have to decide what is to be done. 
 Anyhow I told Father Tuite I thought it would be 
 better to keep you at home to-morrow, being Saturday, 
 and he agreed with me. Father Tuite, I am sure, has 
 no wish to have you flogged.' 
 
 Adam's gorge rose at the word. 'I'd take a flogging 
 from you,' he said. ' I'd take anything from you. But, 
 if Tudor tries to lay his hands on me again, I'll kill 
 him dead.' 
 
 The words, flung fiercely out on the night air, echoed 
 against the portico of St George's Chiurch. 'Hist, 
 
 231 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 hist ! ' the little priest besought him. ' Whatever 
 happens, I promise you, Adam, that so long as I 
 live. Father Tudor will never lay hands on you 
 again.' 
 
 To Miss Gannon, who was inclined to fall upon Adam 
 tooth and nail for causing her anxiety, he explained 
 that he had been taken ill at Belvedere and had found 
 refuge in' the house of a friend, that he must now go 
 straight to bed and be allowed a long sleep in the 
 morning. 'No school for a day or two, Miss Gannon.' 
 Then he turned to Adam and kissed him on the fore- 
 head. 'Good-night, my dotey boy. Come down to 
 see me about three to-morrow. And now to bed and 
 sleep just as if there were no such thing as trouble in 
 the world; for there isn't really when you think of the 
 infinite goodness of God.' 
 
 The door of St George's Place closed behind him 
 and, with wistful ears, Adam heard his feet drag them- 
 selves very slowly to the corner of Temple Street and 
 then die away for ever. 
 
 As Adam, too tired to read, blew out his light and 
 tmrned on his pillow to sleep, the comet player flung 
 forth the opening bars of his sempetemal song : — 
 
 ' When other lips and o — o — o — other . . , ' 
 
 The pause called forth no answer from above. That 
 Frenchman was still out; so he went on : — 
 
 '. . . hearts 
 Their tales of love shall tell,' 
 
 and so on and on to the last vastly tremulous setting 
 of the words. 
 
 'That you'll re — mem — e — ember me.' 
 232 
 
Father Innocent Goes 
 
 "This brazen pathos lulled him to slumber to-night, but, 
 henceforth, its wail was to be unbearable to him. 
 
 The next day he lay luxuriously in bed enjoying 
 his breakfast and his Keats and a vast contempt for 
 Father Tudor all at once. But, precisely at three, he 
 rang the bell at the priests' house in Marlborough Street. 
 He noticed there were two old women waiting, in tears, 
 for the door to open. 
 
 When at last it did the janitor eyed him balefully. 
 'Father Feeley is it? How many more of you? D'ye 
 think I've nothing else to do but to be running to this 
 blessed door all day . . .' 
 
 'But he told me to come,' said Adam. 'He told me 
 to come at three o'clock.' 
 
 ' Well, he won't tell you to come any more,' snapped 
 the man, ' for he died this morning.' 
 
 A.D. Q 233 
 
chapter Twenty- Seven 
 
 THAT FRENCHMAN 
 
 That day was the first in Adam's life when he thought 
 of the death of others as a loss to himself. His father's 
 decease was a news of as great joy to him as the death 
 of the Attorney-General to Mr Sergeant Macfie ; and 
 even his godmother, for all her kindness, had left no 
 real gap in his life. But, with the death of Father 
 Innocent, all virtue crumbled and goodness lost her 
 beauty., It seemed to him, as he turned from the priests' 
 house, that he himself was lying dead inside. Marl- 
 borough Street had no reality apart from the House of 
 God beside him. He made for that instinctively, and, 
 pushing through the swinging doors, feU on his knees 
 and prayed, not as of old to the Blessed Virgin, but to 
 the new Saint Innocent he visualised as edging his 
 way through the heavenly throng to say a word to 
 God about one, Adam Macfadden, who meant well and 
 tried to do no one any harm, though he was greatly 
 harassed by spiteful men and sometimes couldn't help 
 laughing at Holy things. He would make it clear to 
 the Blessed Trinity that Adam hadn't meant to be 
 impudent to Them, but only to Father Tudor, who had 
 used their names to torment him. 
 
 And yet, oh, vain and illusory hope ! Father Innocent's 
 presence in heaven, to speak for him before the Thronef 
 of God, in no way consoled him for the thought that 
 he would never more stand here on earth to defend him 
 from the wrath of man. When Adam turned his back 
 234 
 
That Frenchman 
 
 on the Pro-Cathedral and descended the steps, though 
 he did not foresee it, for the last time, he felt that he 
 was now absolutely alone in the world. True, his mother 
 was to be found a few hundred yards away, but he 
 had no desire to seek sympathy from her, even if she 
 could have given it to him. He had forgotten her early 
 ill-treatment of him, but that was because he had 
 virtually forgotten her altogether. She was just a 
 blurred detail in the fading dream of his infancy. The 
 two most real persons in the world he faced, as he 
 descended the Pro-Cathedral's steps, were Father 
 Tudor and that Frenchman. That Frenchman who 
 had won his confidence by his instinctive faith in the 
 goodness of Father Innocent. The two had never met, 
 and yet by some mystic succession it seemed to him 
 just then that possibly some scrap of the httle priest's 
 mantle had fallen on the tall musician's shoulders. 
 Adam recalled his last words, spoken there on this very 
 pavement, as he turned to remount the car last night, 
 'You know that thirty steps upwards will carry you 
 out of any trouble at St George's Place.' 
 
 Adam found it too painful to return home the way 
 he had come, the way he had walked with beloved 
 Father Innocent last night. He turned into SackvUle 
 Street and then north. Outside the Gresham Hotel 
 he saw Patsy Doyle, grown a big fellow now, selhng the 
 early papers. Adam's eyes moistened. 'Father Inno- 
 cent,' said he, and was unable to go on. 
 
 Patsy nodded, also touched. 'I seen it in the 
 Telegraph. There's going to be an inquest.' 
 
 Adam's blood chiUed horribly. 'An inquest. Was 
 he murdered?' 
 
 'I shouldn't wonder,' said Patsy. 'There's fellows 
 there would do it out of spite. He was worth the lot 
 of them put together. He got me out of a scrape many 
 a time, and I'm not the only one, I can tell you.' 
 
 235 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 ' I know you're not,' said Adam. ' He was ever5rthing 
 in the world to me.' 
 
 'Oh, cheese it,' cried his unsentimental friend. 'The 
 world's a hell of a size.' He added, 'I'm not denying, 
 mind you, that old Feeley was the best thing in it as 
 far as I know.' 
 
 Adam bought a Telegraph from him. That is to say 
 he presented Adam with a Telegraph and Adam pre- 
 sented him with a threepenny bit and he said, 'Thank 
 you, Mac, and God bless you.' Then they parted 
 affectionately as they had ever done since they worked 
 side by side, though, from the time of his going to 
 Belvedere, Adam rarely passed that way on foot, for 
 fear of his new dignity being compromised by the less 
 discreet of his old companions, who were not above 
 throwing mud at his fine clothes or blackmailing him. 
 But Patsy was always the same : coarser in language 
 than in thought and making no distinction between the 
 new Adam and the old except that he waited alwaj^ 
 for Adam to give the first sign of recognition. ' You're 
 going one way and I another,' he explained. 'You 
 needn't tell me when you want to say good-bye.' 
 
 As he walked along towards Rutland Square Adam 
 read the paragraph in the paper pointed out to 
 him : — 
 
 SUDDEN DEATH OF A PRIEST 
 
 'We regret to announce that Father Iimocent Feeley, 
 of the Pro-Cathedral, Marlborough Street, was found 
 dead in his apartment this morning. The body was 
 discovered at an early hour, lying on the floor with the 
 arms outstretched. His Reverence had been in faiUng 
 health for a long time past, but no immediate cause 
 has been assigned for his decease. It is possible that 
 an inquest may be called for.' 
 236 
 
That Frenchman 
 
 To Adam it seemed that the priest had surely been 
 murdered. He almost imagined that Father Tudor 
 might have done it. He never doubted the Jesuit's 
 will to slay any one who opposed him. He regarded 
 him as a non-moral creature, just as Dr Hillingdon-Ryde 
 regarded Mr Sergeant Macfie. Probably both were 
 right in their suspicions, but, happily, human justice 
 with all its imperfections has reached sufficient mechani- 
 cal efficiency to deter our Tudors and Macfies from 
 extirpating those whom they honour with their eiunity. 
 No man's hand had been raised against Father Innocent. 
 Father Tudor was too self-centred to be aware of his 
 existence beyond a belief that that clever young 
 scoundrel Macfadden had been pampered and spcdled 
 for the purposes of Father Tudor by some old woman 
 disguised as a Catholic curate. To Father Tudor the 
 Pro-Cathedral was almost as ridiculous as to that 
 Frenchman. It was a contemptible compromise between 
 their opposing views. But that Frenchman could under- 
 stand and appreciate Father Innocent, for he was not, 
 like Father Tudor, a fanatic. 
 
 To Adam, however, the question of how Father 
 Innocent met his death seemed of no weight compared 
 with the overwhelming fact that he was dead, and his 
 mind was divided between two thoughts : regret that 
 he himself had not died, to be spared this crushing sense 
 of loss, and gladness that he had seen Father Innocent 
 and justified himself to him, and received the last 
 assurance of his love. He wondered if he suffered 
 himself to be caught under one of those great trams 
 that came swishing down into Rutland Square past 
 Findlater's Church, whether the next moment he would 
 find St Innocent's hands stretched out to him through 
 the gates of heaven. He looked sks^vards, half hopeful 
 of a portent, but none had come when he turned into 
 Hardwick Street and left the trams behind. He thought 
 
 237 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 the white pillars of St George's Church looked gracious 
 and even benign as they closed the perspective of the 
 dingy street. He thought it more beautiful than the 
 fagade of Gardiner's Street, but, inside, he understood, 
 no Protestant Church was to be compared for beauty 
 with the lowliest Catholic one. He believed it to be a 
 mortal sin to enter a Protestant church. To do so was 
 to endanger your faith; for there might be some one 
 waiting there in the gloom to spring on you and 
 prosel5^ise you before you could call your Angel 
 Guardian to your help. He had a notion that his Angel 
 Guardian, him or herself, would think twice before 
 risking his or her faith in a Protestant church. 
 
 From the steeple rang forth the four quarters as he 
 looked at it. He could not see the hands of the clock, 
 but the hour bell toUed forth five resonant strokes. 
 Dublin was lighting up for the night. That Frenchman's 
 window was open and, when the resonance of the bells 
 had died away, Adam could hear the clear, fine notes 
 of his piano drifting faintly to the street. He heard 
 them still after Attracta had opened the door, and he 
 ascended to his own room. They did not cease until 
 Adam, after long hesitation, ascended the thirty steps 
 and tapped gently. 
 
 ' Henein,' called that Frenchman, in a voice which 
 struck Adam as incredibly youthful, but, as he had no 
 idea what the word meant, he knocked again. This 
 time that Frenchman himself flung open the door, his 
 eye travelled down from the level of his shoulder until 
 it rested on Adam's face. 'Ach, you,' he cried, with 
 outstretched hand. 'Come in, come in, did I not call 
 to you to come in.' 
 
 'I heard you say something,' Adam declared, 'but 
 I didn't think you said " come in." ' 
 
 That Frenchman's face was hardly to be seen in the 
 darkness of the room as he returned, 'Ah, perhaps not. 
 238 
 
That Frenchman 
 
 I was far away in the land of Bach as you knocked. 
 Perhaps I did not say " come in." I have so few 
 visitors here. I thought I said "come in," but perhaps 
 I said something else. You see, I am very old. I am 
 not certain always what I say. Come here and sit down 
 by the fire. You do not mind the darkness. It rests 
 the eyes, eh? It allows one to think. Miss Gannon's 
 walls are excellent, as Miss Gannon herself, but I do not 
 want always to see them. I prefer to look into the fire 
 or up to the sky or even down upon that little church, 
 though this is not the best view of it. I prefer sometimes 
 to look into my own memory rather than on Miss 
 Gannon's excellent walls.' 
 
 'Are you older than Mr Murphy?' Adam broached 
 the great question. 
 
 ' The great Mr Murphy of the trams ? ' came the other's 
 voice through the shadows. 'Guilielmus ,Martinus 
 Contractor, you mean? We are much of an age, I 
 fancy.' 
 
 'I mean Mr Murphy downstairs,' said Adam. 
 
 'Oh, that,' said his host. 'I have no idea what age 
 that has. Such men are bom senile. Bacchus is ever 
 young and fair, but Silenus was always old and ugly. 
 'The thing downstairs is not even a Silenus. He is 
 nothing. He was not born but aborted. Perhaps he 
 can give you the date of that catastrophe. I was bom 
 in 1848.' 
 
 *Ah,' said Adam, pleased with his own cleverness. 
 'That was the year after Daniel O'Connell died.' 
 
 'So much the better for Daniel O'ConneU,' that 
 Frenchman declared. 'He would not have enjoyed 
 the year 1848. There was too great a wind blowing in 
 Europe that year. It blew Mettemich away. Daniel 
 O'Connell was at heart no better than Mettemich, 
 though he had a greater genius.' 
 
 Adam had never heard of Mettemich. For him, and 
 
 239 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 those educated under the Intermediate Act, it was 
 General the Duke of Wellington, feebly assisted by 
 Sergeant-Major Bliicher, who made an end of Bona- 
 parte and all his cuirassiers. The world of history was 
 a box of soldiers and a jigsaw map. Nothing happened 
 there for any of the reasons they saw operating in the 
 world around them. In the history books, any one 
 who opposed the Government, since the Act of Settle- 
 ment, was a villain. In real Ufe he weis a hero. It was 
 only in Greek and Roman history that you read of any 
 person for whom you could feel a liking. In ancient 
 times you were allowed to admire the Gracchi, who 
 stood for some sort of liberty and justice. In modem 
 times, you were called upon to admire thieving, hector- 
 ing General Give, who could not tolerate even himself. 
 It was queer to think of the changes Christianity had 
 made in the world. It was of no use to ask any one 
 at Belvedere how it was that this great improvement 
 had made things so much worse. No doubt therewere men 
 like Fathpr Tudor, long ago in Greece. He would make 
 you prefer to have a fox eat your inside, rather than hsten 
 to his mere talli. Still, the notion you got of Greece 
 was that people there had some sort of reason for what 
 they did. Father Tudor and his Mr O'Meagher had 
 none. He did not think they would have done well in 
 Athens at all events. AU that was tiring to think about. 
 It was very dark in that room. Just the glimpse of 
 sky outside and the fireUght flickering in a few picture 
 glasses and glowing on the hearth. It was warm and 
 cosy. He suppressed a yawn to hear that Frenchman 
 say 'Mettemich and O'Connell are dead. We are 
 alive. What is your news? ' 
 Adam answered, 'Father Feeley's dead too.' 
 Then that Frenchman said, 'Ach, Liebchen. Es 
 thut mir sehr leid.' Words that Adam supposed must 
 be French and sounded so infinitely kind and tender 
 240 
 
That Frenchman 
 
 that he unaccountably found himself sitting on his 
 host's knee, crying out his heart against his shoulder. 
 The first full flood of his passionate, hopeless regret 
 for the one person who certain sure had ever loved 
 him up till then, when the last of his most sensitive 
 years was running to an end. 
 
 But for Father Innocent, Adam had just been any 
 little blackguard boy iri Dubhn, selling papers, and Adam, 
 for all his vanity, knew. And, perhaps, but for that 
 Frenchman, he might, after aU, have fallen back into 
 the ranks of httle blackguard boys or grown up to be 
 such a gentleman as his godfather, Mr O'Toole. That, 
 however, was a possibihty he did not foresee. He only 
 knew, as he sat on that Frenchman's lap, that he was 
 at once more like and more unlike Father Innocent 
 than any other person he had ever met. He was 
 wondering whether, by any strange concatenation of 
 events, that Frenchilian could possibly have been 
 Father Innocent's father, forgetting that that promising 
 jurist lay bvuried at Glasnevin; while that Frenchman 
 had taken it for granted that Adam was in aU likelihood 
 Father Innocent's son. 
 
 241 
 
Chapter Twenty-Eight 
 
 ADAM A MAN OF THE WORLD 
 
 There followed a most unlooked for evening; for 
 Adam's new friend was not one of those who hold that 
 youth or age is comforted by an insistence on the 
 dismal. ' Your friend is dead,' said he in effect. ' Nothing 
 that you will do can ever bring him back to this world. 
 You, yourself, believe that he is far happier in that 
 other world he knew how to describe in a manner you 
 find so agreeable, that you wish to go there yourself. 
 Let us then rejoice over his happiness. The regret 
 you feel is natural, but purely selfish and therefore 
 displeasing to him. So away with it ! We spend the 
 evening together, you and I, and cheer each other up 
 against the misfortune of remaining upon earth.' 
 
 So Adam went down to his room and washed, and 
 put on his Sunday clothes, and then he and the musician 
 left the house together for the first time. Attracta, 
 bringing in Mr Murphy's dinner, to be eaten in solitary 
 grandeur, while Miss Gannon shared her nephew's 
 below, stared at the pair of them. 'Does the mistress 
 know you're going out ? ' she asked Adam in a shocked 
 voice. 
 
 That Frenchman answered, 'Know you not that our 
 mistress is omniscient?' and the door closed behind 
 them. Adam felt that he was a dashing sort of fellow. 
 
 They walked down Hardwick Street and caught a 
 tram, from the roof of which they did not descend 
 until they had reached the top of Dawson Street. They 
 242 
 
Adam a Man of the World 
 
 walked past the Shelbourne Hotel, where Adam had 
 not ventiired since his signal defeat so long ago by the 
 police. Then they crossed the road and broke fresh 
 ground. . . . That Frenchman did something that Adam 
 hardly thought possible. He went up to a door of an 
 ordinary private house, of such a kind as Lady Bland 
 lived in, and opened it by simply turning the door- 
 handle. He bowed Adam in, a remarkable ceremony 
 in itself, and closed the door behind him. They were 
 in a hall in no way different from many other halls 
 Adam had glimpsed from the street. A few hats and 
 coats hung on pegs. A clock pointed to twenty minutes 
 past six. There was a clatter of knives and forks. At 
 the top of a flight of stairs stood a bony, pleasant 
 gentleman, with a black moustache, in full evening 
 dress, talking to a tall gentleman with a fair moustache 
 and pink, round cheeks and no apparent bones, dressed 
 in a compromise, Adam thought, between the costumes 
 of a waiter and a railway porter, though he obviously 
 did not follow either of these vocations. He said to 
 him, 'Thank you, Tinkler. The Marchesa says that 
 will be tophole.' Adam assured himself that he dreamed, 
 and this impression was startlingly confirmed by the 
 bony gentleman's next sentence. 'Tell me, Tinkler, 
 how is Lady Bland?' 
 
 'Well, you know, you know,' said Mr Tinkler. 'You 
 know what Sir Adolphus is.' 
 
 Adam knew then that he was not dreaming; for he 
 could not dream such an absurd answer to the question, 
 ' How is Lady Bland ? ' But the bony man did not treat 
 it as absurd. He said, 'By Jove, Adolphus is an old 
 belcher, isn't he. AU the chaps in my of&ce want to 
 put his head in a bucket. But Lady Bland's not a 
 bad old buzzard.' 
 
 'To me,' said Mr Tinkler. 'To me, she is one of the 
 noblest, noblest and most beautiful figures of our time. 
 
 243 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Nobody, nobody knows, what she suffers from that 
 man, that man.' 
 
 ' If it's worse than what she told my wife,' declared 
 the bony man heartily, 'old Adolphus deserves to be 
 skiboshed; but I suppose she takes it out of the old 
 sinner in curtain lectures and all that sort of deviky.' 
 
 Adam saw that Mr Tinkler found this suggestion 
 unpalatable, but he did not hear his reply; for his 
 host, who had been busy reading a letter, taken from 
 a green cloth board, the only thing in the hall Adam 
 did not expect to see there, said, ' Come, Mr Macfadden. 
 You will eat a little dinner with me,' and led him 
 upstairs. Passing the bony gentleman he said, 'It is 
 permitted, Willy, is it not, to have young people 
 upstairs on Saturday nights?' 
 
 To which the bony gentleman answered, 'Of course, 
 dear old thing, any time. Only too glad to find some 
 one to pay for a meal. But it's up to you to see the 
 Marchesa doesn't kidnap him for her Infant Druids. 
 There are two of them going to do an ancient Irish 
 sword dance on bayonets captured from the R.I.C. 
 I told her that sort of thing might offend Leaper- 
 Carahar and some of the fellows from my office, but 
 she says any one who can't keep their poUtics apart 
 from their artistic feelings had better resign from the 
 club. I don't know what the hell to do about it, old 
 chap. I wish you'd speak to her.' 
 
 ' The Marchesa is a very beautiful and very interesting 
 lady,' the musician answered, 'but I fear to engage 
 her in conversation lest she should compel even me to 
 become an Infant Druid. I have told her I am many 
 years her senior.' 
 
 'You older than the Marchesa !' said Willy. 'Gosh, 
 no. Not a day. Why, she was at school with Lady 
 Bland. Rum old birds both of them, with all respect 
 to our friend Tinkler.' 
 244 
 
Adam a Man of the World 
 
 Adam was enchanted by these scraps of conversation, 
 though bewildered to find that the converse of high 
 life differed mainly in its accentuation from that to 
 which he had been accustomed. He had found already 
 that the talk of the young gentlemen at Belvedere, 
 when they spoke among themselves, was hardly to be 
 distinguished from the talk of his old companions out- 
 side the Gresham Hotel, except that there was more 
 about football and less about food. In the room which 
 they now entered the talk was largely about food, but 
 then the people were eating, so that was natural enough. 
 What puzzled him was that they all appeared to be 
 regretting that they were not eating the far better 
 food which they said they could have found elsewhere 
 at a lesser price. 
 
 'That soup wasn't any good at all,' said a large 
 gentleman, who had just emptied his plate and taken 
 up a card from the table. 
 
 'I agree with you for once, Mr Leaper-Carahar,' said 
 an old lady, with a voice that would have been pleasant 
 had it not been hysterical. Mr Leaper-Carahar took 
 no notice of her. 
 
 Adam thought it discourteous of Mr Leaper-Calahar 
 to take no notice of the old lady. He did not greatly 
 care for the old lady, but he thought he liked her better 
 than Mr Leaper-Carahar, who said presently, 'There's 
 simply nothing I can eat at all on the menu,' and then 
 ordered something which Adam recognised on its 
 appearance as fish. 'D'you call that turbot? ' he asked 
 the plump waitress. 'It looks to me like a bit of a 
 sardine.' 
 
 The old lady said, 'I dare say he looks to it Uke a 
 shark or a whale,' and for a while Mr Leaper-Carahar 
 said no more, but put away the fish in his inside with 
 the slow pomp of disdain and ordered lamb cutlets to 
 foUow. 
 
 245 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 The room was very full, and all the tables occupied, 
 but the musician found places for himself and Adam 
 at one where a handsome and impressive-looking 
 personage was haranguing, in Gaelic, a very short 
 gentleman, who did not pretend to follow him but 
 talked disjointedly with all in general. The handsome 
 gentleman broke off to address the new-comer in French. 
 'Ah vous voUk ! vous 6tes de mon avis, n'est-ce pas, 
 de toutes les nations, I'Albion est la plus perfide?' 
 
 'No nation is perfidious,' answered that Frenchman. 
 'It is only Governments that are perfidious, and all 
 Governments are equally so.' 
 
 'If you have a nation you must have a Govern- 
 ment,' the handsome man retorted absentmindedly in 
 English. 
 
 'And if you have a Government you must have 
 perfidy,' said that Frenchman. ' Even the government 
 of this club cannot be carried on, if I am to believe Mr 
 Leaper-Carahar, without all sorts of petty deceits and 
 mental reservations.' 
 
 Said the old lady, 'Mr Leaper-Carahar judges us all 
 by himself.' Mr Leaper-Carahar merely ordered more 
 cutlets. Adam thought him a proud man, chiefly 
 interesting by reason of the heartiness of his appetite. 
 His eye wandered roimd the room to a table where 
 sat three girls. One of them, perhaps, was not a girl, 
 but girlish. The other two were pretty. One of them 
 was called Babs. He was not sure which was called 
 Babs. He hoped it was the prettiest one. Vaguely 
 he heard the conversation going on between that 
 Frenchman and the imposing stranger. 
 
 'Monsieur est pessimiste,' said the stranger, with 
 withering politeness. 
 
 'Du tout,' said the musician; 'I am most hopeful. 
 Although a foreigner I know Dublin well enough to be 
 aware that a little more than a hundred years ago a 
 246 
 
Adam a Man of the World 
 
 club of this kind would have been the scene of drunken 
 brawls, with perhaps a fatal duel once a week.' 
 
 'I regret that time,' protested the handsome man. 
 'I need hardly say that I am not a drunkard nor a 
 duellist, but I regret that time. Then, Dubhn was the 
 third city in Europe and the capital of a free country.' 
 
 'Free enough for men like yourself, no doubt, who 
 happened to be a Protestant Peer, ' said the musician. 
 ' But even a worse place for my friend, Mr Macfadden, 
 than it is now, and that's a big oath.' 
 
 'Who is your friend Mr Macfadden?' asked the 
 handsome man loftily. And, when Adam was presented 
 to him, asked if he spoke Gaelic. 
 
 'No, my lord,' said Adam, trembling with ecstasy 
 at the honour of addressing himself to a member of the 
 nobility and one who looked the part so well that he 
 might have come straight from the Picture Palace. 
 'I do not, my lord.' 
 
 'Then,' said his lordship, with a smile of profound 
 contempt, 'you do not deserve to be free.' And he 
 resumed his speech to the little gentleman, who took 
 refuge behind the 'Late Buff' and nodded. But Adam 
 did not care even for this peer; for, at this moment, a 
 very brilliant lady sailed into the room and sat down 
 with the three girls, and addressed the prettiest as 
 'Babs, my dear,' enjoining her in these words, 'Babs 
 and aU of you, you simply must do something, it doesn't 
 matter what, for the sword dance has fallen through.' 
 And then they aU laughed and said, 'As usual.' 
 
 Psychologically this was the most astoimding evening 
 Adam had ever passed, and he found it impossible to 
 decide whether his friend the musician, whom Miss 
 Gannon had led him to regard as far beneath the notice 
 of the inebriate barrister on the first floor, had really 
 introduced him among the fine flower of the Irish 
 aristocracy, or merely brought him to a place where a 
 
 247 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 few lunatics were gathered together. Also, he had 
 disagreeable doubts whether the whole thing were not 
 sprung from his own feverish imagination. Mr Leaper- 
 Carahar seemed to have an objective existence but he 
 had gone out of the room and so had the old lady. 
 But the brilliant lady, whose beautiful daughter was 
 called Babs, he thought too good to be true. He often 
 did imagine things, and the society of lords and ladies 
 was not altogether excluded from his- fancies. But, 
 with him, a subjective Protestant peer would have ridden 
 about on horseback, supported by soldiers and pohce, 
 through whom Adam would have burst, Ufted him off 
 his horse, and wiped the dust with him. Or, perhaps, 
 the swords of the escort would have simultaneously 
 flashed in air, and transfixed with myriad wounds 
 Adam's heart. And he would have died gracefully, 
 singing as much as he could remember of the ' Wearing 
 of the Green.' But the possibility of sitting cheek by 
 jowl with a Protestant peer, and eating out of the same 
 dish of potatoes, had never occurred to him. That the 
 Protestant peer should further speak Gaelic and rebuke 
 him for his inability to do so was to pulverise all his 
 conceptions of Protestantism and the Peerage. Again, 
 when he had heard of the Marchesa, which was the 
 Italian, it seemed, for Marchioness, who would be the 
 wife of the Marquess, which he had remembered to 
 have heard his father say, might be called almost more 
 than a duke, he had been flattered at the thought of 
 having to resist her attempt to beguile him into her 
 company of Infant Druids, whatever that corporation 
 might be. But if, as he was beginning he knew not 
 why to suspect, that queer old lady who had attacked 
 Mr Leaper-Carahar, were the very Marchesa, then the 
 upper classes were truly not what he had been led to 
 expect. 
 
 He thought he would not have found that old lady 
 24S 
 
Adam a Man of the World 
 
 out of place In Count Alley, for he had taken stock of 
 her as she left the room. She was dressed like a rag- 
 bag, with her hair floating from a hat which was all 
 askew, over a face which, had she not been a lady, 
 he would suspect her of not having washed this long 
 time. Her accent was not that of a common woman, 
 yet her voice was so often raised to a scream that its 
 refinement was edmost lost. It seemed incredible that 
 she had enjoyed the same education as Lady Bland, 
 who, although perhaps even more ridiculous, was 
 ridiciilous in such a dignified and ladyhke manner 
 that you felt no imperative need to laugh in her face 
 any more than you felt the need to laugh in the face 
 of that grand Protestant peer. 
 
 The peer's name was Lord Queenstown. The 
 Marchioness was properly the Marchesa deUa Vena- 
 salvatica, an Italian title, but she was cin Engli hwoman 
 and her father another lord whose title he could not 
 catch. The other people he saw were mere commoners, 
 though the large man who complained of his food, Mr 
 Leaper-Carahar, was a C.B. The bony gentleman on 
 the stairs was not really called Willy, as he supposed, 
 but Molly. Officially he was Mr Robert Burns and Molly 
 was short for Highland Mary. Adam thought it far- 
 fetched. But Mr Tinkler's name reedly was Tinkler, 
 and nobody ever called him anjrthing dse. He was a 
 poet and easily took offence. Most of these details 
 Adam learnt from Mr Burns, who joined them at their 
 table after Lord Queenstown had gone away. Adam 
 noticed that the handsome peer wore very curious 
 trousers. They reminded him of AUy Sloper's umbrella. 
 He asked Mr Bums why Lord Queenstown wore those 
 trousers and Mr Burns answered, 'They're not trousers 
 at aU, old lad, they're the ancient Keltic bracchse. 
 Queenstown comes of an awfully old Irish family, the 
 Smithwicks of Queenstown Junction, and he's frightfully 
 
 A.D. R 249 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 keen on the family antiquities. It's lucky he's so 
 jolly handsome or he'd look no end of a baJly ass in 
 them.' 
 
 Adam liked Mr Biuns. He was particularly pleased 
 when he called him ' old lad.' He called him, in response, 
 Molly, and Mr Bums took it all right. He was notably 
 a gentleman, Uke Father Innocent, and that Frenchman, 
 and Father Tuite, and Mr O'Meagher of Sandy Cove. 
 He felt less certain about the gentiUty of some of the 
 people he saw that evening, but, no doubt, they were 
 all right really, and it was his ignorance of the customs 
 of good society that was to blame. He was glad that 
 no one pretended to think that Lady Bland's husband 
 was a gentleman. 
 
 Presently they heard a piano going in another room 
 and Mr Bums said, 'That's my wife,' and that French- 
 man immediately paid his bill and brought Adam into 
 that other room, that had practically no one in it but 
 themselves and the pianist, and the pianist, Adam was 
 thrilled to see, was that briUiant lady, the mother of 
 Babs. He gazed upon her open-mouthed. She was 
 really so brilliant, with sparkling eyes, hair, cheeks, 
 teeth, lips, fingers, and manners, and played away 
 grandly, though no one took any notice of her except 
 that Frenchman, who stood by her side to turn over 
 her music, to which, however, she seldom referred. 
 
 'I am just opening the ball,' she explained, looking 
 up at him archly. 
 
 'It is magnificent,' he answered, as though com- 
 mencing a sentence the end of which was unnecessary. 
 The door opened and Adam hoped it was Babs. It 
 was not she but the next best thing, or the next best 
 thing but one. It was her father. 
 
 Mr Bums came in smoking. 'Hallo, Lesbia,' he 
 said cheerily, adding surprisedly, 'I see you're not 
 alone. What comes next? The Marchesa has dropped 
 250 
 
Adam a Man of the World 
 
 the programme off her bicycle and can't tell me any- 
 thing except that damned sword dance.' 
 
 'Don't speak so loud, dear,' said Mrs Burns, playing 
 grandly away, for she was quite free from the affectation 
 of the Abb6 Liszt. 'I'm not sure whether the sword 
 dance has fallen through or not. Anyhow, the Infant 
 Druids have come, dear little fellows. They are in the 
 corner by the smoking-room door. Mr Tinkler's looking 
 after them. He's next on the programme. Going to 
 read either a play or a sonnet. I forget which.' 
 
 'Gosh,' said Mr Bums. 'Don't say it's a play.' 
 
 His wife drowned the exclamation in her music and 
 her music in her own voice. 'Anyhow, do try and get 
 some one to listen to him. He's so easily offended. 
 Get Miss Magrath. She wants to be on the committee, 
 and perhaps the auditor will come if he's done with 
 the wine account. I'm sure he can't make head nor 
 tail of it. And why isn't Babs here and Miss Macfie? 
 And then there's Lord Queenstown. He used to be a 
 member of the Cork Literary Society. Anyhow, put 
 one or two of the maids behind the folding doors to 
 clap. I'll go on playing till you come back.' As he 
 reached the door she called after him, 'Oh, and try 
 if you can't get Mrs Ahearn. She'll be on after that 
 anyhow. You might tell her that. I suppose it's no 
 use asking Mr Leaper-Carahar.' 
 
 'No earthly,' said Mr Bums. 'He'd see Tinkler 
 damned first.' 
 
 Mrs Burns sighed brilliantly. 'You men, you men !' 
 and dashed from one end of the keyboard to the other. 
 'Anyhow, I'll go on playing until you find some one.' 
 
 Mrs Bums never allowed her fingers an idle moment 
 while she talked, nor her tongue an idle moment while 
 she played. They were rivals in the display of her 
 accomplishments. When she came to what ought to 
 have been the end of one of the pieces on the music 
 
 251 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 stand that Frenchman forcibly, though most courteously, 
 restrained her from further violence to the piano. 
 'But I promised Molly to go on until some one came,' 
 she protested with a brilliant pout. 
 
 'Some promises are unconscionable,' that Frenchman 
 answered. 'It may be that no one will ever come.' 
 
 Mrs Bums looked alarmed. 'It would be dreadful 
 if the concert fell through. I don't so much mind the 
 sword dance faUing through, though I'd be sorry the 
 dear little Druids should be disappointed.' She appealed 
 to Adam. 'Wouldn't it be dreadful if the concert fell 
 through.' But Adam was too entranced by her 
 brilliancy to answer. 
 
 'Worse things have happened,' said that Frenchman. 
 'But if energy can save it let me try.' He took her 
 place and flung himself into a furious rendering of 
 St Saen's Danse Macabre. In a moment the club woke 
 to life, and through all three doors members and guests 
 filtered until the room was comfortably fuU. 
 
 'It is amazing the public taste in music,' said that 
 Frenchman. 'You were giving them Brahms and they 
 took no notice. I give them nonsense and in they 
 come at once.' 
 
 ' Ah, but it was your touch that made all the difference,' 
 said Mrs Bums, and Adam found her brilliant even in 
 her modesty. 
 
 'BeUeve me, my dear lady, that it was not?' said 
 that Frenchman. 'There is hardly a person in this 
 illustrious audience competent to distinguish the touch 
 of an ostrich from that of an elephant. Some of them 
 would believe me if I said that I had just played the 
 Moonlight Sonata.' 
 
 'Ah !' said the briUiant lady. 'That is only because 
 anything you said about music no one could think 
 of questioning. If you told me you had just played 
 the Moonhght Sonata I would say to myself, "How 
 25a 
 
Adam a Man of the World 
 
 wonderful it is, one great artist interpreting another. 
 The music was perhaps Beethoven's, but the execution, 
 the expression should I say, was certainly Herr Behre's. 
 And what does it matter what Herr Behre plays so 
 long as it is Herr Behre through whose temperament 
 the original is passed." I am sure that all the members 
 of the club who understand music feel as I do.' 
 
 'God forgive them,' murmured Herr Behre. 
 
 Mrs Burns turned to Adam. 'You agree with me, 
 don't you?' 
 
 'Yes, m'm,' said Adam promptly, looking in her 
 brilliant eyes, subconsciously guilty of a breach of one 
 of these queer old things, the Ten Commandments. 
 
 Mrs Burns did not scorn his admiration. 'He looks 
 artistic,' she said. 'He has lovely hair. Won't he do 
 something?' 
 
 Mr Behre asked sardonically, 'What would you have 
 him do?' 
 
 'Naughty,' said Mrs Burns, and thrice tapped him 
 brilliantly with her fan. 'I mean isn't he an infant 
 prodigy?' 
 
 That Frenchman turned to Adam. ' Mr Macfadden, 
 Mrs Bums would know if you can sword dance? ' 
 
 Adam shook his head and regretted that he had never 
 had a sword in his hand, much less beneath his feet. 
 
 'But you can do something,' Mrs Bums insisted. 
 ' Can't you sing, or do a little thought reading, or recite, 
 or conjuring tricks, or palmistry, or tell stories, or 
 something? Why isn't Babs here? I'm sure she'd 
 think of something you could do together.' 
 
 Herr Behre coughed. 'It is not impossible.' But 
 Adam was overwhelmed with confused joy at the 
 thought of Babs, the daughter of this brilliant woman, 
 deigning to think of something that they might do 
 together. Then, carried on a wave of glory, he answered, 
 'I can recite.' 
 
 253 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 The words were scarcely spoken. He did not think 
 they were audible, but Mrs Burns caught them and 
 caught him by the hand and landed him into the middle 
 of the room. Mr O'Fallon will recite,' she said in her 
 most brilliant voice. Adam was conscious of a hush, 
 emphasised by a giggle from the infant Druids. 'What 
 will you recite. Mr O'Fallon? ' 
 
 At this moment Babs came in and seemed amused 
 to find him in the grasp of her mother. He said very 
 faintly, 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci.' 
 
 'Oh, how perfectly lovely !' cried Mrs Bums. 'He's 
 going to recite " La Belle Dame Sans Merci," by 
 Browning, you know, or is it Blake? That period. 
 Everything is a question of period. Please go on, Mr 
 O'Fallon, or would you Uke some coffee first, while Mr 
 Tinkler reads his play?' 
 
 With the eyes of Babs upon him Adam was not going 
 to yield his pride of place to any Mr Tinkler. Although 
 the Marchioness could be heard at the other end of 
 the room, demanding if any one had seen a pair of 
 sword bayonets, and others persistently asked each 
 other whether they had seen a pair of scissors, he 
 plunged into his recitation, delivering it with the same 
 vigour that he had learned from Mr Flood to throw 
 into 'Saul's Address' and 'My Old Arm-chair,' and 
 mispronouncing so many words that several passages 
 sounded gibberish even to himself. But with all such 
 a basic note of conviction, that he really was a Knight 
 at Arms and suffering the inconvenience of an unfor- 
 tunate love affair, that his polite bow at the end called 
 forth a rapturous storm of applause. Several pretty 
 ladies, at least they seemed very pretty at that moment, 
 called him a 'duck,' and Babs said something of the 
 kind and her mother said all sorts of things, and more 
 than one gentleman said, ' It wasn't at all bad for that 
 sort of thing, better than Tinkler anyhow.' The only 
 254 
 
Adam a Man of the World 
 
 note of opposition came from Mr Leaper-Carahar, C.B., 
 who maintained, without advancing any argument, 
 that he ought to have his ears boxed. While the 
 Marchesa dramatically took him in her arms, kissed 
 him, and declared he must be an Infant Druid. 
 
 She would have forced him by sheer strength of will, 
 supported by the knowledge that her father was the 
 Earl of Derrydown, to join in the sword dance, then 
 and there, only, fortunately, the search for the weapons 
 proved fruitless and that item of the programme was 
 finally abandoned. 
 
 Meanwhile, Adam was entranced to hear Babs Bums 
 sing some old ballads, unfortunately not very well, 
 to an audience that was little less than that which 
 had listened to himself. Then Mr Tinkler read three 
 sonnets to Herr Behre, Mrs Burns, the Infant Druids, 
 Mrs Ahearn, and the auditor. And then Mrs Ahearn, 
 accompanied by Mrs Bums, sang the Jewel Song from 
 Faust, to Herr Behre, the Infant Dmids, Mr Tinkler, 
 and the auditor. Then Mr Leaper-Carahar, C.B., sang 
 'On the Road to Mandalay' with a strong Rathmines 
 Cockney accent, and then a Mr Porph3?ro Smith-Pink 
 recited, 'Who Fears to Speak of Ninety-Eight?' to 
 a practically empty room, and then the Marchesa 
 sang a ballad of her own composition, unaccompanied, 
 which seemed to be an agreed signal for the company 
 to go home, as only Mrs Bums, Herr Behre, Adam, and 
 the Infant Druids, who were asleep, remained to the 
 end of it. 
 
 And then, while the Marchesa was looking for a copy 
 of Mangan's poems, on which to swear Adam in, as a 
 member of the Dark Rosaleen or Mount] oy Ward 
 Branch of her Infant Druids, Herr Behre seized his 
 opportunity to take him away. 
 
 'Jt has been such a delightful evening,' said Mrs 
 Burns, her brilliancy little, if at all, fatigued. 'Do 
 
 255 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 come again.' She kissed Adam and he looked round 
 sleepily if Babs might be there to kiss him too, but 
 found her engrossed by Mr Leaper-Carahar. Too sleepy 
 to be jealous, he tumbled into a cab at the door, and, 
 reaching St George's Place, had to be undressed and 
 put to bed by his host of the evening, vaguely conscious 
 all the while of a running argument between him and 
 Miss Gannon. 
 
 He was wakened in the smallest hours by the poignant 
 thought that Father Innocent was dead. Then, con- 
 soled by the feeUng that he himself was tremendously 
 alive, he fell asleep again. St George's bells rang three 
 o'clock. Father Innocent had been dead twenty-four 
 hours. 
 
 256 
 
Chapter Twenty-Nine 
 
 THE LAST OF FATHER INNOCENT 
 
 Adam's young instinct for the fitness of things called 
 him out of bed in good time on the Sunday morning, 
 though it was the beginning of a leonine March. Had 
 Father Innocent lived he would have been going to 
 communicate at eight o'clock mass, and although 
 Father Innocent was dead, and, as he had made no 
 confession, he could not communicate, he decided to 
 go to that mass all the same. So off he went, bolting 
 downstairs to avoid Miss Gannon, until he came back 
 to breakfast. He saw no one he knew at that early 
 hour, save Dr Hillingdon-Ryde on his bicycle in 
 Gardiner's Place, and regained St George's Place 
 by a quarter to nine, rather pleased with him- 
 self and very hungry. But breakfast was not to 
 be had without a battle; for Attracta opening 
 the door said, 'The mistress said you were to go 
 into Mr Gannon's parlour and wait there until she 
 came to you.' 
 
 Adam was not going to tolerate from Miss Gannon 
 what he would rather drown himself than suffer from 
 Father Tudor. ' Tell Miss Gannon I'll wait five minutes,' 
 said he. While Attracta departed with a dismayed 
 grin he entered Mr Gannon's sitting-room, the proprietor 
 of which was still snoring behind the folding doors which 
 led to his bedroom. A fire was waking in the grate and 
 the dry bones of the breakfast stood waiting on the 
 table, with a copy of the Sunday Herald on a plate. 
 
 257 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Adam made himself cosy by the fire and opened it to 
 see if there was anytWng more in it about Father 
 Innocent. 
 
 There was an article written by some one who 
 described him as 'The only surviving son of the late 
 Mr Feeley, who was already a famous solicitor in 
 Brunswick Street, when cut off at the same early age 
 of forty-five as his only learned and sanctified surviving 
 son.' There was a reference to Mrs O'Meagher as 'the 
 deceased's sister married to a prominent citizen of 
 Sandy Cove, formerly a member of the Gaelic League 
 and recently released from Mount joy Prison, all of 
 whose children are destined for the rehgious life, illum- 
 inated by their learned and sanctified uncle, whose 
 inimitable eloquence in the pulpit we are not likely to 
 see equalled or surpassed in our time.' The whole 
 ended with this statement, 'Although there were no 
 suspicious circumstances whatever connected with the 
 death of the unfortunate and learned priest, which 
 was the result of an obvious misapprehension on his 
 part, the coroner has decided that in the absence of 
 natural causes, as certified by a registered medical 
 practitioner, it will be regrettably desirable for him to 
 hold a purely formal inquest. The funeral will take 
 place at Glasnevin Cemetery at eleven a.m. on Tuesday 
 morning.' 
 
 That was the last Adam read of Father Innocent in 
 a public print and it dashed his good spirits; not only 
 because of Father Innocent but because of Josephine, 
 the account of whose death he might one day be reading 
 thus. Did the children of people who died young, die 
 young too? How old was Mrs O'Meagher? His own 
 father was forty-nine when he met his end. Would 
 he have lived much longer if he hadn't fallen down- 
 stairs when he was drunk? And his mother, how old 
 was she? He didn't want to die young even to be with 
 
The Last of Father Innocent 
 
 Father Innocent in heaven. He would rather be in 
 that queer place in Stephen's Green, reciting 'La Belle 
 Dame Sans Merci' to pretty ladies who called him a 
 duck. He had a notion that in heaven the lady angels 
 were very reserved in their language. They had to be 
 for fear of making God jealous. Heaven was a dull sort 
 of place. He would rather be with Babs Burns or her 
 mother in Stephen's Green than with Father Innocent 
 in heaven. Father Innocent liked heaven, no doubt, 
 but his taste was austere. He liked the Botanic Gardens 
 and described Glasnevin Cemetery as if it were an 
 earthly paradise. Adam thought it a beastly hole. 
 He shuddered at the thought of it. Still, he would 
 go to Father Innocent's funeral, eleven o'clock on 
 Tuesday morning. 
 
 St George's bells rang nine o'clock. Miss Gannon's 
 five minutes were gone twice over. She was trying it 
 on. Adam was not going to stand that even though 
 hungry for breakfast. He put the paper, refolded 
 neatly, back on Mr Gannon's plate and quietly, though 
 undisguisedly, left the room and ascended to his bed- 
 room. He was within a step of his landing when he 
 heard his landlady call shrilly from below, 'Adam 
 Macfadden, Adam Macfadden.' Adam leaned over 
 the banister to answer, with a fair self-possession, ' Well, 
 Miss Gannon, what is it?' 
 
 He heard her run up some few stairs in her irritation 
 before she cried again, 'Didn't that girl give you my 
 message to wait downstairs tiU I could come to 
 you?' 
 
 'She did,' Adam said. 'Didn't she give you mine, 
 that I'd wait five minutes?' 
 
 Miss Gannon's rising fury carried her to the top of 
 the first flight. D'you think she'd have the impudence 
 to give me such a message? ' 
 
 'I didn't think about it at all," said Adam, his tone 
 
 259 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 and heart both hardening. ' I know I waited fully ten 
 minutes and gave you every chance.' 
 
 ' Arrah ! and what are you talking about ? ' screamed 
 Miss Gannon, taking the second flight of the stairs at 
 a rush and speaking now from the first-floor landing. 
 ' D'you think I'm going to take impudence from you in 
 my own house?' 
 
 'We need not discuss that,' said Adam, more pleased 
 with the hauteur of his own language than offended 
 by the lowness of hers. 'Will you please to let me 
 have my breakfast?' 
 
 As he turned and shut his door Miss Gannon either 
 shrieked or laughed, in the manner of a hyena; and, 
 with admirable ^lan for a lady of her years, scaled the 
 two flights of stairs and charged through Adam's door. 
 In an instant she had Adam's left ear between her right 
 finger and thumb, and she was spitting out the words, 
 'I'll learn you to give me impudence, you little 
 bastard ! ' 
 
 Poor Miss Gannon had momentarily forgotten herself 
 or she certainly would not have used this term. Quite 
 apart from the physical anguish in his ear, she made 
 Adam see red, and her shy, facial beauty ran an instemt's 
 risk of being obliterated. But he well knew how to 
 repulse irate females, without causing them grievous 
 bodily harm, and he knew that Father Innocent would 
 not like him to hurt Miss Gannon, or any woman; so 
 he just put his right heel smartly behind hers, chucking 
 her the while under her chin, and Miss Gannon was 
 horrified to find herself roUing backwards on Adam's 
 bed, giving him an ample opportunity to admire her 
 legs, had he been in a mood to do so. 
 
 But Adam was preoccupied with his ear, which bled 
 freely, when Herr Behre appeared. He gazed sternly 
 from Adam to Miss Gannon, then said, ' I hope I do not 
 intrude.' 
 260 
 
The Last of Father Innocent 
 
 Miss Gannon had scarcely presence of mind to cover 
 her ankles before answering hysterically, 'He assaulted 
 and battered me.' 
 
 Adam withered under the severity of Herr Behre's 
 frown. 'And on Sunday too, of aU days! as Ibsen 
 says. My dear Miss Gannon, you must leave this young 
 gallant to me. I will see that this never occurs again. 
 We have all made mistakes in our time. Come, Mac- 
 fadden, you go with me.' He pushed Adam roughly 
 out of the door, and Adam, perplexed and crestfallen, 
 chmbed to the room above. He deemed that French- 
 man really rather stupid not to see that he had neither 
 hurt Miss Gannon nor made any attempt to do so. He 
 was the only sufferer in the fray; for Miss Gannon had 
 not released his ear, without leaving a deep scratch 
 across the lobe, from which the blood had poured on to 
 his collar and shirt, before he put his handkerchief to 
 it, and his handkerchief was now aU gules. He did 
 not care to sit down in that Frenchman's room, but 
 stood by the window listening to the clatter of Miss 
 Gannon's tongue, punctuated by a soothing, 'There, 
 there,' from that Frenchman. 
 
 Then he heard the latter on the landing. 'No, no, 
 my dear madam, you must not distress yourself by 
 telling me in detail what passed. I have imagination. 
 The danger is over now. Boys will be boys. I will not 
 hear another word lest you make yourself ill. Send 
 Macfadden's breakfast up to my room . . .' Here Miss 
 Gannon interrupted with some brief phrase which 
 Adam took to be that she would not. That Frenchman 
 amiably went on, 'Ah, it was thoughtless of me to 
 demand that. Your passions are still too perturbed, 
 charming lady. Rest here, on Macfadden's bed. He 
 will not molest you again, while I descend to the 
 kitchen and prepare our breakfasts with your 
 domestic' 
 
 261 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Adam heard Miss Gannon bound out on to the 
 landing. ' No man will ever enter my kitchen,' she said 
 dramatically, as though it were, a vestal if metaphorical 
 vow. 
 
 Herr Behre answered politely, 'I wiU if you wish it, 
 but I have no desire. If you feel well enough to prepare 
 them with your usual care I think the breakfcists are 
 better left to you.' 
 
 ' I'm not going to give that impudent brat any break- 
 fast,' said she. 
 
 'Excuse me,' said Herr Behre, and dropped his voice 
 so that the next thing Adam heard was a surly, 
 'We'll see,' from Miss Gannon, as she descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 That Frenchman came up to his own room with a 
 somewhat mephistophelian smile. 'She bit your ear?' 
 he asked. 
 
 Adam, who had nerved himself for the threatened 
 scolding, answered rather grievously, 'She scratched 
 it.' 
 
 'That is perhaps not quite so dangerous,' said his 
 host, opening a small hanging cupboard, 'but we'll 
 put some boracic on it.' Adam doctored and ensconced 
 by the fire, he asked him what had happened, and the 
 boy, grasping by this time that his host's conduct 
 downstairs had been purely diplomatic, answered as 
 faithfully as he was wont to answer Father Innocent. 
 
 Herr Behre Ustened with twinkling eyes, but a some- 
 what melancholy mouth. 'That is the devil of it,' he 
 declared. 'We men have brutalised women for such 
 countless ages that the few of them who have the courage 
 to show their independence either give a feeble imitation 
 of the silliest sort of man, or else behave like mad cows. 
 Miss Gannon belongs to the one type and our dear 
 Marchesa to the other.' 
 
 ' I prefer the Marchesa,' Adam blurted, 
 262 
 
The Last of Father Innocent 
 
 'You might not if you depended on her for your 
 meals,' said Herr Behre dryly. 'I confess I prefer poor 
 Miss Gannon. She has made the best of her wretched 
 opportunities, according to her miserable lights, whereas 
 the Marchesa has squandered many gifts of fortune in 
 the pursuit of downright imbecilities. Not that I have 
 a word to say against our dear Marchesa, who, according 
 to her friend the great Macarthy, can no more help 
 her faults than I can help mine.' 
 
 Here Attracta appeared with the breakfasts. Miss 
 Gannon justified Herr Behre's opinion of her by sending 
 up Adam's with a Uttle bacon as it always was on 
 Sunday mornings, except in Lent. She was not the 
 woman to palter in a double sense, or that Frenchman 
 would not have remained for so many years beneath her 
 roof. Adam found himself forgiving her the assault 
 on his ear before he had finished his first cup of tea, 
 but it was stiU smarting under the boracic, and he had 
 no intention of risking a further offence to his dignity 
 from Miss Gannon. He was too nearly thirteen for 
 that. 
 
 That Frenchman perhaps read his thought, for he 
 said, 'You think you must leave here. Can 
 you?' 
 
 Adam's heart fell, for he had not foreseen any 
 dif&culty in the matter. It was Father Innocent who 
 had brought him there, and now that he was no longer 
 alive there seemed to be no reason why he should not 
 go elsewhere. But the question arose who was to pay 
 the piper if he danced away? Ultimate financial 
 responsibility rested, he beheved, with Father Muldoon. 
 And Father Muldoon, he felt instinctively, would not 
 only insist on his remaining under Miss Gannon's 
 thumb, but would surrender him to the mercies of 
 Father Tudor. He made up his mind at once. 'I'll 
 have to go back selling papers,' said he. 
 
 263 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Herr Behre smiled at him very pleasantly. 'I am 
 glad that is your decision,' said he. 'So far as I can 
 judge it is the right one. So long as you remain here 
 you wiU not be safe from the nails of the good Miss 
 Gannon, now that she has once drawn blood. But I 
 can secure you a day or two of immunity from her until 
 we can find out what the position of your affairs may 
 exactly be. So far as possible we must fulfil Father 
 Innocent's wishes, and we know he did not require 
 you to return to Belvedere, so you may clear your mind 
 of that nightmare. TeU me more about your friend, 
 Father Innocent's brother-in-law. He seems to be the 
 only serious person you know.' 
 
 Adam was deep in the subject of Mr O'Meagher and 
 his family at Sandy Cove when Attracta, who had 
 already cleared the breakfast things, reappeared with 
 the announcement, that there was a gentleman below 
 who demanded to see Adam. St George's bells struck 
 eleven. Miss Gannon was safe in church, but the 
 news of the stranger below startled Adam. Was it 
 Father Muldoon or Father Tudor himself, or an emissary 
 from one or the other? No, it was a gentleman and 
 not a priest. No gentleman had ever called upon him 
 at St George's Place. No one but Father Innocent 
 had called there. Even the intriguing Mr O'Toole 
 never ventured so far, and his mother only came once 
 or twice by ceremonial appointment. 
 
 That Frenchman marked his trepidation. 'You may 
 be sure it is a friend,' he said. 'Probably this Mr 
 O'Meagher. If so, bring him up here.' 
 
 He was right. Adam rushed downstairs into the 
 arms of Josephine's father, who greeted him nervously 
 with the words, 'Now, don't you cry, or say anything 
 to start me off cr3dng. I've had more than enough of 
 that at Sandy Cove. You'd think heaven was the 
 Black Hole of Calcutta, the way my wife's carrying on 
 264 
 
The Last of Father Innocent 
 
 at the thought of her brother going there. I told her 
 it was the only place a man like him was fit for. But 
 she won't listen to reason. The truth is she thinks 
 I've got to be damned now, because he's lost his chance 
 of converting me, by going to heaven first. But that 
 isn't what I came here to talk to you about. Of course. 
 Innocent's a great loss. I didn't know how much he 
 and you were to one another until yesterday morning.' 
 
 'Yesterday morning,' Adam repeated, wondering 
 how he came to hear of it then. 
 
 ' Yesterday morning,' Mr O'Meagher reiterated. ' You 
 must have been the last thing in his mind, for he wrote 
 to me about you and went out and posted the letter 
 
 himself immediately before — ^before ' Mr O'Meagher 
 
 palpably broke down here, but turned it off by saying. 
 ' I see you've been on the tiles and got your ear scratched, 
 or was it Father Tudor did it? Terrible man Tudor, 
 I remember him well. He was just beginning his 
 devilments when I was young. Stephen Macarthy's 
 the fellow to tell you all about Father Tudor. He's 
 kept his eye on him all these years. Quite in a friendly 
 way, J70U know. Macarthy's an easy-going chap, 
 but he's a lot deeper than you would think to look at 
 him. Have you ever seen him at all there in College 
 Street, drinking tea with a face on him like an Irish 
 sphinx. Sometimes I think he's a very bad man. He 
 says Gaelic is waste of time. Have you ever met him, 
 teU me? I think you ought to meet him. He used 
 to be a great friend of Josephine's. He found out the 
 right sort of bottle to give her when she was a baby 
 and you'd think she'd be grateful to him ever since. 
 But now her mother says that it isn't right for any 
 man, let alone a bachelor, to know a thing hke that. 
 The child was dying in her hands only for him. It's 
 wonderful how particular babies are. Especially 
 ladies. It isn't so much about having an elegant shape 
 A.D. S 265 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 to the bottle as you'd expect, but getting it with the 
 same sort of hole both ends. They say it makes it easier 
 to clean. I'm sure I don't know. My wife thinks that 
 if she buys the milk from a good Catholic it's bound to 
 be all right. She won't beheve me when I tell her 
 that cows have no religion. She thinks it blasphemy. 
 Oh, life's not such fim at Sandy Cove as you might 
 think, to see us playing musical chairs last Christ- 
 mas.' 
 
 All this Mr O'Meagher said in the hall of St George's 
 Place, outside Mr Gannon's door, between eleven and 
 a quarter past. Adam well understood the source of 
 his agitation and awaited patiently the opportunity 
 to bring him upstairs. 'Please, there's a friend of 
 mine would like to meet you,' he said. 
 
 'A friend of yours, certainly,' replied Mr O'Meagher. 
 'What's his name and where is he? ' 
 
 'He's upstairs,' Adam answered, 'and his name is 
 Hairy Bear.' 
 
 'His name is what? You're having a bit of fun 
 with me,' the visitor protested. But on Adam explain- 
 ing that the gentleman with the zoological name was 
 a Frenchman, he slapped the side of his head and 
 cried, 'Am not I an idiot? Your friend's name is 
 Heribert. That's as plain as a pikestaff. I've never 
 heard of him but that will make it all the pleasanter 
 to meet him. Remind me that I've got to talk to you 
 about other things afterwards. In your room, is he? 
 Where's that? You show the way.' 
 
 Within two minutes he was in the front top room, 
 presenting himself to the occupant. 'My name's 
 O'Meagher. Glad to meet you, Monsieur Heribert, seeing 
 you're a friend of Adam's — I am afraid he has damned 
 few.' 
 
 'They will come, Mr O'Meagher,' the musician 
 answered gravely. 'They are coming already. But I 
 ^66 
 
The Last of Father Innocent 
 
 cannot claim to be Monsieur H&ibert. My name is 
 Behre. Heinrich or Henrik or Hendrik, or Henry, or 
 Harry, or Henri, or Enrico Behre, as you will.' 
 
 'But Behre isn't a French name at all,' said Mr 
 O'Meagher, 'and you're no more a Frenchman than I 
 am.' 
 
 Mr Behre bowed and smiled. 'Did I claim that 
 distinction?' 
 
 'Aren't you a German?' Mr O'Meagher insisted. 
 
 'I do not so regard myself,' said the musician. 
 
 'A bit ashamed of it,' suggested Mr O'Meagher. 
 
 Herr Behre shrugged his shoulders. 'As much as 
 I regret being near two metres high and having a red 
 nose.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher nodded. 'You would have been an 
 Irishman if you could?' 
 
 'Preferably,' said Herr Behre, 'I would not have 
 been.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher hmnmed disconsolately. ' Faith, I feel 
 like that myself. Time was I had great ideas about 
 France.' 
 
 'So had I,' said the musician. 'Heine, das buch, 
 Legrand. All that sort of thing I've quite got over 
 them.' 
 
 'And I,' said Mr O'Meagher. 'I hke my own country 
 best now.' 
 
 'You would not,' returned the other, 'if she were 
 cock of the walk.' 
 
 'No,' Mr O'Meagher agreed. 'I'd want to wring her 
 blessed neck.' 
 
 'My feeling,' said the other. 'I was bom in '48.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher looked at him agape. ' The deuce you 
 were. And I thought I was talking to a man of my 
 own age. It's easy to see you've never had the cares 
 of a family upon you.' 
 
 The other smiled indulgently but did not pursue 
 
 267 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 the subject. 'Mr Macfadden is my chief care at 
 present,' was all he said. 
 
 This brought the visitor to quick attention. ' That's 
 what I've come about. We may talk before you?' 
 
 'Unless Mr Macfadden objects.' Herr Behre glanced 
 at him. With a lucky gesture Adam took a hand of 
 each, sa3ring nothing. 
 
 Mr O'Meagher had taken the edge off his conversa- 
 tional fury in the hall below, and used no superfluous 
 words in explaining the situation as he understood it. 
 Father Innocent had written him on the Friday night 
 to say that things had happened at Belvedere which 
 made it impossible for Adam to remain there, and 
 asked whether, in the event of Father Muldoon thinking 
 it his prerogative to withhold supplies, a temporary 
 refuge could be found for him at Sandy Cove. 'And 
 sure my wife and I would be delighted to have you 
 for now and ever after,' he declared. 'But she's so 
 distracted by poor Father Innocent's death that I can't 
 get any sense out of her at all. Nothing can be done 
 until after the . . . funeral anyhow.' 
 
 The two men exchanged quick glances which did 
 not escape Adam's notice. 
 
 Mr Behre said easily, 'There is no reason to trouble 
 about that. He can remain here as long as he likes, 
 so far as I can foresee.' 
 
 ' Very kind of you, Behre,' said Mr O'Meagher. ' But 
 it's not fair that you . . .' 
 
 The musician had stopped him. ' In this world there 
 is no such thing as fairness. There is content and dis- 
 content. I shall be fully content to keep him as my 
 guest so long as he cares to stay.' 
 
 'Well, that's a great weight off my mind,' said Mr 
 O'Meagher, 'though what my poor brother-in-law 
 would make of it, I really don't know. I'll be glad 
 when Tuesday's over,' 
 368 
 
The Last of Father Innocent 
 
 ' I'm coming to the funeral,' said Adam. ' I mean, if 
 I may.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher shrugged his shoulders. 'Of course 
 you may, if you like,' said he. 'But what's the good of 
 it to you or any one else? I have to go, because there's 
 no one else in the family to look after it, and you can't 
 trust to the undertakers, not to put the coffin in upside 
 down in the wrong grave. Or goodness knows what. 
 But I'm sure poor Innocent, who was the simplest 
 fellow on the face of the earth, as he wiU be beneath 
 it, would have hated the idea of you, or any one else, 
 wasting your time, trapesing after his mortal remains 
 to Glasnevin and, maybe, catching your death of cold 
 in the wet grass. No, begad ! He may have been, 
 as they say, a bit mad, but he wasn't so mad as all 
 that.' 
 
 ' If you think he wouldn't like me to go,' said Adam, 
 
 'of course I won't go. But whoever said ' His 
 
 eyes filled with tears as he spoke, through clenched 
 teeth. 'Who dares to say that he was mad? ' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher answered with little less bitterness. 
 'Twenty brave boys will be called on to say so by 
 the city coroner to-morrow.' 
 
 'Ach,' said Mr Behre in a warning voice. But Mr 
 O'Meagher heard only Adam asking why that should 
 be, and went on, ' Did nobody tell you that poor Innocent 
 killed himself?' 
 
 ' Killed himself ! ' screamed Adam. 
 
 'Oh, not intentionally,' said Mr O'Meagher. 'Just 
 out of pure holiness. He tried to eat his Rosary beads. 
 He got down ten Hail Marys all right, but the Our 
 Father was too much for him. Virtue rewarded. Who'll 
 doubt it.' He hit the table a sledgehammer blow with 
 his fist. 'And here am I with my two sons, going the 
 same way, and my daughter, my only daughter . . .' 
 He became inarticulate and Mr Behre, catching his 
 
 269 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 eye, opened the door for him to pass out and followed 
 him downstairs. Adam sat staring at a photo- 
 graph over the mantelpiece. It represented a very 
 plain, middle-aged woman, with the winning smile 
 of genius transcending her dull features. Across 
 the right-hand bottom corner ran two lines of 
 writing. 
 
 From the hall, vaguely, came the name of Macarthy. 
 It was repeated. Adam wondered what was being 
 said. He also wondered what were the lines on the 
 photograph. He went to the mantelpiece and examined 
 it, reading in clear foreign writing, 'To comrade H.B. 
 from E.M.,' and, beneath that, the one word in Mr 
 Behre's own writing, 'Vorwarts.' 
 
 Adam thought her an uncommonly plain lady, plainer 
 than his mother, almost as plain as Miss Gannon, but 
 more human; so human that she made him think of 
 Caroline Brady. Yes, and of Josephine O'Meagher. 
 Yes, and of some one else. Miss Bums, or even Mrs 
 Bums, or both? 
 
 And he was not yet thirteen, and Father Innocent 
 was dead. . . . And what was the meaning of the 
 word, 'Vorwarts?' 
 
 Was it French? It did not look like it. . . . And 
 that Frenchman was not really French, but German. 
 It was a queer world. Not at all like what Father 
 Innocent had led him to expect. And Father Innocent 
 was dead. ... He had killed himself because the 
 world was too queer fof him. It was a terrible world, 
 surely ! But Adam rather liked the queerness of it. 
 ... He liked, too, the look of that word 'Vorwarts.' 
 Was that German? He must learn German. Faust 
 was a German. 
 
 When his host re-entered the room he asked him, 
 'What does " Vorwarts " mean? ' 
 
 'For me,' said Herr Behre, 'it means the common 
 270 
 
The Last of Father Innocent 
 
 ground between me and your dear dead friend. It 
 means that I believe in God. And that is the difference 
 between us both and the man Tudor.' 
 
 'Tudor,' echoed Adam, feverishly clenching his 
 hands. 'I hate him.' 
 
 That Frenchman smiled indulgently. 'Long before 
 you are come to my age you will understand to pity 
 him.' 
 
 271 
 
Chapter Thirty 
 
 MR MACARTHY AT HOME 
 
 With his teens Adam was fated to enter a world which 
 was neither that of Marlborough Street nor Belvedere, 
 nor was he to be allowed to fulfil his threat of rejoining 
 the newspaper boys outside the Gresham Hotel. A 
 week after his last appearance at Belvedere, Father 
 Muldoon sent him a curt note demanding why he had 
 not attended school and directing him either to do 
 so from the following Monday, or explain his reasons. 
 It may be that you are under the impression that the 
 late Father Feeley of Marlborough Street was your 
 legal guardian, but that was not the case. I may say 
 that I am responsible to those who are providing for 
 your upbringing and education.' 
 
 Adam submitted this communication to Herr Behre, 
 who asked whether, in cold blood, he still objected to 
 going, back to Belvedere. 
 
 Adam blanched and reddened. ' I'd rather go straight 
 away to hell. . . . Wouldn't you?' 
 
 The musician smiled. 'There should I be fearful 
 to meet our Father Tudor,' he declared. 'But the 
 dilemma does not arise.' He quoted Mr O'Meagher 
 as saying there was no question of Father Muldoon 
 having any power over Adam, apart, perhaps, from 
 the financial control. In law the only person who had 
 any right to his obedience was his mother, and she 
 had been guided by Father Innocent's advice, 'The 
 excellent Muldoon may say what he would say, but 
 272 
 
Mr Macarthy At Home 
 
 I understand that your mother never saw Father 
 Muldoon at all, and they are mere names to one another. 
 From what you tell me of Father Muldoon I think not 
 he will be hurried to invite the honour of her company 
 at Gardiner's Street, nor yet go pay a visit upon her 
 at Pleasant Street in state.' 
 
 Adam wondered why Father Muldoon should be 
 shyer than Father Innocent about meeting Mrs Mac- 
 fadden. tie supposed it must be part of his grandeur. 
 He felt that the people who were not too grand to know 
 him might be too grand to know his mother. He 
 could not quite see even that strange old bird the 
 Marchesa della Venasalvatica, settling down for a 
 brief hour at Pleasant Street. He could not picture 
 her in his mother's company, pleased as she had been 
 with his. This thought did not shock him : he had 
 no sentimental feeling about his mother. She had 
 stifled it in his infancy. It would have distressed him 
 to hear that she was in want, and he might not have 
 enjoyed his meals, knowing that she starved; but he 
 had no wish ever to see her, not even when he thought 
 wistfully of the agreeable hours under the rafters at 
 her house in Pleasant Street. Now that Father Innocent 
 was dead, and he knew the manner of his death, he 
 felt growing within him a horror of all that had been 
 connected with his first thoughts, wherein the little 
 priest alone had symbolised goodness, wisdom, and 
 J)eauty. 
 
 By the same post which brought Father Muldoon's 
 ultimatum came a letter from Mr O'Meagher saying 
 that his wife was gone to the country to find comfort 
 with her family, 'or worse,' and he would be glad if 
 Adam cared to come and cheer his loneUness at Sandy 
 Cove. Adam jumped at the prospect, and Mr Behre 
 approved, but pointed out that the question of Adam's 
 guardianship had better be settled first, lest the enemy 
 
 273 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 should steal a march on them. 'Mr O'Meagher, I had 
 hoped, would have done this, but he seems inclined to 
 the habit of procrastination. I think the man to help 
 us is the great Macarthy.' 
 
 'The white-haired old gentleman?' Adam exclaimed. 
 
 ' The white-haired gentleman,' declared his host. 'I 
 think Mr O'Meagher will surely be of my opinion in 
 that.' 
 
 And Mr O'Meagher was. So it was arranged that on 
 the following Sunday, ere Father Muldoon's ultimatum 
 had yet expired, Adam and his two protectors should 
 lunch with Mr Macarthy at his rooms in Mount joy 
 Square. 
 
 They were rooms of a sort Adam had never seen 
 before : a house within a house. The outer shell was 
 that of one of the larger dwelUngs on the north side 
 of the square, on this fine March day bathed in sunshine, 
 though a bitter east wind blew up Fitzgibbon Street, 
 and one was glad to get off the steps under cover of 
 the hall door. The maid who opened did not bring 
 them upstairs; Mr Behre waving her poHtely back. 
 When they had passed the flight above the first floor, 
 they were confronted by an inner portal, with an 
 electric bell which Mr Behre just touched, and there 
 before them stood Mr Macarthy himself, welcoming 
 them in. Adam thought he looked a kindly old gentle- 
 man, an elderly yet lively priest. 
 
 After that Adam's impression Wi>s one of books. The 
 staircase walls were lined with them : the corridors, 
 and the rooms, of course. He had never seen a book- 
 shop so packed with books. In the room where they 
 lunched looking out over the square, the sun shone on 
 battalions, regiments, and brigades of them, pressed 
 shoulder to shoulder, rank on rank, not, however, to 
 defy, but to invite attack. Mr Macarthy smiled, 
 marking Adam's eyes, alive with desire, chase 
 274 
 
Mr Macarthy At Home 
 
 round and round the room. 'Guess how many,' he 
 said. 
 
 'You must have over two thousand in this room,' 
 said Adam. 
 
 ' Not far from five, I fancy,' his host answered. ' Want 
 of space compels me to use double rows, a mortal sin 
 to smother the dear things, but what's a poor fellow 
 to do? I can't hang them on the ceiling or carpet the 
 floor with them. . . . That was a good guess of 
 yours. I congratulate you on the eye of a born 
 librarian.' 
 
 Adam flushed. Mr Macarthy's praise seemed to 
 him very sweet; and this although he had not thought 
 of himself in any relationship to books save that of 
 reading them. 
 
 'Mr Macfadden imderstands everything except music,' 
 said Mr Behre. 
 
 'Does any one understand that except yourself?' 
 Mr Macarthy returned. 'And, of coiurse, fair Mrs Burns 
 of the Six Muses Club.' 
 
 'Mischievous fellow !' Mr Behre laughed, shaking his 
 fist at him. 
 
 'Six muses, did you say?' Adam protested. 'I 
 thought there were nine.' 
 
 'It's a common notion that there were either three 
 or nine,' Mr Macarthy agreed, 'but as Mrs Bums 
 made them six, and had her opinion stamped on the 
 club note-paper, the committee did not feel justified in 
 going to the expense of contradicting her.' 
 
 'Who were her six muses?' Mr O'Meagher inquired; 
 'Apollo and Venus and Adonis, I take for granted, but 
 who else?' 
 
 'Reehng, Writhing, and Fainting in Coils,' said their 
 host. 
 
 Mr Behre laid down his knife and fork. 'From 
 whence have you such nonsense?' he demanded. 
 
 275 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'You'll find it in the Second Prayer Book of Edward 
 the Seventh,' was Mr Macarthy's assurance. 
 
 Mr Behre appealed to Adam whether he ever had 
 heard such nonsense, and Adam answered, as he thought 
 mighty dexterously, ' I think Mr Macarthy meant the 
 Second Prayer Book of Edward the Sixth.' Whereupon 
 the three men laughed so that he thought he had made 
 a hit, and it was some minutes before he realised that 
 they were merely amused by his pert simpUcity. ' Have 
 I said something ridiculous? ' he asked good-humouredly, 
 despite his inward vexation, and so recovered the lost 
 ground. 
 
 'Yes,' said his host, "you have. But much may be 
 forgiven to possibly the only Belvedere boy that ever 
 mentioned Edward the Sixth's First or Second 
 Catechism.' 
 
 'I never read it,' Adam confessed. 
 
 'Sure what call would you have to read a book like 
 that?' murmured Mr O'Meagher uneasily. 
 
 Mr Macarthy shot a glance at him, 'The cream of 
 Sixteenth Century English.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher tossed his head. 'What does English 
 matter to any one but old John Bull?' 
 
 'Of course Mr O'Meagher has taught you Gaelic?' 
 said Mr Macarthy, but Adam felt that the question 
 was not seriously meant. He said in a low voice that 
 he had not. 
 
 Mr Macarthy kept his eyes on or close to him. 
 ' Perhaps you feel, as so many do, that music cind Gaelic, 
 and so on, don't matter?' 
 
 'I feel music matters an awful lot, though I don't 
 understand a bit of it,' Adam answered, 'and I'd like 
 to know Gaelic to please Mr O'Meagher.' 
 
 'Which would you rather learn?' his host pursued. 
 And Adam with some enthusiasm answered. ' I'd rather 
 learn music' 
 276 
 
Mr Macarthy At Home 
 
 'Now why do you prefer music? ' asked Mr Macarthy, 
 with a glance at the others. 
 
 'Because I could talk to people aU over the world 
 in music,' he said, with bright eyes that grew brighter 
 as he heard approving hands thump the table. 
 
 'WeU said,' cried Mr O'Meagher. 'That's poetry 
 for you. I won't deny the truth of that. It beats 
 me that, when I think of the GaeUc. That's the 
 truth.' 
 
 'But it is of Hmited truth,' said Herr Behre. 'You 
 can only talk in music to people whose knowledge of 
 music is little greater or less than your own.' 
 
 Adam's heart sank at the thought of this unforeseen 
 difficulty. Life was far too compUcated for him ever 
 to be able to understand it. How did grown up pec^le 
 manage their affairs? It was a relief to hear Mr 
 O'Meagher protest, 'You fellows Eire getting beyond 
 me. What about Adam?' 
 
 ' He holds the floor,' said their host. ' We must study 
 om: Adam before we can help him. Otherwise we fall 
 into the error of the well-meaning, limited Tudor, 
 who assumes every one to be such another secretion of 
 Ptah as himself.' 
 
 ' You wiU not have me credit that Tudor believes in 
 Ptah ! ' said Mr Behre. 
 
 'You will not have me insist on the limitations of 
 your humourismus,' returned their host. 
 
 Mr Behre looked at Adam, 'You see he has put me 
 in the corner for a stupid fellow. Is he not more to 
 be feared than Tudor?' 
 
 'I can't respect even you, Behre, when you nod,' 
 said Mr Macarthy. 'But neither do I ask you to 
 respect me. That way lies stagnation.' 
 
 'I quite agree,' said Mr O'Meagher. 'You have to 
 pretend to respect acquaintances, but it destroys the 
 value of friendship.' 
 
 277 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 'No man of my temperament could have a friend he 
 did not respect, or keep one who was jealous of that 
 respect,' said Mr Macarthy, adding to Adam, 'Does 
 all this chatter make you feel sleepy?' 
 
 Adam answered spiritedly, 'It's only I can't follow 
 quick enough. ... I was just thinking . . .' he paused 
 doubtfully. 
 
 ' Go on,' said Mr Macarthy. ' We're all here to learn 
 your thoughts. Nothing interests us so much.' 
 
 Epcouraged by the six kind eyes focused upon him, 
 Adam answered, ' I was thinking that Father Innocent 
 Feeley was the only friend I ever had ' — ^he added with 
 a wistful smile that warmed as the words pEissed his 
 lips — 'until to-day.' 
 
 Instantly and with one motion the three men raised 
 their glasses. 'Our better friendship,' said Mr Macarthy, 
 and the toast was drunk. Adam honoured it in tea, 
 for Father Innocent had sworn him to Temperance, 
 and no one tempted him away. 
 
 'You have no friends of your own age? ' Mr Macarthy 
 put the question. 
 
 Adam looked at Mr O'Meagher. 'Josephine's a lot 
 older than me, isn't she?' he said, adding hurriedly, 
 'And so is Patrick and Columba.' 
 
 He heard Mr Macarthy echo softly the word, 
 'Josephine.' 
 
 'They seem to me a lot younger,' Mr O'Meagher 
 answered. 'In fact, except Josephine, they might still 
 have bottles. I never knew such boys as Patrick and 
 Columba, they're not a bit like Josephine, and yet 
 people tell me they take after me. . . . It's a poor 
 compliment either way . . .' Though his effort was 
 to be jocose, his voice was distressed, and Mr Macarthy 
 broke in, 'So Josephine is a friend of yours?' 
 
 'I'm thinking she is,' Mr O'Meagher answered for 
 him. 'And a great deal more.' 
 278 
 
Mr Macarthy At Home 
 
 'She has a rival, a Miss Brady . . . and another in 
 Miss Burns,' said Herr Behre. 
 
 'Faith I thought he had a way with him,' muttered 
 Mr O'Meagher. 
 
 Mr Macarthy seemed more than ever interested. 
 'You've made no friends at Belvedere?' 
 
 Adam shook his head slowly. 'No, sir. I never 
 quarrel with any one, but there's none there likes what 
 I like. It isn't that I've anything against the other 
 boys, but when I try to talk to them as I'm talking 
 to you, they turn away as if I was mad. . . . I've heard 
 them say I was mad.' 
 
 'I quite understand,' said his host. 'When I first 
 went to Belvedere I remember there was a big boy 
 called Cherry, who lived at Sidney Parade (it is always 
 what doesn't matter that is most memorable). He 
 used to lie in wait for me every day and edge me up 
 in a comer all alone to torment me with the charge of 
 being an old-fashioned crab. Although it's getting on 
 to forty years since then, I've not yet fathomed what 
 pleasure he derived from this. But I dare say the 
 same sort of imbeciUty goes on at Belvedere to this 
 day.' 
 
 'You may be sure it does,' said Mr O'Meagher. 'And 
 will as long as we are governed by Dublin Castle.' 
 
 'I grant you,' Mr Macarthy said, 'it's the sort of 
 thing I can imagine Leaper-Carahar doing even now.' 
 
 Mr Behre said, 'The theory of education in your 
 admirable country seems to be that boys will be 
 imbeciles and the pedagogues' business is to change 
 one form of imbecility for another. Things are stiU 
 very bad in Germany, but hardly so bad as that.' 
 
 'I think they're worse,' said Mr O'Meagher, 'though 
 I can't tell you why.' 
 
 'I'll tell you why you think it,' said their host. 
 'Because as an old-fashioned patriot you think it your 
 
 279 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 duty to speak of every country as inferior to your 
 own.' 
 
 'Surely that's better,' Mr O'Meagher grumbled, 'than 
 treating your own country as inferior to others?' 
 
 'I don't treat my country as inferior to any one 
 other country,' said Mr Macarthy. ' But she is obviously 
 inferior to all the others put together. The illusion 
 of the Sinn Feiners is the illusion of dogmatics and 
 cranks of all kinds that they alone can read the book 
 of life.' 
 
 ' I thought it was your friend Ibsen said, " He is 
 strongest who stands alone," ' Mr O'Meagher retorted, 
 with withering intent. 
 
 ' I regret to confess my friend Ibsen, as you call him, 
 was as conceited as Mr Gladstone,' Mr Macarthy 
 answered airily. 'It is a fact, or seems to be a fact, 
 that there are men strong enough to stand alone, and 
 it is a great temptation to the man who thinks himself 
 strong enough. But I am confident that he gains 
 nothing from it.' 
 
 'Except the comfort of no fools to suffer,' said Mr 
 Behre. 
 
 ' If he is to do any good, he must suffer fools gladly,' 
 Mr Macarthy insisted. 
 
 Herr Behre sighed, 'I agree.' 
 
 'Nevertheless,' said their host, 'I apologise for 
 allowing myself to express such downright opinions.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher still demurred. 'All the same, if 
 you allow yourself no enthusiasm, where are you?' 
 
 'I will allow myself to tell you where without 
 enthusiasm you need never be,' Mr Macarthy repUed, 
 'and that is in a lunatic asylum.' 
 
 'After all,' said Mr O'Meagher, with the air of a 
 plunger, 'how do we know that the man in the lunatic 
 asylum is not far wiser than ourselves. . . . What's 
 that poem of Dowson's . . , 
 280 ( 
 
Mr Macarthy At Home 
 
 "Know we what dreams divine 
 Lift his long laughing reverie like enchanted wine 
 And make his melancholy germane with the stars? " ' 
 
 'We don't know it,' said Mr Macarthy. 'But, 
 speaking generally, we do know that his wisdom is so 
 violently opposed to our common sense that the two 
 cannot rub along side by side without quarrel, and 
 expediency demands that we control the few rather 
 than the many. I rarely walk a mile from this house 
 that I do not see my beloved fellow countrymen do 
 something so repugnant to my better self that I itch 
 to set them right; but m}? common sense tells me that 
 none of my fellow citizens, no appreciable number, 
 would share my feeUngs. If I were with the Marchesa 
 I would absolutely have to conceal from her the things 
 which distress us both, lest she should raise a riot with 
 worse consequences than the original evil.' 
 
 'Oh, indeed the old Marchesa is quite impossible,' 
 Mr O'Meagher cheerfully admitted. 'But sure she's 
 just out for pure divilment. I think most of us run 
 now if we see her coming.' 
 
 'I, too, am afraid of her,' Herr Behre chimed in. 
 ' I dread to hurt her feelings; for I think she is, or can 
 be, sincere. . . . Her painting had at one time some 
 promise.' 
 
 'The man she was in love with . . .' began Mr 
 O'Meagher. 
 
 'Which of them?' broke in Herr Behre grimly. 
 
 Their host forestalled reply by saying carelessly, ' Do 
 you mind, Adam, if we smoke?' 
 
 A.D. T 281 
 
chapter Thirty-One 
 
 THE DEAD LOVEB 
 
 Adam had not been brought up to object to smoking. 
 He was surprised at his host condescending to consult 
 him in the matter. But more than that he was dis- 
 tressed at the thread of Mr O'Meagher's conversation 
 being cut. He thought the Marchesa an uncommonly 
 interesting old lady. He found it queer to think she 
 had been in love, and more than once. . . . Were old 
 ladies as fickle as young girls? True, she must have 
 been a young girl in the past; before he was bom : the 
 time of no aeroplanes nor railway trains, the time of 
 Napoleon and Pontius Pilate. He tried to imagine the 
 Marchesa as a little girl, a compound of Caroline Brady 
 and Miss Fallon with an English accent, his notion of 
 an English accent. He saw nothing of Josephine in the 
 Marchesa. . . . And yet. ... He heard his name 
 repeated, and awoke to find the conversation turned 
 again on himself. 
 
 The upshot of it was that Mr Macarthy brought 
 him over to the window and holding his chin up in the 
 sunlight, said, as they looked in each other's eyes, 
 ' Do you feel you could trust me as you trusted Father 
 Innocent ? ' 
 
 This was a startling question to come from the man 
 Adam had hated for that he had seen a photograph of 
 him with Josephine sitting in his lap. But he did not 
 recognise this white-haired, priestly personage as the 
 man in the photograph. . . . Besides, anyhow, Josephine 
 282 
 
The Dead Lover 
 
 was going to be a nun ... he realised that Mr 
 Macarthy was taken aback by his silence. The latter 
 went on, ' I don't want you to trust me without question, 
 of course . . . but you must trust me so far that I 
 can trust you in turn ... I mean, to do nothing 
 against my wishes behind my back.' 
 
 Adam drew a long breath, and then answered firmly, 
 ' I could trust you. I'm quite sure of that.' 
 
 Mr Macarthy turned to the others, 'You fellows 
 have heard what he says. Do you approve ? ' 
 
 Said Mr Behre, 'I have no shadow of doubt.' 
 
 'I suppose it's the best thing that could happen,' Mr 
 'Meagher said more slowly, 'though I'd have thought 
 you were too cautious to take the risk?' 
 
 'I am interested,' was Mr Macarthy 's only answer 
 to this point. He turned to Adam again. ' You clearly 
 understand that it is a question of accepting me, a 
 man of whom you know little or nothing, in the place 
 of an absolute guardian, with as much control over you 
 or more than ever your father had?' 
 
 'D'ye think you'll be able to arrange that?' asked 
 Mr O'Meagher. 
 
 'I think I can,' said Mr Macarthy. 'If Adam tells 
 us now definitely that he wishes it, knowing that the 
 probable alternative will be Father Muldoon and 
 Belvedere.' 
 
 'If there was no Muldoon, I'd wish it anyhow,' 
 cried Adam, though his decision was probably 
 strengthened by the dread word closing the sen- 
 tence. 
 
 'Very well, then,' Mr Macarthy said. 'We'll get 
 to work at once. If you, Behre, can spare the time, 
 you might take our friend here over to the National 
 Gallery or Harcomi: Street and show him some pictures. 
 . . . Better the National Gallery for a beginning. And 
 don't be too severe in your criticism of the Italians. 
 
 283 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 The great thing is to get his interest wakened. . . . 
 Pictures bore you by any chance, Adam? ' 
 
 'Pictures wouldn't bore me,' said Adam. 'At least 
 I've seen so few. Only in the shops and some of those 
 in the Club on Stephen's Green. ... I couldn't rightly 
 understand them.' 
 
 "That you needn't worry about,' his host declared. 
 'Mrs Burns is the only person who does, and 
 she can't, or I should say will not, condescend to 
 explain.' 
 
 'Did she paint them?' Adam asked. 
 
 Mr Macarthy shook his white head. 'Nobody 
 painted them,' he said, and left it at that. "The 
 National Gallery is the place for you, and Mr Behre 
 can help you there. It's three o'clock now. He 
 will bring you back here when you're tired. We 
 dine at seven. . . . No, it's Sunday, supper at eight. 
 If I'm not in when you come back, just make your- 
 selves at home.' 
 
 As Adam left the room with Herr Behre he heard 
 Mr Macarthy at the telephone asking for Killiney 20. 
 There was something in the sound of the voice that 
 convinced him he had arrived at the most interesting 
 day of his life. And yet he had thought the same 
 thing years ago when he heard Father Muldoon say, 
 ' Ring up . . .'he forgot the number. How completely 
 his outlook on life had changed since then ! Everything 
 to-day wore an alluring air : he seemed to understand 
 things that had been incomprehensible before. And 
 to understand was to enjoy. 
 
 Nevertheless the National Gallery puzzled him, for 
 he wanted to look at the pictures which most graphically 
 illustrated anecdotes, whether of ancient miracles or 
 modem slaughters, and his mentor found most of these 
 pictures unendurable. 'It is not the province of art 
 to report the details of human folly,' he would repeat. 
 284 
 
The Dead Lover 
 
 'It is the function of art to transcend our wisdom or 
 at least to ease our mind by beauty of decora- 
 tion.' 
 
 This was to tell Adam something which for years to 
 come he was unable to understand : to him the term 
 Decorative Painting meant the painting applied to your 
 house by an approved firm of painters and decorators : 
 these, he knew, trenched on the domain of academic art as 
 in the case of the Italian ceiling seascapes at Belvedere, 
 wherein he had gone, dream voyages. He supposed 
 that any competent house painter could furnish you 
 with the like, if you preferred them to whitewash. 
 He liked the pictures at the National Gallery as 
 a whole, but found Herr Behre's exegesis of them 
 not a little boring. Perhaps any one who did not 
 share the musician's views might have done the 
 same. 
 
 As they came out through the portrait gallery, Herr 
 Behre waved his hand contemptuously : ' Paintings 
 of office-boys by would be office-boys, ' he cried. ' Nothing 
 you might not see better done in any town hall in 
 Europe. To me the most tolerable of the lot is this 
 early portrait by our friend the Marchesa. . . . You 
 are struck by it, eh? It goes without saying that it is 
 not good. Every fault of the amateur. . . . But 
 neither is it so very bad as the others, most of them, 
 are. However poor, the work attempts to show an 
 interesting man as seen by an interested woman. It is 
 a document : there is some little temperament in it. 
 And therefore it is a work of art.' 
 
 Adam gazed at the portrait as he had never gazed 
 at any picture : it represented somewhat flatly and 
 sketchily a man of early middle age with merry eyes 
 and a cynical mouth, jauntily leaning against what, 
 thanks to the Marchesa's impressionism, might have 
 been taken for the wreck of Falstaff's buck-basket, but 
 
 285 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 Herr Behre suggested that it could be the car of a 
 balloon. On the frame he read the legend: 'Major 
 Sir David Byron-Quinn, Bart, Poet, Aeronaut, and 
 Soldier. B. Kenmare, 1847; killed in the Soudan, 
 1885. By Daphne Page. Presented by the 
 Artist.' 
 
 Finding him so enthralled by the picture, Mr Behre 
 looked from him to it and back again. ' Ach ! ' he 
 murmured banteringly, 'I see what it is interests you. 
 Romance, always romance. You think the baronet 
 was a little like yourself? And so he was. But look 
 at the date : he was a contemporary of me and the 
 Marchesa. Older even than I, as I am older than she. 
 And thanks to the Mahdi, or the Khalifa, or the Mad 
 Mullah, or some such other captive of the EngUsh bow 
 and spear, he was dead perhaps twenty years before 
 you were born. You may dismiss it from your mind, 
 Mr Macfadden, he was not your father.' 
 
 'I know he wasn't my father, or anyway like my 
 father,' Adam answered, still much impressed. 'I 
 remember my father only too well. And it never 
 struck me that he was like myself. But the queer thing 
 is, and in a queer way it is. ... I can't in the least 
 account for it ... he looks to me like my godfather 
 with his whiskers off and his Sunday clothes on 
 him?' 
 
 'Your godfather?' echoed Herr Behre, and as they 
 passed out into the day fell to whistling the Danse 
 Macabre, which he sustained with hardly a break all 
 the way home to Mount joy Square. 
 
 There they found supper ready; but their host and 
 Mr O'Meagher not yet returned. At eight o'clock 
 Mr Behre bade Adam sit down and eat. He had well- 
 nigh iinish«d when the others came in weary but 
 content. 
 
 'You can sleep quietly to-night, Adam,' said Mr 
 a86 
 
The Dead Lover 
 
 Macarthy. 'If you ever go back to Belvedere it will 
 not be in the reign of any Tudor.' 
 
 Adam jumped for joy. ' Are you to be my guardian? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 His host nodded. 'With Mr 'Meagher here and 
 your highly meritorious godfather, Mr O'Toole.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher tossed his head and looked sly. ' Wise 
 gentleman, Mr Bj^ron O'Toole; knows to a nicety on 
 which side his bread is buttered, likes plenty of it too, 
 and I don't blame him.' 
 
 'No,' said Mr Macarthy moodily. 'He is scarcely to 
 blame for being what he is. Byron's a hard name to 
 be given to any man.' 
 
 'Byron, Bjnron,' Mr Behre rolled the name on his 
 tongue. 'I saw on the frame of that fellow Byron- 
 Quinn's portrait by the Marchesa that they call him 
 a poet. Has anybody ever read his poetry?' 
 
 'Everybody's read the " Dead Lover," ' Mr O'Meagher 
 said, and commenced solemnly to recite : — 
 
 'When that I was alive there were women that 
 
 loved me; 
 When that I was alive they loved only me. 
 And that I could do no wrong was the burden of 
 
 the song 
 Of the dear good women that loved me. 
 
 'Now that I am dead those good women that loved 
 
 me 
 Are sought by other lovers happily, happily, 
 And in my narrow bed I can hear as I he dead 
 Little feet that I have kissed dance hghtly over me. 
 
 'Yet though in my grave I he, I laugh deliciously 
 At the foolish living lovers that are dancing ovex 
 me — 
 
 287 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 For the Queens of all their toasts are the cold and 
 
 Ccireless ghosts 
 Of the women that have loved me and are lying 
 
 dead with me.' 
 
 "That's fine,' gasped Adam; 'I like that.' 
 
 ' Do you? ' said Mr Macarthy politely. ' I had rather 
 hoped you would agree with me in finding it nonsense.' 
 
 Adam's eyes filled with tears at the thought he had 
 said something foolish. 'I'm sorry I don't know any 
 better,' he said. 
 
 'You needn't be sorry,' said Mr O'Meagher. 'It's 
 Mr Macarthy is wanting in taste, not you.' 
 
 'Quite so,' said Mr Macarthy. 
 
 Mr Behre turned to him. 'You think the man was 
 not a real poet ? ' 
 
 'No more than Owen Meredith,' said Mr Macarthy. 
 'His verse is just a trifle better than the Marchesa's 
 painting. Temperament without application. The 
 last sonnet is unique, but that doesn't make it poetry.' 
 
 'The one they say he wrote the night he died?' Mr 
 O'Meagher asked. 'Do you remember it?' 
 
 Their host nodded. ' I used to repeat it twice a day; 
 that was when I was young and knew no better.' 
 
 ' If there's no reason you shouldn't, I'd Uke to hear 
 you say it,' Mr Behre said. 
 
 Rather tamely, as Adam felt, Mr Macarthy spoke 
 these lines : — 
 
 THE LAST PENITENCE 
 
 'Here in the dark of the desert that ultimate night 
 That hangs upon Africa, drowning the memory of 
 
 day. 
 Making Egyptian darkness itself as broad light, 
 I kned me in mystery to pray. 
 288 
 
The Dead Lover 
 
 Not to Osiris I turn, the sleek lord of the sun : 
 Nor to old Jupiter, jovial and hotheaded god: 
 Nor to Jehovah, the bilious, mean-spirited one. 
 I seek not a heavenly crown and I fear not the rod. 
 Let them ride their celestial hippogriffs over my 
 
 corse . . . 
 Until my soul die, the smile of disdain shall not 
 
 fade. 
 Not for the Gods have I a thought of remorse. 
 Only of him who may follow me am I afraid. . . . 
 If thou art he, I beg thee abject, to forgive 
 Him that lies dead for the folly that csdled thee 
 
 to hve.' 
 
 There was silence as the words stilled. Adam growing 
 anxious to break it, said, 'That's a queer sort of poem. 
 . . . Did he die after writing that ? ' 
 
 'Twenty-four hours after that,' replied his host 
 somewhat grimly. 'All that was left of my cousin, 
 David Byron-Quinn, was the heel of one boot and the 
 rim of his eyeglass.' 
 
 'I forgot he was your cousin,' said Mr O'Meagher. 
 
 Herr Behre was pensive. 'I don't see a man with a 
 glass in his eye writing that.' 
 
 'Faith,' said Mr O'Meagher, with a little laugh, 
 'he must be wishing now that he hadn't written it.' 
 
 Adam protested, ' But he's dead ! ' He made a cal- 
 culation : ' Thirty years.' 
 
 Mr O'Meagher's voice dropped to the sepulchral. 
 ' Sure what is thirty years but the smallest drop in the 
 bucket of eternity ! ' 
 
 'Is it as much as that?' Mr Macarthy broke in 
 coldly and Adam shuddered at the thought of the 
 uncounted aeons that stretched away before and behind 
 his little life. 
 
 Then he felt Mr Macarthy's hand on his arm, and 
 
 289 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 heard his pleasant voice in his ear, 'You take care 
 of .Time, my dear, and Eternity will take care of 
 itself.' 
 
 And even as he heard this, he heard also the echo 
 of his own small voice piping through Stephen's Green 
 the ancient news : ' Bloody Battle in Kordof an. . . . 
 Awful End of an Irish Baronet ! ' and he remembered, 
 wondering the while why in all Dublin no one cared 
 for the fate of Sir David Byron-Quinn a single copper, 
 save one queer lady, who cared half a crown. 
 
 Now he began to understand : the queer lady had 
 come with her bicycle out of the very house in Stephen's 
 Green where this week he had been fated to meet and 
 be caressed by her. She was no other than the lady 
 with the strange Itahan name . , . the Marchesa 
 della Venasalvatica . . . bom Lady Daphne Page, 
 who once upon a time had loved the mad baronet 
 (perhaps in the same, not very sensible, sort of way as 
 he loved Caroline Brady) and painted the picture of 
 him he had seen to-day in the National Gallery. . , . 
 And as queer as the Marchesa was the National Gallery 
 itself, with all the pictures and statues of women with 
 no clothes on. . . . He wondered if Father Innocent 
 had ever seen such a place. In real Ufe you never saw 
 women with no clothes on. . . . Yes, he had once, 
 at Bray (almost, if not quite, by accident) at the 
 bathing place. He had not been favourably impressed, 
 even as a diagram he could scarcely trace the resemblance 
 to what he had seen to-day. Life as you saw it in Art 
 was beautiful, but not as you saw it in reality. . . . 
 And yet Caroline's eyes and Josephine's hair, something 
 in the carriage of both ? It always troubled him to think 
 of either walking towards him. . . . Wasn't he the 
 silly fellow to be troubled by a thing like that? . . . 
 Perhaps once upon a time that mad Irish baronet had 
 been troubled to see the Marchesa, that had been Daphne 
 290 
 
The Dead Lover 
 
 Page, wallcing towards him. . . .'She walks in beauty.' 
 . . . That was a quotation Mr Flood, S.J., had once 
 inadvertently let fall. . . . Had Mr Flood seen some 
 one walk in beauty ... or run, maybe, as the old 
 Marchesa perhaps once ran to her mad lover? . . . 
 Had his mother run to Malachy Macfadden before he 
 was bom? ... He shivered with a chill fit of 
 loathing. 
 
 He shivered, too, to think of those miserable days 
 of infancy when he called the death of Sir David Byron- 
 Quinn through Stephen's Green, and the death of 
 Queen Victoria in Sackville Street, though they seemed 
 less hideous now than the hours at Belvedere overhimg 
 by the shadow of crazy, crafty Tudor. All that was 
 done with now, for he felt that with Mr Macarthy 
 he was safe from priest or layman's spite. Drawing a 
 long breath of rehef, he lolled back in his arm-chair, 
 the first truly pleasant seat his Httle body had ever 
 rested in. For the O'Meaghers' house at Sandy Cove, 
 though a kindly, was not a cosy one. Mrs O'Meagher 
 was, he was old enough to realise, a restless spirit 
 beneath her air of tranquillity, and her very beds were 
 too conscientious even for repose. He had only loved 
 her house because it held Josephine, the ultimate haven 
 of his desire. 
 
 Little hope had he ever of reaching that port, but 
 at least he was now in a harbour of refuge where he 
 could ride out one storm near sinking him, and in 
 charge of a pilot, who, he was confident, had skill and 
 goodwill to take him as close to his Brazil as time and 
 tide would suffer him to go. 
 
 And here for the nonce our vision of Adam fades : 
 he melts into that infinity which to our finite eyes is 
 gray, but radiant in the all-seeingness of God : the 
 laughing God whose himiour had decreed that Adam, 
 called Macfadden, and his beloved Josephine should 
 
 291 
 
Adam of Dublin 
 
 both spring from the seed of that great lover, David 
 Byron-Quinn, whose soul had vanished in the heart of 
 Africa and his body turned to dust strewn in the sands 
 of Kordofan, and at certain changes of the moon 
 whelming the desert traveller, as in life he had whelmed 
 other voyagers, in the clip of the Simoom. 
 
 Here ends the story called Adam of Dublin. The 
 author will tell another story called Adam and Caroline. 
 
 GLASGOW ; W. COtLINS SONS AND CO. LTD. 
 
 292 
 
Messrs. 
 
 COLLINS' 
 
 Latest Novels 
 
 Messrs. COLLINS will always be glad to send 
 their book lists regularly to readers who will 
 send name and address. 
 
 PIRACY 
 
 Michael Arlen 
 
 This is the story of Ivor Pelham Marlay between the 
 ages of i8 and 32, and the period is London, 1910-1922. 
 It is the history of England, two loves, and an ideal. 
 Mr. Arlen deals with all the types of London Society, and 
 he likes to bring out the queer and unexpected sides of 
 his characters. No one who read Mr. Arlen's first book, 
 A London' Venture, or his delightful short stories, A 
 Romantic Lady, needs to be told that he writes wittily 
 and well. 
 
Latest Novels 
 
 TYLER OF BARNET 
 
 Bernard Gilbert 
 
 Author of Old England 
 
 This long, powerful novel shows the dilemma of a 
 middle-aged man with an invalid wife and grown-up 
 children, who falls passionately in love for the first time. 
 As he is a man of iron self-control he represses his passion 
 till it bursts all bounds, with a tragic result. No one 
 now writing knows so well or describes so vividly life in 
 the English countrsreide as does Bernard Gilbert. 
 
 THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE 
 
 Freeman Wills Crofts 
 
 Another brilliantly ingenious detective story by the 
 author of The Ponson Case. The mj^tery of the real 
 business of the syndicate utterly baffled the clever young 
 " amateurs " who tried to solve it, and it took all the 
 experience and perseverance of the " professionals " to 
 break up the dangerous and murderous gang. 
 
Latest Novels 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED 
 
 F. Scott Fitzgerald 
 
 This book has caused an even greater sensation in 
 America than This Side of Paradise. It is a long, 
 searching, and absolutely convincing study of degeneration, 
 that degeneration which ruins so many of the rich, young, 
 idle people. The " smart set " of New York is hurled 
 into the limelight and mercilessly revealed. A witty, 
 pungent, and entirely orginal book. 
 
 DANDELION DAYS 
 
 Henry Williamson 
 
 This is the tale of a boy's last terms at a public school, 
 a very sensitive, unusual boy, and it is in a sense a sequel 
 to The Beautiful Years. It is the work of a very clever 
 young writer whose nature essays have attracted the 
 widest attention here andjn America, and is utterly unlike 
 the usual " school story." It is a subtle and beautifully 
 written study of character. 
 
Latest Novels 
 
 BEANSTALK 
 
 Mrs. Henry Dudeney 
 
 A charmingly told novel of Sussex. The theme la 
 Motherhood, and all the emotional subtleties of the desire 
 for children. 
 
 PENDER AMONG THE 
 RESIDENTS 
 
 Forrest Reid 
 
 This is an episode in the life of Rex Pender, who 
 inherited and came to live at Ballycastle. It is the story 
 of the curious spiritual experience which came to him 
 there. It is in a sense a " ghost story," but it is told by 
 an artist and a stylist. " The Residents," moreover, are 
 admirably contrasted, and in some cases deliciously 
 humoroudy drawn. A charming, enigmatic, " different " 
 book. 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 6029.RS8A7 
 
 Adam of Dublin; a romance of today, by Con 
 
 3 1924 013 659 663