Minnie's Bishop and Other Stories/The Child of Our Hope
IX.—THE CHILD OF OUR HOPE
CHARLIE FETHERSTON was a barrister, a man with good manners, a man of brains, and he possessed, though he concealed the fact, a soul. Most people in Dublin, that is to say in Dublin society, liked him for his good manners, admired him for his brains, and did not distrust him, because they were ignorant of the existence of his soul. On the other hand, his aunt, Lady Honoria Burke, loved him for the sake of his soul. She discovered it in spite of his good manners and his brains. She had a curious power of recognising hidden possibilities in unlikely people. Charlie Fetherston, on his part, had a real affection for his aunt. He described her, to the friends who appreciated his manners and his brains, as "queer, decidedly queer, but a good sort, and very comfortably off." In reality she attracted him because she talked to him, with simple directness, about things which neither he nor she understood, but which roused emotions. One evening in November, in response to an invitation, Charlie Fetherston arrived at his aunt's house. She greeted him solemnly, and motioned him to sit down. She sat opposite to him on a high, straight-backed chair. The room was only lighted by the fire.
"I have seen," said Lady Honoria, without preface, "the Child of our Hope."
Charlie knew that his aunt looked for the coming of a Celtic Messiah, a mysterious prophet who was to redeem Ireland from bondage, and, through Ireland, the world from materialism. He didn't himself believe that any such person was the least likely to appear; but it interested him to hear his aunt talk. He waited, half amused, half impressed, for an account of the revelation.
"I was returning last week from the visit which I pay every year to my brother at Dunrigh. You know what Lord Beverly is like, and how my spirit is tried when I am in his house. I am regarded by his friends as eccentric; and I am obliged to eat meat, sometimes even twice a day, lest they should think of me as very troublesome. The talk is about politics and shooting birds, and such things. In the evening I am often asked to tell fortunes from the hands of giggling girls. For a long time after a return from Dunrigh, I am unable to recover the faculty. I mention these things to you to show that on my way back to Dublin I was in no way predisposed to see visions and dream dreams.
"I reached Athlone; and there I was obliged to get out in order to change into another train. I waited on the platform, and mused on the faces of the people around me, wondering that they were all so commonplace. There was not one that had the capacity for spiritual life written on it. Then a young woman came near me, bearing a child in her arms. I noticed that she was shabbily dressed, and that she did not look like one of our country-women. Then I saw her no more, for my whole attention was fixed on the child she was carrying. He was a big child, perhaps four years old, too big for a woman to have in her arms; but he looked ill, and that, no doubt, was her reason for carrying him. I saw, faintly indicated, a blue halo round his head. I strained myself to the uttermost to reach the vision perfectly, and by degrees the halo became clear to me. It was bright blue, like an Italian sky, and exceedingly beautiful. I gazed steadily and saw poised above the child a golden figure, armed triumphantly. It was infinitely splendid. I knew then, beyond the possibility of any doubt, that he was the Child of our Hope.
"Before I could speak to her, the mother passed by me and crossed the bridge to the opposite platform. I followed her without hesitation, and saw her get into a train which stood ready to go westwards. There was no time for me to do anything except step into the nearest carriage. I was, of course, bent upon going with her. She got out at the next station—a mere platform by the roadside. The name written on the notice board was Knockcroghery, which, as you know, means 'hill of the hangman.' I stood for a moment gazing at it in astonishment, asking myself what fate might lie in the coming of the Child of our Hope from a place
with such a name. Then the stationmaster came and troubled me about a ticket. I had no ticket, for I had never thought of buying one; but I offered to satisfy him by giving money. While I was seeking for my purse I saw the woman going along the road from the station. I was more sure than ever that she was a foreigner, because she carried the child on her back, having wrapped him in a shawl and brought the ends of it across her shoulders. None of our country-women, except the tinkers' wives, carry children in this way. I asked the man who she was, and where she lived. He said: 'Is it poor Mrs. Cane you mean, ma'am? She lives at Cuslough, two miles along the road. She was up to Athlone with her boy, taking him to the doctor. She was telling me that he was very bad. Indeed, it's trouble enough she has, poor lady, without that.
"I wondered that he should speak of her as 'poor,' who was the mother of the Child of our Hope, and I thought how generations after would call her blessed. Then I asked the man the way to Cuslough.
"It's two miles if you follow the road, ma'am, and you can't miss it; for it's the first house you see when you come at the lake; but you could save half the distance by crossing the bog, and it won't be soft this weather.'
"I thought that the woman would go by the shorter way, and that I might overtake her. However, I did not see her; but I lost my way, and wandered through the bog, so that a full hour passed before I reached Cuslough. It was a very gloomy house, standing low down near the lake-shore, and altogether surrounded and overshadowed by trees. I went up to it along a dark walk, soft under foot with fallen leaves, and grey, knee-deep with mist. I knocked, but there was no answer. I knocked again and again and waited, but no one came to me. At last I heard a child crying inside. The knowledge that trouble was on the Child of our Hope made me bold, so that I went round to the back of the house. I came to the yard; it was very dirty and untidy; and opposite me I saw some hens and chickens pecking oats which had been scattered on the ground for them. I turned and saw, standing in the kitchen doorway, the woman, the mother of the child. She had a gun. The barrel of it was resting on the back of a chair, and she seemed about to fire it off. It pointed towards the hens. I was astonished, and cried out to her. She answered me, speaking English correctly, but in the manner of a Frenchwoman.
"'I want to kill one of them, a chicken for the boy. The doctor said I was to give him chicken-soup and chicken-jelly. I am able to make the soup and jelly very well; but never, never have I killed a chicken. In my country one buys them dead in the shops. It is altogether horrible; but I must kill it. I thought of other ways; but I could not, no, I could not, do it. It seemed easier thus with the gun. And now I am afraid to shoot.'"
"'My dear,' I said. She was so helpless and frightened that she seemed like a young girl to me, though she was the mother of the Child of our Hope. 'Have you no one to kill the chicken for you? Is there no servant?'
"'I had one,' she said, 'but she went away from me last week. She would not stay, because'
"She stopped, seeming to think that I would guess the reason. I did not wish to try, because the thing most in my mind was the need of getting the chicken killed. I asked:
"'Where is your husband?' knowing that there must be a husband somewhere because she had a gun.
"'He! Bah! He is in there asleep.'
"Afterwards, when I went into the house, I understood her scorn. The man lay drunk upon the floor of the sitting-room. His face was bloated and coarse almost beyond belief; but I knew him. You will remember hearing of James Cane, the brilliant barrister who made the speeches touched with genius. He was a Member of Parliament for a while, though it was never possible to understand how he, for he had genius, could join himself to those or go there. We lost sight of him; but I always thought that we should hear of him again. Well, it was there I found him, drunk, while his child lay sick. It was a very sad thing to me to see him there. But I understood how he might be the father of the child. It is true that he went under, but he had genius once.
"The young woman still held the gun, and I knew that if she pulled the trigger, she would shoot all her pretty fowls. I made up my mind that I myself must kill the chicken, and I asked her for a knife.
"'Now, my dear, you are a young woman, and I am an old one. You must catch the chicken, and then you may go into the kitchen.'
"I will not tell you how I did it, though the recollection will always be with me and haunt me in my dreams at night. It was a very terrible thing for me to do, because I am a lover of all things that live, and I never willingly eat of food got by the sacrifice of life. Yet I made my heart hard and did it, thinking of the Child of our Hope, and that I had heard him cry.
"Afterwards she made the broth, while I sat beside the child's cot and tried to soothe him. The beautiful blue halo was always round his head, and the figure, the glorious blazing figure, poised over him. It made me brave and patient to see it there. When the mother came in, we tried to make him take the broth; but he would not. He fought against us, and for all that we could do he would not take it. After a while we gave it up and she took him in her arms and held him, singing little French songs to quiet him. I was not able to help her because I have no skill with little children. I suppose this is because I do not love them much, never having had any child of my own. But I loved this child for the sake of the great hope that was in me. So I knelt beside her, and prayed for his life. Quickly, as it seemed to me, the daylight faded away, and it came to be evening and then night. Still I prayed, and I could hear her singing softly and rocking him to and fro in her arms. It grew very dark. I did not think that any night was so dark as that one was. I could see nothing except the shine of the blue halo moving gently from side to side as she swayed the child. When I got weary praying, I looked at it and took courage and fresh strength from it. Once, it must have been early in the morning, I missed the halo. I gazed with all my might, but I could not see it. Then I knew that the child was dead. I remembered that for some time he had not cried. I did not tell her that he was dead, for she had ceased singing and sat still, so that I thought she slept. Perhaps after that I slept too, huddled on the floor beside her. When I next remember anything, the morning light was coming into the room. She was awake also; but she did not know even then that the child was dead. She was rocking him in her arms as she had done before, and singing her foolish little songs to him.
"Then, I think it must have been about seven o'clock, I heard a voice in the next room, and the man rose and came into the chamber where we were. When he saw me, he stopped and stared. Then he began to curse me and his wife. I cannot remember, I do not think I really heard, the words he said or the names he called us. I looked at her, but she seemed neither surprised nor frightened.
"'You had better go away,' she said; 'you have been very kind to me, but it is not right that you should stay for this. Besides, if you go, he will be quiet, perhaps, and will not wake the child.'
"I knew that he could not wake the child. I went over and kissed her on the cheek; then I kissed the dead lips of the Child of our Hope, and signed him with the cross upon the forehead. The man followed me out of the house and a little way along the road, cursing me. But I did not care.
"Now, Charlie, I have told you what I brought you here to tell. I have seen the Child of our Hope. He was with us, but he is gone again. Can you tell me what it means?"
Charles Fetherston looked at her. Then he rose slowly, and stretched out his hand to take hers.
"Good-night, Aunt Honoria. I do not know what to say to you, or what to think."
"But how it is?" she asked. "I cannot understand. He was with us and is gone, and nothing seems to come of it?"
At the door Charles turned.
"Perhaps," he said, "she, the young woman, the mother, may have another child some day."