The Collected Fiction of William Hope Hodgson: The Dream Of X & Other Fantastic Visions Read Online Free PDF

To have need to see the priest alone, was a need that each and all understood, as a part of their daily lives.
    I lifted the latch, and we passed in, as all are welcome to do at any hour of the day or night. The door of his house opened into a short half-passage, and I could see direct into his little room, out of which went the small scullery-kitchen. As we entered, I heard Sally, his servant-wench, washing dishes in the little scullery; and just then Father Johnson called out to her:—“Sally, I’ll make a bet with ye.”
    In the scullery, I heard a swift rustling and a subdued clatter, and knew that Sally (having heard that preliminary often before) was stealthily removing the handles of the knives from the boiling water. Then her reply:—
    “Did y’r riv’rence sphake?”
    “I did, Sally, colleen,” said the priest’s voice. “I’ll make a bet with ye, Sally, you’ve the handles av thim knives over hilt in the hot water—eh, Sally!”
    And then Sally’s voice, triumphant:—
    “Ye’re wrong, y’r riv’rence, thim knives is on the dhresser!”
    “Aye, Sally.” said Father Johnson; “but were they not in the hot water whin I sphoke firrst?”
    “They was, y’r riv’rence.” said Sally, in a shamed voice; just as she had been making the same confession for the past seven years. And then the priest had a little fit of happy, almost silent laughter, puffing out great clouds of smoke; in the midst of which we walked in on him.
    After our greetings, which the priest had met with that strange magnetism of heartiness that had left even the critical Pelple less disapproving, we were set down to a tea, which we simply had to eat, the priest waiting on us himself, and making the little meal “go,” as you might say, with the abundance of his energy and humour—telling a hundred quaint tales and jests of the country-side, with his brogue making points of laughter where more formal speech would have left us dull and untouched.
    The meal over, the priest suggested that we might like to accompany him down to his chapel, and see whether things were “kapin’ happy,” as he phrased it. As you may suppose, we were quite eager to accept his invitation; for, as I have made clear already, I had never been down to his place before, and I had heard many things—even as had Pelple—about his chapel and his methods.
    We had not far to go. On the way, Father Johnson pointed with his thumb to a little stone-built cabin, very small and crude, which I learned was rented by a certain old Thomas Cardallon, who was not an Irishman.
    “Tom’s wife died last week,” said the priest, quietly. “He’s to be evicted to-morrow as iver is, if he cannot fhind the rint.”
    I put my hand into my pocket, with a half-involuntary movement; but he shook his head, as much as to say no good could be done that way. That was all, and we were past the small hovel in a minute; but I found myself looking back with a sudden, new curiosity at the little rough-built living-place, that, before, had been only one poor hut among many; yet was now instinct to me with a history of its own, so that it stood out in my memory, from the others, that were here and there about, as something indicative of the life-hope and striving of two poor humans. I put it badly, I know; but it was just such a jumble of vague thoughts and emotions as these, that stirred in my mind. I had reason afterwards to have further memory of the cottage and its one-time occupants.
    We reached the chapel very soon; but when we entered, I stood for a moment, in astonishment, looking up the single aisle of the long, whitewashed room. There was not much noise; for, as I discovered, reverence and the sense of the Place, held power all the time; moreover, they were Father Johnson’s people. I looked at my friend, smiling, I fear.
    “Even worse than Rumour foretold.” I suggested in a low voice; but he made no reply; for he appeared to me to be stifled by the excess of his