The Miraculous Revenge | Page 3

its face, as he was wont to look in the midst of
his labor. I saw there eternal peace. The air became luminous with an
infinite net-work of the jeweled rings of Paradise descending in roseate
clouds upon us.
"Uncle," I said, bursting into the sweetest tears I had ever shed, "my
wanderings are over. I will enter the Church, if you will help me. Let us
read together the third part of Faust; for I understand it at last."
"Hush, man," he said, half rising with an expression of alarm. "Control
yourself."
"Do not let tears mislead you. I am calm and strong. Quick, let us have
Goethe:
Das Unbeschreibliche, Hier ist gethan; Das Ewig-Weibliche, Zieht uns
hinan."
"Come, come. Dry your eyes and be quiet. I have no library here."

"But I have--in my portmanteau at the hotel," I said, rising. "Let me go
for it. I will return in fifteen minutes."
"The devil is in you, I believe. Cannot----"
I interrupted him with a shout of laughter.
"Cardinal," I said noisily, "you have become profane; and a profane
priest is always the best of good fellows. Let us have some wine; and I
will sing you a German beer song."
"Heaven forgive me if I do you wrong," he said; "but I believe God has
laid the expiation of some sin on your unhappy head. Will you favor
me with your attention for awhile? I have something to say to you, and
I have also to get some sleep before my hour of rising, which is
half-past five."
"My usual hour for retiring--when I retire at all. But proceed. My fault
is not inattention, but over-susceptibility."
"Well, then, I want you to go to Wicklow. My reasons----"
"No matter what they may be," said I, rising again. "It is enough that
you desire me to go. I shall start forthwith."
"Zeno! will you sit down and listen to me?"
I sank upon my chair reluctantly. "Ardor is a crime in your eyes, even
when it is shewn in your service," I said. "May I turn down the light?"
"Why?"
"To bring on my sombre mood, in which I am able to listen with
tireless patience."
"I will turn it down myself. Will that do?"
I thanked him and composed myself to listen in the shadow. My eyes, I
felt, glittered. I was like Poe's raven.

"Now for my reasons for sending you to Wicklow. First, for your own
sake. If you stay in town, or in any place where excitement can be
obtained by any means, you will be in Swift's Hospital in a week. You
must live in the country, under the eye of one upon whom I can depend.
And you must have something to do to keep you out of mischief and
away from your music and painting and poetry, which, Sir John
Richard writes to me, are dangerous for you in your present morbid
state. Second, because I can entrust you with a task which, in the hands
of a sensible man might bring discredit on the Church. In short, I want
you to investigate a miracle."
He looked attentively at me. I sat like a statue.
"You understand me?" he said.
"Nevermore," I replied, hoarsely. "Pardon me," I added, amused at the
trick my imagination had played me, "I understand you perfectly.
Proceed."
"I hope you do. Well, four miles distant from the town of Wicklow is a
village called Four Mile Water. The resident priest is Father Hickey.
You have heard of the miracles at Knock?"
I winked.
"I did not ask you what you think of them but whether you have heard
of them. I see you have. I need not tell you that even a miracle may do
more harm than good to the Church in this country, unless it can be
proved so thoroughly that her powerful and jealous enemies are
silenced by the testimony of followers of their heresy. Therefore, when
I saw in a Wexford newspaper last week a description of a strange
manifestation of the Divine Power which was said to have taken place
at Four Mile Water, I was troubled in my mind about it. So I wrote to
Father Hickey, bidding him give me an account of the matter if it were
true, and, if it were not, to denounce from the altar the author of the
report, and contradict it in the paper at once. This is his reply. He says,
well, the first part is about Church matters: I need not trouble you with
it. He goes on to say----"

"One moment. Is this his own hand-writing? It does not look like a
man's."
"He suffers from rheumatism in the fingers of his right hand; and his
niece, who is an orphan, and lives