In rural Ireland the "bona-fide," or rathermala-fide, traveler constitutes a certain blasphemous aspect in the celebration of the Sabbath. There are different types of "bona-fide," whose characteristics may be said to vary in direct proportion to their love and enthusiasm for porter. The worship of porter, when it has attained the proportions of a perfect passion, is best described as "the pursuit of porter in a can." It is the cause of many drunken skirmishes with the law, and it is interesting to observe such mistaken heroes in the execution of their plans.
At a given signal a sudden descent is made upon a pub. A series of whistles from sentries in various parts of the village has announced the arrival of the propitious moment. A big tin'can is the only visible evidence of their dark intention. One almost forgets its betraying presence in the whirling moment of the brave deed. Then the deed is done. By some extraordinary process the can that was empty is found to be filled. It is the miracle of the porter.... When the sergeant and his colleagues come on the scene some hours later, an empty can with slight traces of froth upon the sides, "like beaded bubbles winking at the brim," constitutes the remaining flimsy evidence of the great thing that has happened.
The mind of John Brennan was more or less foreignto this aspect of life amongst the fields. He would be the very last to realize that such were essential happenings in the life of his native village of Garradrimna. On his first Sunday at home he went walking, after second Mass, through the green woods which were the western boundary of the village. His thoughts were dwelling upon Father O'Keeffe's material interpretation of the Gospel story. At last they eddied into rest as he moved there along the bright path between the tall trees, so quiet as with adoration.
When he came by that portion of the demesne wall, which lay at the back of Brannagan's public-house, he heard a scurrying of rabbits among the undergrowth. In the sudden hush which followed he heard a familiar voice raised in a tense whisper.
"Hurry, quick! quick! There's some one in black coming up the path. It must be Sergeant McGoldrick. The can! the can!"
His cheeks were suddenly flushed by a feeling of shame, for it was his father who had spoken. He stood behind a wide beech tree in mere confusion and not that he desired to see what was going forward.
His father, Ned Brennan, bent down like an acrobat across the demesne wall and took the can from some one beneath. Then he ran down through the undergrowth, the brown froth of the porter dashing out upon his trousers, his quick eyes darting hither and thither like those of a frightened animal. But he did not catch sight of John, who saw him raise the can to his lips.
It was a new experience for John Brennan to see his father thus spending the Sabbath in this dark place inthe woods, while out in the young summer day spilled and surged all the wonder of the world.... A sort of pity claimed possession of him as he took a different way among the cathedral trees.... His father was the queer man, queer surely, and moving lonely in his life. He was not the intimate of his son nor of the woman who was his son's mother. He had never seemed greatly concerned to do things towards the respect and honor of that woman. And yet John Brennan could not forget that he was his father.
Just now another incident came to divert his mood. He encountered an ancient dryad flitting through the woods. This was Padna Padna, a famous character in Garradrimna. For all his name was that of the great apostle of his country, his affinities were pagan. Although he was eighty, he got drunk every day and never went to Mass. In his early days he had been the proprietor of a little place and the owner of a hackney car. When the posting business fell into decline, he had had to sell the little place and the horse and car, and the purchase money had been left for his support with a distant relative in the village. He was a striking figure as he moved abroad in the disguise of a cleric not altogether devoted to the service of God. He always dressed in solemn black, and his coat was longer than that of a civilian. His great hat gave him a downcast look, as of one who has peered into the Mysteries. His face was wasted and small, and this, with his partially blinded eyes behind the sixpenny spectacles, gave him a certain asceticism of look. Yet it was the way he carried himself rather than his general aspect which created this impression of him. He was very small,and shrinking daily. His eyes were always dwelling upon his little boots in meditation. Were you unaware of his real, character, you might foolishly imagine that he was thinking of high, immortal things, but he was in reality thinking of drink.
This was his daily program. He got up early and, on most mornings, crossed the street to Bartle Donohoe, the village barber, for a shave. Bartle would be waiting for him, his dark eye hanging critically as he tested the razor edge against the skin of his thumb. The little blade would be glinting in the sunlight.... Sometimes Bartle would become possessed of the thought that the morning might come when, after an unusually hard carouse on the previous night, he would not be responsible for all his razor might do, that it might suddenly leap out of his shivering hand and make a shocking end of Padna Padna and all his tyranny.... But his reputation as the drunkard with the steadiest hand in Garradrimna had to be maintained. If he did not shave Padna Padna the fact would be published in every house.
"Bartle Donohoe was too shaky to shave me this morning; too shaky, I say. Ah, he's going wrong, going wrong! And will ye tell me this now? How is it that if ye buy a clock, a little ordinary clock for a couple of shillings, and give it an odd wind, it'll go right; but a man, a great, clever man'll go wrong no matter what way ye strive for to manage him?"
If Bartle shaved him, Padna Padna would take his barber over to Tommy Williams's to give him a drink, which was the only payment he ever expected. After this, his first one, Padna Padna would say, "Not goingto drink any more to-day," to which Bartle Donohoe would reply sententiously: "D'ye tell me so? Well, well! Is that a fact?"
Then, directly, he would proceed to take a little walk before his breakfast, calling at every house of entertainment and referring distantly to the fact that Bartle Donohoe had a shake in his hand this morning. "A shame for him, and he an only son and all!"
And thus did he spend the days of his latter end, pacing the sidewalks of Garradrimna, entering blindly into pubs and discussing the habits of every one save himself.
He was great in the field of reminiscence.
"Be the Holy Farmer!" he would say, "but there's no drinking nowadays tost what used to be longo. There's no decent fellows, and that's a fact. Ah, they were the decent fellows longo. You couldn't go driving them a place but they'd all come home mad. And sure I often didn't know where I'd be driving them, I'd be that bloody drunk. Aye, decent fellows! Sure they're all dead now through the power and the passion of drink."
So this was the one whom John Brennan now encountered amid the green beauty of the woodland places. To him Padna Padna was one of the immortals. Succeeding holiday after succeeding holiday had he met the ancient man, fading surely but never wholly declining or disappearing. The impulse which had prompted him to speak to Marse Prendergast a few days previously now made him say: "How are you, old man?" to Padna Padna.
The venerable drunkard, by way of immediate reply, tapped upon his lips with his fingers and then blew uponhis fingers and whistled in cogitation. It was with his ears that he saw, and he possessed an amazing faculty for distinguishing between the different voices of different people.
"John Brennan!" he at length exclaimed, in his high, thin voice. "Is that John Brennan?"
"It is, the very one."
"And how are ye, John?"
"Very well, indeed, Padna. How are you?"
"Poorly only. Ah, John, this is the hard day on me always, the Sunday. I declare to me God I detest Sunday. Here am I marching through the woods since seven and I having no drink whatever. That cursed Sergeant McGoldrick! May he have a tongue upon him some day the color of an ould brick and he in the seventh cavern of Hell! Did ye see Ned?"
The sudden and tense question was not immediately intelligible to John Brennan. There were so many of the name about Garradrimna. Padna Padna pranced impatiently as he waited for an answer.
"Ah, is it letting on you are that you don't know who I mean, and you with your grand ecclesiastical learning and all to that. 'Tis your own father, Ned Brennan, that I mean. I was in a 'join' with him to get a can out of Brannigan's. Mebbe you didn't see him anywhere down through the wood, for I have an idea that he's going to swindle me. Did ye see him, I'm asking you?"
Even still John did not reply, for something seemed to have caught him by the throat and was robbing him of the power of speech. The valley, with its vast malevolence of which his mother had so recently warned him,was now driving him to say something which was not true.
"No, Padna, I did not see him!" he at last managed to jerk out.
"Mebbe he didn't manage to get me drink for me yet, and mebbe he did get it and is after drinking it somewhere in the shadows of the trees where he couldn't be seen. But what am I saying at all? Sure if he was drinking it there before me, where you're standing, I couldn't see him, me eyes is that bad. Isn't it the poor and the hard case to be blinded to such an extent?"
John Brennan felt no pity, so horrible was the expression that now struggled into those dimming eyes. He thought of a puzzling fact of his parentage. Why was it that his mother had never been able to save his father from the ways of degradation into which he had fallen, the low companions, the destruction of the valley; from all of which to even the smallest extent she was now so anxious to save her son?
Padna Padna was still blowing upon his fingers and regretting:
"Now isn't it the poor and the hard case that there's no decent fellows left in the world at all. To think that I can meet never a one now, me that spent so much of me life driving decent fellows, driving, driving. John, do ye know what it is now? You're after putting me in mind of Henry Shannon. He was the decentest fellow! Many's the time I drove him down to your grandmother's place when he wouldn't have a foot under him to leave Garradrimna. That was when your mother was a young girl, John. Hee, hee, hee!"
John could not divine the reasons for the old man's glee, nor did he perceive that the mind of Padna Padna, even in the darkening stages of its end, was being lit by a horrible sneer at him and the very fact of his existence. Instead he grew to feel rather a stir of compassion for this old man, with his shattered conception of happiness such as it was, burning his mind with memories while he rode down so queerly to the grave.
As he moved away through the long, peaceful aisles of the trees, his soul was filled with gray questioning because of what he had just seen of his father and because of the distant connection of his mother with the incident. Why was it at all that his mother had never been able to save his father?
As he emerged from the last circle of the woods there seemed to be a shadow falling low over the fields. He went with no eagerness towards the house of his mother. This was Sunday, and it was her custom to spend a large portion of the Sabbath in speaking of her neighbors. But she would never say anything about his father, even though Ned Brennan would not be in the house.
Just now there happened something of such unusual importance in the valley that Mrs. Brennan became excited about it. The assistant teacher of Tullahanogue Girls' School, Miss Mary Jane O'Donovan, had left, and a new assistant was coming in her stead. Miss O'Donovan had always given the making of her things to Mrs. Brennan, so she spoke of her, now that she was gone, as having been "averynice girl." Just yet, of course, she was not in a position to say as much about the girl who was coming. But the entry of a new person into the life of the valley was a great event! Such new things could be said!
On Monday morning Mrs. Brennan called her son into the sewing-room to describe the imminent nature of the event. The sense of depression that had come upon him during the previous day did not become averted as he listened.
What an extraordinary mixture this woman who was his mother now appeared before his eyes! And yet he could not question her in any action or in any speech; she was his mother, and so everything that fell from her must be taken in a mood of noble and respectful acceptance. But she was without charity, and as he saw her in this guise he was compelled to think of his father and the incident of yesterday, and he could not helpwondering. He suddenly realized that what was happening presently in this room was happening in every house down the valley. Even before her coming she was being condemned. It was beneath the shadow of this already created cloud she would have to live and move and earn her little living in the schoolhouse of Tullahanogue. John Brennan began to have some pity for the girl.
Ned Brennan now appeared at the door leading to the kitchen and beckoned to his wife. She went at his calling, and John noticed that at her return some part of her had fallen away. His father went from the house whistling at a pitch that was touched with delight.
"Where is my father bound for?"
"He's gone to Garradrimna, John, to order lead for the roof of the school. The valley behind the chimney is leaking again and he has to cobble it. 'Tis the great bother he gets with that roof, whatever sort it is. Isn't it a wonder now that Father O'Keeffe wouldn't put a new one on it, and all the money he gets so handy ...?"
"My father seems to be always at that roof. He used to be at it when I was going to school there."
The words of her son came to Mrs. Brennan's ears with a sound of sad complaint. It caused her to glimpse momentarily all the villainy of Ned Brennan towards her through all the years, and of how she had borne it for the sake of John. And here was John before her now becoming reverently magnified in that part of her mind which was a melting tenderness. It was him she must now save from the valley which had ruined her man. Thus was she fearful again and the heart within her caused to become troubled and to rush to and fro in her breast like rushing water. Then, as if her wholewill was sped by some fearful ecstasy, she went on to talk in her accustomed way of every one around her, including the stranger who had not yet come to the valley.
It was on the evening of this day that Rebecca Kerr, the new assistant teacher, came through the village of Garradrimna to the valley of Tullahanogue. Paddy McCann drove McDermott's hackney car down past the old castle of the De Lacys. It carried her as passenger from Mullaghowen, with her battered trunk strapped over the well. The group of spitting idlers crowding around Brannagan's loudly asserted so much as Paddy McCann and his cargo loomed out of the shadows beneath the old castle and swung into the amazing realities of the village. It was just past ten o'clock and the mean place now lay amid the enclosing twilight. The conjunctive thirsts for drink and gossip which come at this hour had attacked the ejected topers, and their tongues began to water about the morsel now placed before them.
A new schoolmistress, well, well! Didn't they change them shocking often in Tullahanogue? And quare-looking things they were too, every one of them. And here was another one, not much to look at either. They said this as she came past. And what was her name? "Kerr is her name!" said some one who had heard it from the very lips of Father O'Keeffe himself.
"Rebecca Kerr is her name," affirmed Farrell McGuinness, who had just left a letter for her at the Presbytery.
"Rebecca what? Kerr—Kerr—Kerr, is it?" sputtered Padna Padna; "what for wouldn't it beCarrnow,just common and simple? But of courseKerrhas a ring of the quality about it.Kerr, be God!"
These were the oracles of Garradrimna who were now speaking of her thus. But she had no thought of them at all as she glanced hurriedly at the shops and puzzled her brains to guess where the best draper's shop might be. She had a vague, wondering notion as to where she might get all those little things so necessary for a girl. She had a fleeting glimpse of herself standing outside one of those worn counters she was very certain existed somewhere in the village, talking ever so much talk with the faded girl who dispensed the vanities of other days, or else exchanging mild confidences with the vulgar and ample mistress of the shop, who was sure to be always floating about the place immensely. Yes, just there was the very shop with its brave selection from the fashions of yester-year in the fly-blown windows.
And there was the Post Office through which her letters to link her with the outer world would come and go. She quickly figured the old bespectacled postmistress, already blinded partially, and bent from constant, anxious scrutiny, poring exultantly over the first letters that might be sent to "Miss Rebecca Kerr," and examining the postmark. Then the quality and gender of the writing, and being finally troubled exceedingly as to the person it could have come from—sister, mother, brother, father, friend, or "boy." Even although the tall candles of Romance had long since guttered and gone out amid the ashes of her mind the assaulting suspicion that it was from "a boy" would drive her to turn the letter in her hand and take a look at the flap. Then the temptation that was a part of her life wouldprove too strong for her and a look of longing would come into the dull eyes as she went hobbling into the kitchen to place it over the boiling kettle and so embark it upon its steamy voyage to discovery. In a few minutes she would be reading it, her hands trembling as she chuckled in her obscene glee at all the noble sentiments it might contain. The subsequent return of the letter to the envelope after the addition of some gum from a penny bottle if the old sticking did not suffice. Her interludiary sigh of satisfaction when she remembered that one could re-stick so many opened envelopes with a penny bottle of gum by using it economically. The inevitable result of this examination, a superior look of wisdom upon the withered face when the new schoolmistress, Rebecca Kerr, came for the first time into the office to ask for a letter from her love.... But so far in her life she had formed no deep attachment.
It was thus and thus that Rebecca Kerr ran through her mind a few immediate sketchy realizations of this village in Ireland. She had lived in others, and this one could not be so very different.... There now was the butcher's stall, kept filthily, where she might buy her bit of beef or mutton occasionally. She caught a glimpse of the victualler standing with his dirty wife amid the strong-smelling meat. The name above the door was that of the publichouse immediately beside it. A little further on, upon the same side, was the newsagent's and stationer's, where they sold sweets and everything. It was here she might buy her notepaper to write to her own people in Donegal, or else to some of her college friends with whom she still kept up acorrespondence. And here also she might treat herself, on rare occasions, to a box of cheap chocolates, or to some of the injurious, colored sweets which always gave her the toothache, presenting the most of them, perhaps, to some child to whom she had taken a fancy.
By little bits like these, which formed a series of flashes, she saw some aspects of the life she might lead here. Each separate flash left something of an impression before it went out of her mind.
The jingling car swung on past the various groups upon the street, each group twisting its head as one man to observe the spectacle of her passing. "That's the new schoolmistress!" "There she is, begad!" "I heard Paddy McCann saying she was coming this evening!" She was now in line with the famous house of Tommy Williams, the gombeen-man. She knew from the look of it that it was here she must buy her few groceries, for this was the principal house in Garradrimna and, even so far as she, the octopus of Gombeenism was sure to extend itself. To be sure, the gombeen-man would be the father of a family, for it is the clear duty of such pillars of the community to rear up a long string of patriots. If those children happened to be of school-going age, it was certain they would not be sent to even the most convenient school unless the teachers dealt in the shop. This is how gombeenism is made to exercise control over National Education. Anyhow Rebecca Kerr was very certain that she must enter the various-smelling shop to discuss the children with the gombeen-man's wife.
It was indeed a dreary kind of life that she would be compelled to lead in this place, and, as she passed thepretty chapel, which seemed to stand up in the sight of Heaven as excuse for the affront that was Garradrimna, she had a strange notion how she must go there sometimes to find respite from the relentless crush of it all. On bitter evenings, when her mind should ring with the mean tumults of the life around her, it was there only she might go and, slipping in through the dim vestibule where there were many mortuary cards to remind her of all the dead, she would walk quickly to the last pew and, bending her throbbing head, pour out her soul in prayer with the aid of her little mother-of-pearl rosary.... They had gone a short distance past the chapel and along the white road towards the valley.
"This is the place," said Paddy McCann.
She got down from the car wearily, and McCann carried her battered trunk into the house of Sergeant McGoldrick which had been assigned as her lodging by Father O'Keeffe. He emerged with a leer of expectation upon his countenance, and she gave him a shilling from her little possessions. At the door she was compelled to introduce herself.
"So you are the new teacher. Well, begad! The missus is up in the village. Come in. Begad!"
He stood there, a big, ungainly man, at his own door as he gave the invitation, a squalling baby in his arms, and in went Rebecca Kerr, into the sitting-room where Mrs. McGoldrick made clothes for the children. The sergeant proceeded to do his best to be entertaining. She knew the tribe. He remained smoking his great black pipe and punctuated the squalls of the baby by spitting huge volumes of saliva which hit the fender with dull thuds.
"It's a grand evening in the country," said Sergeant McGoldrick.
"Yes, a nice evening surely," said Rebecca Kerr.
"Oh, it was a grand, lovely day in the country, the day. I was out in the country all through the day. I was collecting the census of the crops, so I was; a difficult and a critical job, I can tell you!"
With an air of pride he took down the books of lists and showed her the columns of names and particulars.... It was stupidly simple. Yet here was this hulk of a man expanding his chest because of his childish achievement. He had even stopped smoking and spitting to give space to his own amazement, and the baby had ceased mewling to marvel in infantile wonder at the spacious cleverness of her da.
After nearly half an hour of this performance Mrs. McGoldrick bustled into the room. She was a coarse-looking woman, whose manner had evidently been made even more harsh by the severe segregation to which the wives of policemen are subjected. Her voice was loud and unmusical, and it appeared to Rebecca from the very first that not even the appalling cleverness of her husband was a barrier to her strong government of her own house. The sergeant disappeared immediately, taking the baby with him, and left the women to their own company. Mrs. McGoldrick had seen the battered, many-corded trunk in the hall-way, and she now made a remark which was, perhaps, natural enough for a woman:
"You haven't much luggage anyway!" was what she said.
"No!" replied Rebecca dully.
Then she allowed her head to droop for what seemed a long while, during all of which she was acutely conscious that the woman by her side was staring at her, forming impressions of her, summing her up.
"I don't think you're as tall as Miss O'Donovan was, and you haven't as nice hair!"
Rebecca made no comment of any kind upon this candor, but now that the way had been opened Mrs. McGoldrick poured out a flood of information regarding the late assistant of the valley school. She was reduced to little pieces and, as it were, cremated in the furnace of this woman's mind until tiny specks of the ashes of her floated about and danced and scintillated before the tired eyes of Rebecca Kerr.
As the heavier dusk of the short, warm night began to creep into the little room her soul sank slowly lower. She was hungry now and lonely. In the mildest way she distantly suggested a cup of tea, but Mrs. McGoldrick at once resented this uncalled-for disturbance of her harangue by bringing out what was probably meant to be taken as the one admirable point in the other girl's character.
"Miss O'Donovan used always get her own tea."
But the desolating silence of Rebecca at length drove her towards the kitchen, and she returned, after what seemed an endless period, with some greasy-looking bread, a cup without a handle, and a teapot from which the tea dribbled in agony on to the tablecloth through a wound in its side.
The sickening taste of the stuff that came out of the teapot only added to Rebecca's sinking feeling. Her thoughts crept ever downward.... At last there camea blessed desire for sleep-sleep and forgetfulness of this day and the morrow. Her head was already beginning to spin as she inquired for her room.
"Your room?" exclaimed Mrs. McGoldrick in harsh surprise. "Why, 'tis upstairs. There's only two rooms there, myself and the sergeant's and the lodger's room—that's yours. I hadn't time this week back to make the bed since Miss O'Donovan left, but of course you'll do that for yourself. The sergeant is gone up to the barracks, so I'll have to help you carry up your box, as I suppose you'll be wanting to get out some of your things."
It was a cruelly hard job getting the trunk up the steep staircase, but between them they managed it. Rebecca was not disappointed by the bare, ugly room. Mrs. McGoldrick closed the door behind them and stood in an attitude of expectation. Even in the present dull state of her mind Rebecca saw that her landlady was, with tense curiosity, awaiting the opening of the box which held her poor belongings.... Then something of the combative, selfish attitude of the woman to her kind stirred within her, and she bravely resolved to fight, for a short space, this prying woman who was trying to torment her soul.
She looked at the untidied bed with the well-used sheets.... What matter? It was only the place whereon the body of another poor tortured creature like herself had lain. She would bear with this outrage against her natural delicacy.
In perfect silence she took off her skirt and blouse and corset. She let fall her long, heavy hair and, before the broken looking-glass, began to dally wearilywith its luxuriance. This hair was very fair and priceless, and it was hers who had not great possessions. Her shining neck and blossomy breasts showed as a pattern in ivory against the background that it made.... Some man, she thought, would like to see her now and love her maybe. Beyond this vision of herself she could see the ugly, anxious face of the woman behind her. She could feel the discord of that woman's thoughts with the wandering strands of withering hair.
No word had passed between them since they came together into the room, and Mrs. McGoldrick, retreating from the situation which had been created, left with abruptness, closing the door loudly behind her.
With as much haste as she could summon, Rebecca took off her shoes and got her night-gown out of the trunk. Then she threw herself into the bed. She put out the light and fumbled in her faded vanity bag for her little mother-of-pearl rosary. There was a strange excitement upon her, even in the final moments of her escape, and soon a portion of her pillow was wet with tears. Between loud sobs arose the sound of her prayers ascending:
"Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.... Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou.... Hail, Mary, full of grace...."
At tea-time Mrs. Brennan was still talking to John of the girl who was coming to the valley. Outside the day was still full of the calm glory of summer. He went to the window and looked down upon the clean, blue stretch of the little lake.... He had grown weary of his mother's talk. What possible interest could he have in this unknown girl? He took a book from a parcel on the table. With this volume in his hand and reading it, as he might his breviary at some future time, he went out and down towards the lake. On his way, he met a few men moving to and from their tasks in the fields. He bade them the time of day and spoke about the beauty of the afternoon. As they replied, a curious kind of smile played around their lips, and there was not one who failed to notice his enviable condition of idleness.
"Indeed 'tis you that has the fine times!" "Indeed you might say 'tis you that has the fine times!" "Now isn't the learning the grand thing, to say that when you have it in your head you need never do a turn with your hands?"
Their petty comments had the effect of filling him with a distracting sense of irritation, and it was some time before he could pick up any continued interest in the book. It was the story of a young priest, such as he might expect to be in a few years. Suddenly itappeared remarkable that he should be reading this foreshadowing of his future. That he should be seeing himself with all his ideas translated into reality and his training changed into the work for which he had been trained. Strange that this thought should have come into his mind with smashing force here now and at this very time. Hitherto his future had appeared as a thing apart from him, but now it seemed intimately bound up with everything he could possibly do.
He began to see very clearly for the first time the reason for his mother's anxiety to keep him apart from the life of the valley. Did it spring directly from her love for him, or was it merely selfish and contributory to her pride? The whole burden of her talk showed clearly that she was a proud woman. He could never come to have her way of looking at things, and so he now felt that if he became a priest it was she and not himself who would have triumphed.... He was still reading the book, but it was in a confused way and with little attention. The threads of the story had become entangled somehow with the threads of his own story.... Occasionally his own personality would cease to dominate it, and the lonely woman in the cottage, his mother sitting in silence at her machine, would become the principal character.... The hours went past him as he pondered.
The evening shadows had begun to steal down from the hills. The western sky was like the color of a golden chalice. Men were coming home weary from the labor of the fields; cows were moving towards field gates with wise looks in their eyes to await the milking; the young calves were lowing for their evening meal. The quietfir trees, which had slept all through the day, now seemed to think of some forgotten trust and were like vigilant sentries all down through the valley of Tullahanogue.
Suddenly the eyes of John Brennan were held by a splendid picture. The sweep of the Hill of Annus lay outlined in all the wonder of its curve, and, on the ridge of it, moving with humped body, was Shamesy Golliher, the most famous drunkard of the valley. He passed like a figure of destruction above the valley against the sunset. John smiled, for he remembered him and his habits, as both were known far and wide. He was now going towards a certain wood where the rabbits were plentiful. His snares were set there. The thin, pitiful cry of the entrapped creature now split the stillness, and the man upon the sweep of the world began to move with a more determined stride.... John Brennan, his mind quickening towards remembrance of incidents of his boyhood, knew that the cunning of Shamesy Golliher had triumphed over the cunning of the rabbits. Their hot little eager bodies must soon be sold for eightpence apiece and the money spent on porter in Garradrimna. It was strange to think of this being the ultimate fate of the rabbits that had once frisked so innocently over the green spaces of the woods.... He listened, with a slight turn of regret stirring him, until the last squeal had been absorbed by the stillness. Then he arose and prepared to move away from the lake. He was being filled by a deadly feeling of sadness. Hitherto the continuous adventure of adolescence had sustained him, but now he was a man and thinking of his future.
On his way across the sweep of the hill he encountered Shamesy Golliher. The famous drunkard was laden with the rabbits he had just taken from the snares. The strength of his thirst had also begun to attack him, so that by reason of both defects his legs now bent under him weakly as he walked. Yet his attitude did not suggest defeat, for he had never failed to maintain his reputation in the valley. He was the local bard, the satiric poet of the neighborhood. He was the only inhabitant of the valley who continually did what he pleased, for he throve within the traditional Gaelic dread of satire. No matter how he debased himself no man or woman dared talk of it for fear they might be made the subject of a song to be ranted in the taprooms of Garradrimna. And he was not one to respect the feelings of those whom he put into his rimes, for all of them were conceived in a mood of ribald and malignant glee.
"Me sound man John, how are ye?" he said, extending a white, nervous hand.
"I'm very well, thanks; and how are you, Shamesy?"
"Ah, just only middling. I don't look the very best. You'll excuse me not being shaved. But that's on account of the neuralgia. God blast it! it has me near killed. It has the nerves destroyed on me. Look at me hand." ... It was the idiosyncrasy of Shamesy Golliher to assert that drink was no part of his life.
Immediately he dropped into his accustomed vein. He gazed down the Hill of Annus and found material for his tongue. There were the daughters of Hughie Murtagh. They had no brother, and were helping their father in the fields.
"Them's the men, them's the men!" said Shamesy, "though glory be to God! 'twill be the hard case with them when they come to be married, for sure you wouldn't like to marry a man, now would you? And for pity's sake will you look at Oweneen Kiernan, the glutton! I hear he ate five loaves at the ball in Ballinamult; and as sure as you're there that powerful repast'll have to be made the material for a song."
A loud laugh sprang from the lips of Shamesy Golliher and floated far across the lake, and John Brennan was immediately surprised to find himself laughing in the same way.
The rimer was still pursuing Oweneen down the field of his mind.
"Aye, and I thank ye, ye'll see him doing his best after the new schoolmistress that's coming to us this evening. There's a great look-out, I can tell you, to see what kind she'll be. Indeed the last one wasn't much. Grand-looking whipsters, moryah! to be teaching the young idea. Indeed I wouldn't be at all surprised to see one of them going away from here sometime and she in the family way, although may God pardon me for alluding to the like and I standing in the presence of the makings of a priest!"
John Brennan felt himself blushing ever so slightly.
"And who d'ye think was in Garradrimna this evening? Why Ulick Shannon, and he a big man. Down to stop with his uncle Myles he is for a holiday. He wasn't here since he was a weeshy gosoon; for, what d'ye think, didn't his mother and father send him away to Dublin to be nursed soon after he was born and never seemed to care much about him afterwards; but theywere the quare pair, and it was no good end that happened to themselves, for Henry Shannon and the girl he married, Grace Gogarty, both died within the one year. He in the full pride of his red life, and she while she was gallivanting about the country wearing mourning for him and looking for another husband that she never got before she went into the clay. Well, to make a long story short, Myles Shannon looked after the orphan, paying for his rearing and his education, and having him live as a gentleman in Dublin—until now he's a great-looking fellow entirely, and going on, I suppose, for Doctoring, or the Law, or some other profitable devilment like that. The Shannons were always an unlucky family, but maybe Ulick'll break the black curse, although I don't know, for he's the very spit and image of his father and able to take his drink like a good one, I can tell ye. This evening he came into McDermott's. There was no one there but meself, it being the high evening, so says he to me:
"'What'll ye have?'
"'Begad, Mr. Shannon,' says I, 'I'll have a pint. And more power to ye, sir!' says I, although I was grinning to meself all the time, for I couldn't help thinking that he was only the son of Henry Shannon, one of the commonest blackguards that ever disgraced this part of the country. You didn't know him, but your mother could tell you about him. You might swear your mother could tell you about him!"
John Brennan did not notice the light of merriment which overspread the face of Shamesy Golliher, for he was looking down towards the hush of the lake, and experiencing a certain feeling of annoyance that thisyoung man should be becoming gradually introduced to him in this way. But Shamesy was still speaking:
"He stood me four pints and two glasses, and nothing would do him when he was going away but he should buy me a whole glass of whiskey. He's what you might call a gay fellow, I can tell you. And God save us! isn't it grand to be that way, even though you never earned it, and not have to be getting your drink like me be nice contriving among the small game of the fields?"
They parted in silence, Shamesy Golliher going eastward towards Garradrimna and John Brennan in the opposite direction and towards his mother's house. His mind had begun to slip into a condition of vacancy when an accident happened to turn it again in the direction of religion. As he came out upon the road he passed a group of children playing between two neighboring houses. The group was made up of the children of two families, the O'Briens and the Vaughans. It was said of Mrs. Vaughan that although she had been married by Father O'Keeffe, and went to Mass every second Sunday, she still clung to the religion into which she had been born. Now her eldest child, a pretty, fair-haired boy, was in the midst of the O'Briens' children. Their mother was what you might call a good woman, for, although she had the most slovenly house along the valley road, she went to Mass as often as Mrs. Brennan. They were making the innocent child repeat phrases out of their prayers and then laughing and mocking him because he could not properly pronounce the long words. They were trying to make him bless himself, but the hands of little Edward could notmaster the gestures of the formula, and they were jeering at him for his ill-success. When he seemed just upon the verge of tears they began to ask him questions in the answers to which he would seem to have been well trained aforetime, for he repeated them with glibness and enjoyment.
"What religion are ye?"
"I'm a little black Protestant."
"And where will ye go when ye die?"
"I'll go to hell."
"What's hell?"
"A big place bigger than the chapel or the church, with a terrible, grand fire in it."
"And what is it full of?"
"It's full of little fellows like me!"
This was the melancholy piece of catechism John Brennan was constrained to hear as he went past.
It added the last wave of sadness to the gray mood which had been descending upon him by degrees since the beginning of the day.... He stood upon the road and listened for anything in the nature of a sound which might connect his mind with a thought that had some brightness. Although only a few days had elapsed since his return his ears were already beginning to redevelop that delicate perception of slight sounds which comes to one in the quiet places. He now heard a car come through Garradrimna and move a short distance down the valley road. That, he thought, should be Paddy McCann driving the new mistress to her lodging in the house of Sergeant McGoldrick.
The small realization held occupation of his mind ashe went into the house of his mother. He was surprised to find that it was past ten. Still lonely as he went to his room, he thought once more of the kind invitation of Mr. Myles Shannon.
Myles Shannon had ever borne a passionate grudge against Mrs. Brennan. He had loved his brother Henry, and he felt that she, of all people, had had the most powerful hand in instituting the remorse which had hurried him to his doom. Mrs. Brennan, on the other hand, believed firmly that Henry Shannon would have married her, and made of her a decent woman, but for the intervention of his brother Myles. Furthermore, she believed darkly in her heart that the subtle plan of the disastrous "honeymoon" had originated in the brain of Myles, although in this she was wrong. She thought of Henry as being never of that sort. He was wild and mad, with nothing too hot or too heavy for him, but he was not one to concoct schemes. So, when Henry died, Mrs. Brennan had thought well to transmit her hatred of the Shannon family to his brother Myles.
Myles Shannon lived a quiet life there in his big house among the trees upon the side of Scarden, one of the hills which overlooked the valley. In lonely, silent moments he often thought of his brother Henry and of the strange manner in which he had burned out his life. With the end of his brother before him always as a deterrent example, he did not interest himself in women. He interested himself in the business of his cattle and sheep all through each and every day of theyear. He did not feel the years slipping past him as he went about his easy, contented life, watching, with great interest, his beef and mutton grow up in the fields.
The cattle in particular stood for the absorbing interest and the one excitement of his life. He looked upon his goings and comings to and from the markets at Dublin and at Wakefield in England as holiday excursions of great enjoyment.
It was during one of his trips to England that he had met Helena Cooper at some hotel in Manchester. He was one to whom the powers of Romance had remained strangers, yet now, when they at last came into his life, it was with a force that carried away all the protection of his mind. He wanted some one to fill the loneliness of the big house on Scarden Hill, and so he set his heart upon Helena Cooper.
He returned to the valley a different man. Quite suddenly he began to have a greater interest in his appearance, and it was noticed that he grew sentimental and became easy in his dealings. It began to be whispered around that, even so late in life, almost at the close of the middle period which surely marks the end of a man's prime, Myles Shannon had fallen in love and was about to be married.
It was a notable rumor, and although it was fifteen years since the death of Henry Shannon, Mrs. Brennan, as one having a good reason to be interested in the affairs of the Shannon family, became excited.
"Indeed it was high time for him to think of it," she said to a neighbor one Sunday morning, "before he turned into a real ould blackguard of a bachelor—and who d'ye say the girl is?"
"Why, then, they say she's an English lady, and that she's grand and young."
Mrs. Brennan was a great one for "ferreting-out" things. Once she had set her mind upon knowing a thing, there was little possibility of preventing her. And now she was most anxious to know whom Myles Shannon was about to marry. So when she saw the old bent postmistress taking the air upon the valley road later on in the day she brought her into the sewing-room and, over a cup of tea, proceeded to satisfy her curiosity.
"There must be letters?" she said after they had come round to a discussion of the rumored marriage.
"Oh, yes, indeed. There's letters coming and going, coming and going," the old lady wheezed. "A nice-looking ould codger, isn't he, to be writing letters to a young girl?"
"And how d'ye know she's young?"
"How do I know, is it, how do I know? Well, well, isn't that my business? To know and to mind."
"You're a great woman."
"I do my duty, that's all, Mrs. Brennan, as sure as you're there. And d'ye imagine for a moment I was going to let Myles Shannon pass, for all he's such a great swank of a farmer? Sheisa young girl."
"Well, well?"
"There's no reason to misdoubt me in the least, for I saw her photo and it coming through the post."
"A big, enlarged photo, I suppose?"
"Aye, the photo of a young girl in her bloom."
"I suppose she's very nice?"
"She's lovely, and 'tis what I said to myself as I looked upon her face, that it would be the pity of theworld to see her married to a middling ould fellow like Myles Shannon."
"And I suppose, now, that she has a nice name?"
"Aye. It is that. And what you might call a grand name."
A long pause now fell between the two women, as if both were endeavoring to form in their minds some great resolve to which their hearts were prompting them. The old postmistress delivered her next speech in a whisper:
"Her name is Helena Cooper, and her address is 15 Medway Avenue, Manchester!"
The two women now nudged one another in simultaneous delight. Mrs. Brennan ran the direction over and over in her mind as if suddenly fearful that some dreadful stroke of forgetfulness might come to overthrow her chance of revenge upon her false, dead lover through the great injury she now contemplated doing to his brother.... She made an excuse of going to the kitchen to put more water upon the teapot and, when she went there, scribbled the name and address upon the wall beside the fireplace.
When she returned to the sewing-room the old postmistress was using her handkerchief to hide the smile of satisfaction which was dancing around her mouth. She knew what was just presently running through Mrs. Brennan's mind, and she was glad and thankful that she herself was about to be saved the trouble of writing to Miss Cooper.... Her hand was beginning to be quavery and incapable of writing a hard, vindictive letter. Besides that Mr. Shannon was an influential man in the district, and the Post Office was not abovesuspicion. She was thankful to Mrs. Brennan now, and said the tea was nice, very nice.
Yet, immediately that the information, for which she had hungered since the rumor of Myles Shannon's marriage began to go the rounds, was in her keeping, Mrs. Brennan ceased to display any unusual interest in the old, bespectacled maid. Nor did the postmistress continue to be excited by the friendly presence of Mrs. Brennan, for she, on her part, was immensely pleased and considered that the afternoon had attained to a remarkable degree of success.... From what she had read of her productions passing through the post, she knew that Mrs. Brennan was the woman who could write the strong, poisonous letter. Besides, who had a better right to be writing it—about one of the Shannon family?
Soon she was going out the door and down the white road towards Garradrimna.... Now wasn't Mrs. Brennan the anxious and the prompt woman; she would be writing to Miss Cooper this very evening?... As she went she met young couples on bicycles passing to distant places through the fragrant evening. The glamor of Romance seemed to hang around them.
"Now isn't that the quare way for them to be spending the Sabbath?" she said to herself as she hobbled along.
The Angelus was just beginning to ring out across the waving fields with its sweet, clear sound as Mrs. Brennan regained the sewing-room after having seen her visitor to the door, but, good woman though she was, she did not stop to answer its holy summons. Her mind was driving her relentlessly towards the achievement ofher intention. The pen was already in her hand, and she was beginning to scratch out "a full account," as she termed it, of Mr. Myles Shannon for the benefit of Miss Helena Cooper, whoever she might be. Through page after page she continued her attack while the fire of her hate was still burning brightly through her will.
It had been her immemorial custom to send full accounts abroad whenever one of the valley dwellers made attempts at assertion, but not one of the Shannons had so far offered her such a golden opportunity. For the moment she was in her glory.
She announced herself as a good friend of this girl, whose name she had only heard just now. She wrote that she would not like to see Miss Cooper deceived by a man she had no opportunity of knowing in his real character, such as Mr. Shannon.
Now it was a fact that Myles, unlike his brother Henry, had not been a notable antagonist of the Commandments. It was true, of course, that he was not distinguished for the purity of his ways when he went adventuring about the bye-ways of Dublin after a day at the cattle market, and people from the valley, cropping up most unexpectedly, had witnessed some of his exploits and had sent magnified stories winging afar. But he had ruined no girl, and was even admirable in his habits when at home in his lonely house among the trees.
This, however, was not the Mr. Shannon that Mrs. Brennan set down in her letter to Helena Cooper. It was rather the portrait of his brother Henry, the wild libertine, that she painted, for, in the high moments of her hate, she was as one blinded by the ecstasy thathad come upon her. The name of Shannon held for her only one significance, and, for the moment, it was an abysmal vision which dazzled her eyes.
Soon there came a communication from Miss Cooper to Mr. Shannon which had the effect of nipping his green romance while it was still young.... It asked him was this true and was that true?... The easy, sentimental way he had looked upon the matter was suddenly kindled into a deeper feeling, and he thought of having the girl now at all costs.... He wrote a fine reply in justification. It was a clear, straight piece of writing, and, although it pained him greatly, he was compelled to admit that the statements about which Miss Cooper wished to be satisfied were no more than the truth in relation to a certain member of the Shannon family. But they related to his dead brother Henry and not to him.... He prayed the forgiveness of forgetfulness for the dead.... He volunteered the production of convincing proof for every statement here made in regard to himself.
But the old lady at the Post Office had something to say in the matter. She had read Miss Cooper's letter, and as she now read the letter of Mr. Shannon she knew that should it reach her this girl must be fully satisfied as to his character, for his was a fine piece of pleading.... But she could not let Mrs. Brennan have all the secret satisfaction for the destruction of his love-affair. The bitter woman in the valley had done the ugly, obvious part of the work, but she was in a position to hurry it to secret, deadly completion.... So that evening the letter, which it had given Myles Shannon such torture to write, was burned at the fire in thekitchen behind the Post Office.... He wrote to Helena Cooper again and yet again, but the same thing happened.... His third letter had turned purely pathetic in its tone. The old lady said to herself that it made her laugh like anything.
At last he fell to considering that her affection for him could not have been very deep seeing that she had allowed it to be so strongly influenced by some poisonous letter from an anonymous enemy.... Yet there were moments when he knew that he could never forget her nor escape, through all the years he might live, from the grand dream her first tenderness had raised up in his heart. In its immediate aspect he was a little angry that the rumor of a contemplated marriage on his part should have gone abroad. But he had almost triumphed over this slight feeling of annoyance when there came to him, some month later, the "account" that had been written about him to Miss Cooper without a word of comment enclosed.... The old lady at the office had seen to that, for the letter accompanying it as far as Garradrimna had gone the way of Mr. Shannon's letters.... This had made her laugh also with its note of wonder as to why he had made no attempt to explain.... If only he would say that the statements made against him were all mere lies. Of course she did not believe a word of them, but she wished him to say so in a letter to her.... The Post Office was saved from suspicion by this second bit of destruction, although it had done its work well.
The bare, scurrilous note caused a blaze of indignation turning to hatred to take possession of his soul which had hitherto been largely distinguished by kindlyinfluences. He had his suspicions at once that it was the work of Mrs. Brennan.
There was a letter of hers locked in a bureau in the parlor with other things which had been the property of his dead brother Henry. They were all sad things which related intimately to the queer life he had led. This old faded letter from Nan Byrne was the one she had written asking him for Christ's sake to marry her, now that she felt her misfortune coming upon her.... A hard look came into his eyes as he began to compare the weak handwriting. Yes, it was hers surely, beyond a shadow of doubt.... He locked this thing which had so changed the course of his life with the things of his brother.
It was queer, he thought, that she, of all people, who should be prone to silence, had thought fit, after the passage of so many years, to meddle with dead things in the hope of ending other dreams which, until now, had lived brightly. He continued to brood himself into bitter determinations. He resolved that, as no other girl had come greatly into his life before the coming of Helena Cooper, no other one must enter now that she was gone. She was gone, and must the final disaster of his affections narrow down to a mere piece of sentimental renunciation? Strange, contradictory attitudes built themselves up in his mind.
Out of his brooding there grew before him the structure of a plan. This woman had besmirched his brother, helping him towards the destruction of his life, for it was in this light, as a brother, he had viewed the matter always; and now, in her attempt to besmirchhimself, she had spoiled his dream. He had grown angry after the slow fashion which was the way of his thought, but his resolve was now sure and deliberate.
There was her son! He had just gone to some kind of college in England to prepare for the priesthood, and the antecedents of a priest must be without blemish. It was not the youth's fault, but his mother was Nan Byrne, and some one must pay.... And why should she desire to bring punishment of any kind upon him for his brother's sin with her? He had loved his brother, and it was only natural to think that she loved her son. And through that love might come the desolation of her heart. To allow the blossom to brighten in her eye and then, suddenly, to wither it at a blast. To permit this John Brennan to approach the sacred portals of the priesthood and then to cause him to be cast adrift.
The thought of how he might put a more delicate turn to the execution of his plan had come to him as he journeyed down from Dublin with John Brennan. He knew that his nephew, Ulick, had lived the rather reckless student life of Dublin. Just recently he had been drawing him out. But he was no weakling, and it was not possible that any of those ways might yet submerge him. However, his influence acting upon a weaker mind might have effect and produce again the degenerate that had not fully leaped to life in him. If he were brought into contact with John Brennan it might be the means of effecting, in a less direct way, the result which must be obtained.
It was with this thought simmering in his brain thatMyles Shannon had invited John Brennan to the friendship and company of his nephew. When he had spoken of the Great War it was the condition of his own mind that had prompted the thought, for it was filled with the impulse of destruction.
It is on his passage through the village of Garradrimna that we may most truly observe John Brennan, in sharp contrast with his dingy environment, as he goes to hear morning Mass at the instigation of his mother, whose pathetic fancy fails to picture him in any other connection. It is a beautiful morning, and the sun is already high. There is a clean freshness upon all things. The tall trees which form a redeeming background for the uneven line of the ugly houses on the western side of the street are flinging their rich raiment wildly upon the light breeze where it floats like the decorative garments of a ballet dancer. The light winds are whipping the lightness of the morning.
The men of drink are already stirring about in anticipation. Hubert Manning is striking upon the door of Flynn's, the grocery establishment, which, in the heavy blindness of his thirst, he takes to be one of the seven publichouses of Garradrimna. He is running about like some purged sinner, losing patience at last hard by the Gate of Heaven. In the course of her inclusive chronicles his mother had told John Brennan the life history of Hubert Manning. For sixty odd years he had bent his body in hard battle with the clay, until the doubtful benefit of a legacy had come to change the current of his life. The fortune, with its sudden diversion towards idleness and enjoyment, had causedall the latent villainy of the man, which the soil had subdued, to burst forth with violence. He was now a drunken old cur whom Sergeant McGoldrick caused to spend a fortune in fines.
"Just imagine the people who do be left the money!" said Mrs. Brennan, as she told the story.
John Brennan passes on. He meets the bill-poster, Thomas James. His dark, red face displays an immense anxiety. He is going for his first pint with a pinch of salt held most carefully in his hand. His present condition is a fact to be deplored, for he was famous in his time and held the record in Garradrimna for fast drinking of a pint. He could drink twenty pints in a day. Hence his decline and the pinch of salt now held so carefully in his hand. This is to keep down the first pint, and if the operation be safely effected it is quite possible that the other nineteen will give him no trouble.
Coming in the valley road are Shamesy Golliher and Martin Connell. In the distance they appear as small, shrinking figures, moving in abasement beneath the Gothic arches of the elms. They represent the advance guard of those who leave the sunlit fields on a summer morning to come into the dark, cavernous pubs of Garradrimna.
On the side of the street, distant from that upon which John Brennan is walking, moves the famous figure of Padna Padna, slipping along like some spirit of discontent and immortal longing, doomed forever to wander. He mistakes the student for one of the priests and salutes him by tipping his great hat lightly with his little fore-finger.
And here comes yet another, this one with speed and determination in his stride, for it is Anthony Shaughness, who has spent three-fourths of his life running away from Death.
"Will you save a life; will you save a life?" he whispers wildly, clutching John by the arm. "I have a penny, but sure a penny is no good, sir; and I want tuppence-ha'penny to add to it for the price of a pint; but sure you won't mind when it's to save my life! I know you'll give it to me for the love of God!"
This is a very well-known request in the mouth of Anthony Shaughness, and John Brennan has attended it so very often during the past few years as to deserve a medal for life-saving. Yet he now takes the coppers from his small store of pocket-money and gives them to the dipsomaniac, who moves rapidly in the direction of "The World's End."
There is presently an exciting interlude. They are just opening up at Brannagan's as he goes past. The sleepy-looking barmaid has come to the newly-opened door, and makes an ungraceful gesture in gathering up her ugly dishevelled hair. A lout of a lad with a dirty cigarette in his mouth appears suddenly. They begin to grin at one another in foolish rapture, for it is a lovers' meeting. Through the doorway at which they stand the smell of stale porter is already assaulting the freshness of the morning. They enter the bar surreptitiously and John Brennan can hear the swish of a pint in the glass in which it is being filled. The usual morning gift, he thinks, with which this maiden favors this gallant lover of a new Romance.... There comes to him suddenly the idea that his name has beenmentioned in this dark place just now.... He goes on walking quickly towards the chapel.
The plan which Myles Shannon had originated was not lacking in subtlety. He foresaw a certain clash of character, between his nephew and the son of Nan Byrne, which must become most interesting as he watched it out of his malevolence. He could never, never, forget what she had done.... And always, beyond the desolation which appeared from concentration of his revengeful intentions, he beheld the ruins of her son.
He often thought it puzzling how she should never have imagined that some one like him might be tempted to do at some time what he was now about to do. It seemed remarkable beyond all else that her mind should possess such an opaque oneness of purpose, such an extraordinary "thickness," to use the term of the valley.
Yet this was a quality peculiar to the gentle hush of the grassy places. It seemed to arise from the removal of an intelligent feeling of humanity from the conduct of life and the replacement of it by a spitefulness that killed and blinded. It was the explanation of many of the tragedies of the valley. Like a malignant wind, it warped the human growth within the valley's confines. It was what had happened to Mrs. Brennan and, because of the action he was taking in regard to her, what was now about to happen to Myles Shannon. He seemed to forget, as he went about his vengeance, that subtlety is akin to humor, and that humor, in its application to the satiric perception of things, is the quality which constantly heals the cut it has made. He mightcertainly leave the mark of his vengeance upon Mrs. Brennan, but there was the danger of the weapon recoiling upon himself and his kinsman. It was a horrible plan indeed, this, of setting one young man to ruin another. It was such a conflict, with such an anticipated ending, as had shaped itself inevitably out of the life of the valley. Where life was an endless battle of conflicting characters and antagonized dispositions it seemed particularly meet that a monumental conflict should at last have been instituted.
Ulick Shannon was finding the valley very little to his mind. But for the intervention of his uncle he was several times upon the point of returning to Dublin. Although it was for a rest he had come the place was too damnably dull. Garradrimna was an infernal hole! Yet he went there often, and it was remarkable that his uncle said never a word when he arrived home from the village, several nights, in a condition that was not one of absolute sobriety. On the contrary, he seemed to take a certain joyful interest in such happenings. His uncle often spoke of the young man, John Brennan, whom he desired him to meet, and it was surprising that this young man had not made the visit he had promised to the house among the trees.
Myles Shannon was beginning to be annoyed by the appearance of this slight obstruction in the path of his plan. Had Mrs. Brennan forbidden the friendship he had proposed? It was very like her indeed, and of course she had her reasons.... But it would never do to let her triumph over him now, and he having such a lovely plan. He would go so far as to send his nephewto call at her house to make the acquaintance of Nan Byrne's son. It would be queer surely to see him calling at that house and inquiring for John Brennan when his father had gone there aforetime to see John Brennan's mother. But how was Ulick to know and view from such an angle this aspect of his existence?
Yet, after all, the meeting of John Brennan and Ulick Shannon happened quite accidentally and upon such a morning as we have seen John in Garradrimna.
Ulick had gone for a walk around that way before his breakfast. He was not feeling particularly well as he paused at the end of the valley road to survey the mean street of Garradrimna, down which he had marched last night with many a wild thought rushing into his mind as the place and the people fell far beneath his high gaze.
His quick eye caught sight of something now which seemed a curiously striking piece in the drab mosaic of his morning. It was a little party of four going towards the chapel. The pair in front could possibly be none other than the bridegroom and his bride. It was easy to see that marriage was their purpose from the look of open rapture upon their faces. The bridesmaid and the best man were laughing and chatting gaily as they walked behind them. They seemed to be having the best of it.
Ulick thought it interesting to see this pair moving eagerly towards a mysterious purpose.... He was struck by the fact that it was a most merciful thing that all men do not lift the veil of life so early as he had done.... The harsh, slight laugh which camefrom him was like the remembered laughter of a dead man.
Now that his eyes were falling, with an unfilled look, upon the street along which the four had gone he began to see people who had been looking out move away from the squinting windows and a few seconds later come hurriedly out of their houses and go towards the chapel.
The poor, self-conscious clod, who had dearly desired to marry the girl of his fancy quietly and with no prying eyes, amid the fragrance of the fine June morning, had, after all, succeeded only in drawing about him the leering attention of all the village. There were ever so many people going towards the chapel this morning. The lot was large enough to remind one of a Sunday congregation at either Mass, this black drove now moving up the laneway. Ulick Shannon went forward to join it.
Coming near the chapel he encountered a young man in black, who wore the look of a student. This must be John Brennan, he thought, of whom his uncle had so repeatedly spoken. He turned and said:
"Good morning! I'm Ulick Shannon, and I fancy you're Brennan, the chap my uncle has talked of so often. He has been expecting you to call at Scarden House."
They shook hands.
"Yes, I'm John Brennan, and I'm delighted to meet you. I have not forgotten your uncle's kind invitation."
Together they entered the House of God.... Father O'Keeffe was already engaged in uniting the couple.Distantly they could hear him mumbling the words of the ceremony.... All eyes were upon the priest and the four people at the altar.... Suddenly Ulick giggled openly, and John Brennan blushed in confusion, for this was irreverence such as he had never before experienced in the presence of sacred things.