Myles Shannon and his nephew Ulick sat at breakfast in the dining-room
of the big house among the trees. The _Irish Times_ of the previous
day's date was crackling in the elder man's hand.
"Did you ever think of joining the Army, Ulick? It is most
extraordinary, the number of ne'er-do-wells who manage to get
commissions just now. Why I think there should be no bother at all
if you tried. With your knowledge I fancy you could get into the
R.A.M.C. It is evidently infernally easy. I suppose your conduct at the
University would have nothing to do with your chances of acceptance or
rejection?"
"Oh, not at all."
"I thought not."
"But I fancied, uncle, that when I came down here from Dublin I had
done with intending myself to kill people. That is, with joining any
combination for purposes of slaughter."
Myles Shannon lifted his eyes from the paper and smiled. Evidently he
did not appreciate the full, grim point of the joke, but he rather
fancied there was something subtle about it, and it was in that quiet
and venerable tradition of humorous things his training had led him to
enjoy. This was one of the reasons why, even though a Catholic and a
moderate Nationalist, he had remained a devoted reader of the _Irish
Times_. He was conservative even in his humor.
"But in Army medical work, however, there is always the compensating
chance of the gentleman with the license to kill getting killed
himself," continued Ulick.
His lips closed now, for he had at last come to the end of his joke.
The conversation lapsed, and Mr. Shannon went on with his reading.
Ulick had been to Garradrimna on the previous evening, and he was
acutely conscious of many defects in his own condition and in the
condition of the world about him this morning. His thoughts were now
extending with all the power of which they were capable to his uncle,
that silent, intent man, whose bald head stretched expansively before
him.
Myles Shannon was a singularly fine man, and in thinking of him as such
his mind began to fill with imaginations of the man his father must
have been. He had never known his father nor, for the matter of that,
could he boast of any deep acquaintance with his uncle, yet what an
excellent, restrained type of man he was to be sure! Another in the
same position as his guardian would have flogged himself into a fury
over the mess he had made of his studies. But it had not been so with
his uncle. He had behaved with a calm forbearance. He had supplied him
with time and money, and had gone even so far as to look kindly upon
the affair with Rebecca Kerr. He had been here since the beginning of
the year, and all his uncle had so far said to him by way of asserting
his authority was spoken very quietly:
"Now, I'll give you a fair time to think over things. I'll give you
till the end of the summer holidays, till after young Brennan comes and
goes." These had been his uncle's exact words, and he had not attempted
to question them or to qualify them at the time. But just now they were
running through his brain with the most curious throbbing insistence.
"Till after young Brennan comes and goes." He knew that his uncle had
taken an unusual fancy to John Brennan and evidently wished that his
summer holidays should be spent enjoyably. But it was a long time until
summer, and he was not a person one might conscientiously commend to
the friendship of a clerical student. He very often went to Garradrimna.
Ulick had already formed some impressions of his fellow man. He
held it as his opinion that at the root of an action, which may
appear extraordinary because of its goodness, is always an amount of
selfishness. Yet, somehow, as he carefully considered his uncle in the
meditative spaces of the breakfast he could not fit him in with this
idea.
As he went on with his thought he felt that it was the very excess of
his uncle's qualities which had had such a curious effect upon his
relations with Rebecca Kerr. It was the very easiness of the path he
had afforded to love-making which now made it so difficult. If they had
been forbidden and if they had been persecuted, their early affection
must have endured more strongly. The opposition of the valley and the
village still continued, but Ulick considered their bearing upon him
now as he had always considered it--with contempt.
There had been a good deal of wild affection transported into their
snatched meetings during the past summer in Donegal. After Christmas,
too, he had gone there to see her, and then had happened the climax of
their love-making in a quiet cottage within sound of the sea.... Both
had moved away from that glowing moment forever changed. Neither could
tell of the greatness of the shadow that had fallen between them.
He remembered all her tears on the first evening he had met her after
coming back to the valley. There had been nothing in her letters, only
the faintest suggestion of some strained feeling. Then had come this
unhappy meeting.... She had tortured herself into the belief that it
was she who was responsible for his failure.
"With all the time you have wasted coming to see me I have destroyed
you. When you should have been at your studies I was taking you up to
Donegal."
As he listened to these words between her sobs, there rushed in upon
him full realization of all her goodness and the contrast of two
pictures her words had called to his mind.... There was he by her side,
her head upon his shoulder in that lonely cottage in Donegal, their
young lives lighting the cold, bare place around them.... And then
the other picture of himself bent low over his dirty, thumb-greased
books in that abominable street up and down which a cart was always
lumbering. All the torture of this driving him to Doyle's pub at the
corner, and afterwards along some squalid street of ill-fame with a few
more drunken medical students.
He was glad to be with her again. They met very often during his first
month at his uncle's house, in dark spots along the valley road and The
Road of the Dead. Then he began to notice a curious reserve springing
up between them. She was becoming mysterious while at the same time
remaining acutely present in his life.
One morning she had asked him if he intended to remain long in the
valley, and he had not known how to reply to her. Another time she
had asked him if he was going to retire altogether from the study of
medicine, and with what did he intend to occupy himself now? And, upon
a certain occasion, she had almost asked him was it the intention of
his uncle to leave him the grand farm and the lovely house among the
trees?
These were vexatious questions and so different from any part of the
talk they used to have here in the valley last summer or at the cottage
in Donegal. Her feeling of surrender in his presence had been replaced
by a sense of possession which seemed the death of all that kindling of
her heart. Then it had happened that, despite the encouragement of his
uncle, a shadow had fallen upon his love-affair with Rebecca Kerr....
He was growing tired of his idle existence in the valley. Very slowly
he was beginning to see life from a new angle. He was disgusted with
himself and with the mess he had made of things in Dublin. He could not
say whether it was her talk with him that had shamed him into thinking
about it, but he felt again like making something of himself away from
this mean place. Once or twice he wondered whether it was because he
wanted to get away from her. Somehow his uncle and himself were the
only people who seemed directly concerned in the matter. His uncle
was a very decent man, and he felt that he could not presume on his
hospitality any longer.
Mr. Shannon took off his spectacles and laid by the _Irish Times_.
There was an intimate bond between the man and his paper. He always
considered it as hitting off his own opinions to a nicety upon any
subject under the sun. This always after he had read the leaders which
dealt with these subjects. It afforded a contribution to his thought
and ideas out of which he spoke with a surer word.
Old Susan Hennessy came into the room with some letters that Farrell
McGuinness was after leaving. She hobbled in, a hunched, decrepit
woman, now in the concluding stages of her long life as housekeeper to
the Shannons, and put the letters into her master's hand.... Then she
lingered, quite unnecessarily, about the breakfast-table. Her toothless
gums were stripping as words began to struggle into her mouth.... Mr.
Shannon took notice of her. This was her usual behavior when she had
anything of uncommon interest to say.
"Well, what is it now?" said Mr. Shannon, not without some weariness in
his tones, for he expected only to hear some poor piece of local gossip.
"It's how Farrell McGuinness is after telling me, sir, that John
Brennan is home."
"Is that a fact?"
"And Farrell says that by the looks on the outside of a certain letter
that came to Mrs. Brennan th'other day it is what he is after being
expelled."
"Expelled. Well, well!"
There was a mixture of interest and anxiety in Mr. Shannon's tones.
"A good many of those small English colleges are getting broken up
and the students drifting into the Army, I suppose that's the reason;
but of course they'll say he's been expelled," Ulick ventured as old
Susan slipped from the room and down to the loneliness of the kitchen,
where she might brood to her heart's content over this glad piece of
information, for she was one who well knew the story of John Brennan's
mother and "poor Misther Henery Shannon."
"Is that so?" The interest of Mr. Shannon was rapidly mounting towards
excitement.
"A case like that is rather hard," said Ulick.
"Yes, it will be rather hard on Mrs. Brennan, I fancy, she being so
stuck-up with pride in him."
He could just barely hide his feelings of exultation.
"And John Brennan is not a bad fellow."
"I daresay he's not."
There was now a curious note of impatience in the elder man's tones as
if he wished, for some reason or other, to have done speaking of the
matter.
"It will probably mean the end of his intention for the Church."
"That is more than likely. These sudden changes have the effect of
throwing a shadow over many a young fellow's vocation."
His eyes twinkled, but he fingered his mustache nervously as he said
this.
"Funny to think of the two of us getting thrown down together, we being
such friends!"
The doubtful humor in the coincidence had appealed to the queer kink
that was in the mind of Ulick, and it was because of it he now spoke.
It was the merest wantonness that he should have said this thing, and
yet it seemed instantly to have struck some hidden chord of deeper
thought in his uncle's mind. When Myles Shannon spoke again it was
abruptly, and his words seemed to spring out of a sudden impulse:
"You'd better think over that matter of the Army I have just mentioned."
It was the first time his uncle Myles had spoken to him in this way,
and now that the rod of correction had fallen even thus lightly he did
not like it at all. He felt that his face was already flushing.... And
into his mind was burning again the thought of how he had made such a
mess of things.... He moved towards the door, and there was his uncle's
voice again raised as if in the reproof of authority:
"And where might you be going to-day?"
"Down the valley to see my friend John Brennan, who'll be surely lonely
on the first day at home," he said, rather hurriedly, as he went out in
the hallway to get his overcoat.
When Myles Shannon was left alone he immediately drifted into deeper
thought there in the empty room with his back to the fire. With one
hand he clasped his long coat-tails, and with the other nervously
twirled his long mustache. He was thinking rapidly, and his thoughts
were so strong within him that he was speaking them aloud.
"I might not have gone so far. Don't you see how I might have waited in
patience and allowed the hand of Fate to adjust things? See how grandly
they are coming around.... And now maybe I have gone too far. Maybe I
have helped to spoil Ulick's life into the bargain. And then there's
the third party, this girl, Rebecca Kerr?"
He looked straight out before him now, and away over the remains of
the breakfast.... He crossed to the window and gazed for a while over
the wet fields. He moved into the cold, empty parlor and gazed from
its window also over the fields.... Then he turned and for a space
remained looking steadfastly at the bureau which held so much of
_Her_. Quite suddenly he crossed over and unlocked it.... Yes, there,
with the other dead things, were the photograph of Helena Cooper and
the letters she had written, and the letter John Brennan's mother had
written about him. He raised his eyes from the few, poor relics and
they gathered into their depths the loneliness of the parlor.... Here
was the picture of this girl, who was young and lovely, while around
him, surging emptily forever, was the loneliness of his house. It was
Nan Byrne who had driven him to this, and it was Nan Byrne who had
ruined his brother Henry.... And yet he was weakly questioning his
just feelings of revenge against this woman, but for whom he might now
be a happy man. He might have laughter in this house and the sound
of children at play. But now he had none of these things, and he was
lonely.... He looked into the over-mantel, and there he was, an empty
figure, full of a strong family pride that really stood for nothing,
a polite survival from the mild romance of the early nineties of the
last century, a useless thing amid his flocks and herds. A man who had
none of the contentment which comes from the company of a woman or her
children, a mean creature, who, during visits to the cattle-market,
occasionally wasted his manhood in dingy adventure about low streets
in Dublin. One who remained apart from the national thought of his own
country reading queer articles in the _Irish Times_ about "resolute"
government of Ireland.
His head lay low upon his chest because he was a man mightily oppressed
by a great feeling of abasement.
"In the desolation of her heart through the destruction of her son," he
muttered to himself, not without a certain weariness, as he moved away
from the mirror.