John Brennan came down the valley. The trees by the roadside were
being shaken heavily by soft winds. Yet, for all the kindness of May
that lingered about it, there seemed to be some shadow hanging over
the evening. No look of peace or pity had struggled into the squinting
windows.... Would the valley ever again put on the smile it had worn
last summer? That time it had been so dearly magnified. At leaving it
there had been such a crush of feeling in his breast.
He seemed to see it more clearly now. There was something that hurt him
in the thought of how he was preparing for a genteel kind of life while
his father remained a common sponger around the seven publichouses of
Garradrimna, asking people to stand him drinks for the love of God like
Anthony Shaughness. He could not forget that the valley had wrought
this destruction upon Ned Brennan, and that Ned Brennan was his father.
This thought arose out of a definite cause. At the college in
Ballinamult he had made the acquaintance of Father George Considine,
who had already begun to exercise an influence over him. This priest
was a simple, holy man, who had devoted his life usefully, remaining
far away from the ways of pride. Although gombeen-men like Tommy
Williams had some influence with those who controlled the college, they
had no influence over him. He was in curious contrast to the system
which tied him to this place. It was impossible to think that his
ordination had represented a triumph to any one at all, yet he had been
far ahead of his contemporaries and while yet a young man had been made
principal of this college in Ballinamult. His name had gone out into
the world. The satisfaction that had been denied to Master Donnellan
was his. He had had a hand in the education of men whose names were
now notable in many a walk of life. And yet, to see him moving about
the grounds of the college in his faded coat with the frayed sleeves
and shiny collar, no man would think that his name, the name of "poor
Father Considine," was spoken with respect in distant places.
But Mrs. Brennan did not approve of him. On the evening of John's first
day in Ballinamult, after she had made every other possible inquiry she
said:
"And did you meet Father Considine?"
"I did indeed, mother; a nice man!"
"Ah, a quare ould oddity! Wouldn't you think now that he'd have a
little pride in himself and dress a bit better, and he such a very
learned man?"
"Maybe that's just the reason why he's not proud. The saints were not
proud, mother; then why should he be?"
She always gave a deaf ear to any word of this kind from John, for
her ideal was Father O'Keeffe, with his patent leather top-boots,
silver-mounted whip and silk hat, riding to hounds with the Cromwellian
descendants of the district.... Here was where Father Considine stood
out in sharp contrast, for he was in spiritual descent from those
priests who had died with the people in the Penal Days. It was men
like him who had carried down the grandeur of Faith and Idealism from
generation to generation. One felt that life was a small thing to him
beyond the chance it gave to make it beautiful. He had written a little
book of poems in honor of Mary, the Mother of God, and to feel that it
had brought some comfort to many a troubled one and to know that he had
been the means of shaping young men's lives towards useful ends was all
that this world meant to him.
John Brennan knew very well that if he became a priest it was in the
steps of Father Considine he would follow rather than in those of
Father O'Keeffe. This he felt must mean the frustration of half his
mother's grand desire, but, inevitable, it must be so, for it was the
way his meditative mind would lead him. Thus was he troubled again.
Father Considine had spoken to him of Father O'Keeffe:
"A touch of the farmer about that man don't you think? But maybe a
worthy man for all that!"
Then he had looked long into the young man's eyes and said:
"Be humble, my son, be humble, so that great things may be done unto
you!"
John had pondered these words as he cycled home that evening past the
rich fields. He began to think how his friend Ulick would have put all
his thoughts so clearly. How he would have spoken of the rank green
grass now rising high over County Meath as a growth that had sprung
from the graves of men's rotted souls; of all the hate and pride that
had come out of their hunger for the luscious land; of how Faith and
Love and Beauty had gone forever from this golden vale to the wild
places of his country, where there was a letting-in of wind and sun
and sea.... It was easy to connect Father O'Keeffe's pride with the
land. Remembrance of the man's appearance was sufficient. It was not so
easy in the case of his mother. But, of course, John had no knowledge
of how she had set her heart upon Henry Shannon's lovely farm in the
days gone by.
Hitherto his thoughts of his future condition had been bound up with
consideration of his mother, but now there had come this realization
of his father. It was not without its sadness to think that his father
had been a stranger to him always and that he should now behold him
stumbling down to old age amid the degradation of Garradrimna. He felt
curiously desirous of doing something for him. But the heavy constraint
between them still existed as always. He was unequal to the task of
plucking up courage to speak to him. This evening, too, as he tried,
after his accustomed fashion, in a vacant moment to catch a glimpse of
his own future, he acutely felt the impossibility of seeing himself
as a monument of pride.... Always there would arise before his mind a
broken column in the middle of the valley.
And he was lonely. He had not seen Ulick Shannon or Rebecca since he
had begun to cycle daily to Ballinamult. Often, in some of the vacant
stretches of thought which came to him as he hurried along, he pictured
the two of them meeting during some of those long, sweet evenings and
being kind to one another. Despite sudden flashes of a different regard
that would come sweeping his thoughts of all kinds, he loved these
two and was glad that they were fond of one another. It now seemed
surprising that he had ever thought so deeply of Rebecca Kerr, and
wished to meet her upon the road and look longingly into her eyes. All
this while going on to be a priest seemed far from him now that he had
begun to be influenced by Father Considine.
He had to pass the house of Sergeant McGoldrick by the way he was
going, and it seemed an action altogether outside him that he had
gone into an adjacent field and gazed for quite a long time up at
her window.... He was all confusion when he noticed the child of the
McGoldricks observing him.... He drifted away, his cheeks hot and a
little sense of shame dimming his eyes.... He took to the road again
and at once saw Ulick Shannon coming towards him. The old, insinuating
smile which had so often been used upon his weak points, was spread
over the face of his friend.
"And at last you have succeeded in coming to see her thus far?"
The words seemed to fall out of Ulick's oblique smile.
"She?" he said in surprise.
"Oh, I thought it was that you had intentions of becoming my rival!"
John laughed now, for this was the old Ulick come back again. He went
on laughing as if at a good joke, and the two students went together
down the road.
"Don't let me delay you!" John said abruptly.
"Oh, you're not preventing me in any way at all."
"But Rebecca?"
"Even the austerities of Ballinamult have not made you forget Rebecca?"
"Hardly--I shouldn't like to think that I had been the cause of keeping
you from her even for a short while."
There came between them now one of those long spells of silence which
seemed essential parts of their friendship.
"You're in a queer mood this evening?" John said at last.
"I suppose I am, and that there's no use in trying to hide it....
D'ye know what it is, Brennan? We two seem to have changed a great
deal since last summer. _I_ simply can't look at things in the same
light-hearted way. I suppose I went too far, and that I must be paying
for it now. But there are just a few things I have done for which I am
sorry--I'm sorry about this affair with Rebecca Kerr."
John was listening with quiet attention to the remarks which Ulick was
letting fall from him disjointedly.
"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry that I should ever have come here to meet her,
for somehow it has brought me to this state of mind and not to any
happiness at all. I'm doubtful, too, if it has brought any happiness to
her."
"That's strange," said John, "and I thought you two were very happy in
your friendship."
"Happiness!" jerked out the other in a full, strong sneer. "That's
a funny word now, and a funny thing. Do you think that we deserve
happiness any more than those we see working around us in the valley?
Not at all! Rather less do we deserve. Just think of them giving their
blood and sweat so crudely in mortal combat with the fields! And what
does it avail them in the end? What do they get out of it but the
satisfaction of a few unkind thoughts and a few low lies? In the mean
living of their own lives they represent futile expeditions in quest
of joy. Yet what brings the greatest joy it is possible for them to
experience? Why, the fact that another's hope of happiness has been
finally desolated. If any great disaster should suddenly come upon one
or other of the three of us, upon you or me or Rebecca Kerr, they would
see more glory in the fulfilment of their spite than in the harvest
promise of their fields. And yet I here assert that these deserve to
be happy. They labor in the hard way it was ordained that man should
labor at Adam's fall, and they attend to their religion. They pray for
happiness, and this is the happiness that comes to them. Some must be
defeated and driven down from the hills of their dreams so that the
other ones, the deserving and the pious, may be given material for
their reward of joy. That, Brennan, is the only happiness that ever
descends upon the people of the valley. It may be said that they get
their reward in this life."
Ulick was in one of those moods of eloquence which always came to him
after a visit to Garradrimna, and when a very torrent of words might
be expected to pour forth from him. John Brennan merely lifted his
eyebrows in mild surprise and said nothing as the other went on:
"Happiness indeed. What have I ever done to deserve happiness? I have
not worked like a horse, I have not prayed?"
"I was not thinking of any broad generalizations of happiness. I was
only thinking of happiness in your relation to Rebecca Kerr."
Ulick now gave a sudden turn to the conversation:
"Where were you wandering to the night?" he inquired of John Brennan.
"Oh, nowhere in particular--just down the road."
"Well, it seems strange that you should have come this way, past the
house of Sergeant McGoldrick."
It appeared as if Ulick had glimpsed the tender spot upon which John
Brennan's thoughts were working and struck it with the sharp point of
his words. John did not reply, but it could be seen that his cheeks
were blushing even in the gloom that had come towards them down the
road.
"I hope you will be very kind to her, John, when I am gone from here.
She's very nice, and this is the drear, lonely place for her to be. I
expect to be going away pretty soon."
It seemed extraordinary that this thing should be happening now.... He
began to remember how he had longed for Rebecca last summer, and how
his poor yearning had been reduced to nothing by the favor with which
she looked upon his friend. And later how he had turned away out of the
full goodness of his own heart and returned again through power of a
fateful accident to his early purpose. And now how the good influence
of Father Considine had just come into his life to lead him finally
into the way for which he had been intended by his mother from the
beginning.
He did not yet fully realize that this quiet and casual meeting which
had been effected because Ulick Shannon had accidentally come around
this way from Garradrimna represented the little moment which stood for
the turning-point of his life. But it had certainly moved into being
along definite lines of dramatic significance.
Presently Ulick mounted a stile which gave upon a path leading up
through the fields of his uncle Myles and to the lonely house among the
trees. Then it was true that he was not seeing Rebecca to-night.... A
great gladness seemed to have rushed in upon John Brennan because he
had become aware of this thing. And further, Ulick Shannon was going
away from the valley and Rebecca remaining here to be lonely. But he,
who had once so dearly longed for her company, would be coming and
going from the valley daily, and summer was upon them again.... Ulick
must have bade him a "Good-night!" that he had not heard, for already
he could see him disappearing into the sea of white mist which would
seem to have rolled into the valley from the eternity of the silent
places.... He was left here now upon this lonely, quiet shore while his
mind had turned into a tumbling sea.
When at last he roused himself and went into the kitchen he saw that
his mother had already settled herself to the task of reading a
religious paper to his father.... The elder man was sitting there so
woebegone by the few wet sods that were the fire. He was not very drunk
this evening, and the usual wild glint in his eyes was replaced by
the look of one who is having thoughts of final dissolution.... John
experienced a little shudder with the thought that he did not possess
any desire to speak to his father now.
But his mother had broken in with a question:
"Was that Ulick Shannon was with you outside just now?"
"Yes, mother, it was."
"He went home very early, didn't he?"
"I suppose it is rather early for him to go home."
"I think 'tis very seldom he bees with Rebecca Kerr now, whatever's the
reason, _whatever's the reason_."
It was her repetition and emphasis of the final words which brought
about the outburst.
Ned Brennan suddenly flamed up and snarled out:
"Look ye here, Nan Byrne, that's no kind of talk to be giving out to
your grand, fine, educated young fellow of a son, and he be going on to
be a priest. That's the quare, suggestive kind of talk. But sure 'tis
very like you, Nan Byrne. 'Tis very like you!"
Mrs. Brennan had just been on the point of beginning to read the
religious paper, and, with the thought of all her reading surging in
upon her in one crushing moment, she felt the cutting rebuff most
keenly and showed her confusion. She made no reply as John went up to
the room where his books were.... Long after, as he tried to recall
forgotten, peaceful thoughts, he could hear his father speaking out of
the heat of anger in the kitchen below.