He arrived in the town of Ballah by rail, for he had avoided the slow
cattle-steamer and gone by Dublin.
It was the forenoon, and he made for the Imperial Hotel to wait till
four in the evening, when he would find Mary Carton in the schoolhouse,
for he had timed his journey so as to arrive on Thursday, the day of
the children’s practice.
As he went through the streets his heart went out to every familiar
place and sight: the rows of tumble-down thatched cottages; the slated
roofs of the shops; the women selling gooseberries; the river bridge;
the high walls of the garden where it was said the gardener used to see
the ghost of a former owner in the shape of a rabbit; the street corner
no child would pass at nightfall for fear of the headless soldier;
the deserted flour-store; the wharves covered with grass. All these
he watched with Celtic devotion, that devotion carried to the ends of
the world by the Celtic exiles, and since old time surrounding their
journeyings with rumour of plaintive songs.
He sat in the window of the Imperial Hotel, now full of guests. He
did not notice any of them. He sat there meditating, meditating. Grey
clouds covering the town with flying shadows rushed by like the old
and dishevelled eagles that Maeldune saw hurrying towards the waters
of life. Below in the street passed by country people, townspeople,
travellers, women with baskets, boys driving donkeys, old men with
sticks; sometimes he recognized a face or was recognized himself, and
welcomed by some familiar voice.
‘You have come home a handsomer gentleman than your father, Misther
John, and he was a neat figure of a man, God bless him!’ said the
waiter, bringing him his lunch; and in truth Sherman had grown
handsomer for these years away. His face and gesture had more of
dignity, for on the centre of his nature life had dropped a pinch of
experience.
At four he left the hotel and waited near the schoolhouse till the
children came running out. One or two of the elder ones he recognized
but turned away.