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Valley of the Squinting Windows

[Pg 177] <h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> John went from the kitchen to a restless night. Soon after daybreak he got up and looked out of the window. The crows had been flying across it darkly since the beginning of the light. He gazed down now towards the stretch of trees about the lake. They were dark figures in the somber picture. He had not seen them since autumn, and even then some of the brightness of summer had lingered with them. Now they looked as if they had been weeping. He could see the lake between the clumps of fir-trees. The water was all dark like the scene in which it was framed. It now beat itself into a futile imitation of billows, into a kind of make-believe before the wild things around that it was an angry sea, holding deep in its caverns the relics of great dooms. But the trees seemed to rock in enjoyment and to join forces with the wild things in tormenting the lake. John looked at the clock. It was early hours, and there would be no need to go out for a long time. He went back to bed and remained there without sleep, gazing up at the ceiling.... He fell to thinking of what he would have to face in the valley now.... His mother had hinted at the wide scope of it last night when she said that she would rather anything in God's world had happened than this thing, this sudden[Pg 178] home-coming.... She was thinking only of her own pride. It was an offense against her pride, he felt, and that was all. It stood to lessen the exalted position which the purpose of his existence gave her before the other women of the valley. But he had begun to feel the importance of his own person in the scheme of circumstance by which he was surrounded. It had begun to appear to him that he mattered somehow; that in some undreamt-of way he might leave his mark upon the valley before he died. He would go to Mass in Garradrimna this morning. He very well knew how this attendance at morning Mass was a comfort to his mother. He was about to do this thing to please her now. Yet, how was the matter going to affect himself? He would be stared at by the very walls and trees as he went the wet road into Garradrimna; and no matter what position he might take up in the chapel there would be very certain to be a few who would come kneeling together into a little group and, in hushed tones within the presence of their God upon the altar, say: "Now, isn't that John Brennan I see before me, or can I believe my eyes? Aye, it must be him. Expelled, I suppose. Begad that's great. Expelled! Begad!" If he happened to take the slightest side-glance around, he would catch glimpses of eyes sunk low beneath brows which published expressions midway between pity and contempt, between delight and curiosity.... In some wonderful way the first evidence of his long hoped for downfall would spread throughout the small congregation. Those in front would let their heads or prayerbooks fall beside or behind them, so that they might have[Pg 179] an excuse for turning around to view the young man who, in his unfortunate presence here, stood for this glad piece of intelligence. The acolytes serving Father O'Keeffe, and having occasional glimpses of the congregation, would see the black-coated figure set there in contradistinction to Charlie Clarke and the accustomed voteens with the bobbing bonnets. In their wise looks up at him they would seem to communicate the news to the priest. And although only a very few seconds had elapsed, Father O'Keeffe would have thrown off his vestments and be going bounding towards the Presbytery for his breakfast as John emerged from the chapel. It would be an ostentatious meeting. Although he had neither act nor part in it, nor did he favor it in any way, Father O'Keeffe always desired people to think that it was he who was "doing for Mrs. Brennan's boy beyond in England." ... There would be the usual flow of questions, a deep pursing of the lips, and the sudden creation of a wise, concerned, ecclesiastical look at every answer. Then there was certain to come the final brutal question: "And what are you going to do with yourself meanwhile, is it any harm to ask?" As he continued to stare up vacantly at the ceiling, John could not frame a possible answer to that question. And yet he knew it would be the foremost of Father O'Keeffe's questions. There would be the hurried crowding into every doorway and into all the squinting windows as he went past. Outwardly there would be smiles of welcome for him, but in the seven publichouses of Garradrimna the exultation would be so great as to make men who had been[Pg 180] ancient enemies stand drinks to one another in the moment of gladness which had come upon them with the return of John Brennan. "'Tis expelled he is like Ulick Shannon. That's as sure as you're there!" "To be sure he's expelled. And wouldn't any one know he was going to be expelled the same as the other fellow, the way they were conducting themselves last summer, running after gerrls and drinking like hell?" "And did ye ever hear such nonsense? The idea of him going on for to be a priest!" Then there would be a shaking of wise heads and a coming of wise looks into their faces. He could see what would happen when he met the fathers of Garradrimna, when he met Padna Padna or Shamesy Golliher. There would be the short, dry laugh from Padna Padna, and a pathetic scrambling of the dimming intelligence to recognize him. "And is that you, John? Back again! Well, boys-a-day! And isn't it grand that Ulick Shannon is at home these times too? Isn't it a pity about Ulick, for he's a decent fellow? Every bit as decent as his father, Henry Shannon, was, and he was a damned decent fellow. Ah, 'tis a great pity of him to be exshpelled. Aye, 'tis a great pity of any one that does be exshpelled." The meeting with Shamesy Golliher formed as a clearer picture before his mind. "Arrah me sound man, John, sure I thought you'd be saying the Mass before this time. There's nothing strange in the valley at all. Only 'tis harder than ever to get the rabbits, the weeshy devils! Only for Ulick[Pg 181] Shannon I don't know what I'd do for a drink sometimes. But, damn it, he's the decentest fellow.... You're only a few minutes late, sure 'tis only this blessed minute that Miss Kerr's gone on to the school.... And you could have been chatting with her so grandly all the way!" That John Brennan should be thinking after this fashion, creating all those little scenes before the eye of his mind and imagining their accompanying conversations, was indicative of the way the valley and the village had forced their reality upon him last summer. But this pictured combination of incidents was intensified by a certain morbid way of dwelling upon things his long spells of meditation by the lake had brought him. Yet he knew that even all his clear vision of the mean ways of life around him would not act as an incentive to combat them but, most extraordinary to imagine, as a sort of lure towards the persecution of their scenes and incidents. "It must be coming near time to rise for Mass," he said aloud to himself, as he felt that he had been quite a long time giving himself up to speculations in which there was no joy. There was a tap upon the door. It was his mother calling him, as had been her custom during all the days of his holiday times. The door opened and she came into the room. Her manner seemed to have changed somewhat from the night before. The curious look of tenderness she had always displayed while gazing upon him seemed to have struggled back into her eyes. She came and sat by the bedside and, for a few moments, both were silent. [Pg 182] "'Tis very cold this morning, mother," was the only thing John could think of saying. A slight confusion seemed to have come upon her since her entrance to the room. Without any warning by a word, she suddenly threw her arms about him as he lay there on the bed and covered his face with kisses. He was amazed, but her kisses seemed to hurt him.... It must have been years and years since she had kissed him like this, and now he was a man.... When she released him so that he could look up at her he saw that she was crying. "I'm sorry about last night, John," she said. "I'm sorry, darling; but surely I could not bring myself to do it. Even for a few hours I wanted to keep them from knowing. I even wanted to keep your father from knowing. So I did not tell him until I heard your poor, wet foot come sopping up to the door. He did not curse much then, for he seems to have begun to feel a little respect for you. But the curses of him all through the night were enough to lift the roof off the house. Oh, he's the terrible man, for all me praying and all me reading to him of good, holy books; and 'tis no wonder for all kinds of misfortune to fall, though God between us and all harm, what am I saying at all?... It was the hard, long walk down the wet, dark road from Kilaconnaghan last night, and it pained me every inch of the way. If it hurt your feet and your limbs, avic, remember that your suffering was nothing to the pain that plowed through your mother's heart all the while you were coming along to this house.... But God only knows I couldn't. I couldn't let them see me setting off into the twilight upon the little ass, and I[Pg 183] going for me son. I even went so far as to catch the little ass and yoke him, and put on the grand clothes I was decked out in when I met you last June with the motor. But somehow I hadn't the heart for the journey this time, and you coming home before you were due. I couldn't let them see me! I couldn't let them see me, so I couldn't!" "But it is not my fault, mother. I have not brought it about directly by any action of mine. It comes from the changed state of everything on account of the Great War. You may say it came naturally." "Ah, sure I know that, dear, I know it well, and don't be troubling yourself. In the letter of the rector before the very last one didn't he mention the change of resigned application that had at last come to you, and that you had grown less susceptible—I think that is the grand word he used—aye, less susceptible to distractions and more quiet in your mind? And I knew as well as anything that it was coming to pass so beautifully, that all the long prayers I had said for you upon me two bare, bended knees were after being heard at last, and a great joy was just beginning to come surging into me heart when the terrible blow of the last letter fell down upon me. But sure I used to be having the queerest dreams, and I felt that nothing good was going to happen when Ulick Shannon came down here expelled from the University in Dublin. You used to be a great deal in his company last summer, and mebbe there was some curse put upon the both of you together. May God forgive me, but I hate that young fellow like poison. I don't know rightly why it is, but it vexes me to see him idling around the way he is after what's[Pg 184] happened to him. Bragging about being expelled he bees every day in McDermott's of Garradrimna. And his uncle Myles is every bit as bad, going to keep him at home until the end of next summer. 'To give him time to think of things,' he says. 'I'm going to find a use for him,' he says to any one that asks him, 'never you fear!' Well, begad, 'tis a grand thing not to know what to do with your money like the Shannons of Scarden Hill.... But sure I'm talking and talking. 'Tis what I came in to tell you now of the plan I have been making up all night. If we let them see that we're lying down under this misfortune we're bet surely. We must put a brave face upon it. You must make a big show-off that you're after getting special holidays for some great, successful examination you've passed ahead of any one else in the college. I'll let on I'm delighted, and be mad to tell it to every customer that comes into the sewing-room. But you must help me; you must go about saying hard things of Ulick Shannon that's after being expelled, for that's the very best way you can do it. He'll mebbe seek your company like last year, but you must let him see for certain that you consider yourself a deal above him. But you mustn't be so quiet and go moping so much about the lake as you used to. You must go about everywhere, talking of yourself and what you're going to be. Now you must do all this for my sake—won't you, John?" His tremulous "yes" was very unenthusiastic and seemed to hold no great promise of fulfilment. These were hard things his mother was asking him to do, and he would require some time to think them over.... But even now he wondered was it in him to do them[Pg 185] at all. The attitude towards Ulick Shannon which she now proposed would be a curious thing, for they had been the best of friends. "And while you're doing this thing for me, John, I'll be going on with me plans for your future. It was me, and me only, that set up this beautiful plan of the priesthood as the future I wanted for you. I got no one to help me, I can tell you that. Only every one to raise their hands against me. And in spite of all that I carried me plan to what success the rector spoke of in his last letter. And even though this shadow has fallen across it, me son and meself between us are not going to let it be the end. For I want to see you a priest, John. I want to see you a priest before I die. God knows I want to see that before I die. Nan Byrne's son a priest before she dies!" Her speech mounted to such a pitch of excitement that towards the end it trailed away into a long, frenzied scream. It awoke Ned Brennan where he dozed fitfully in the next room, and he roared out: "Ah, what the hell are yous gosthering and croaking about in there at this hour of the morning, the two of yous? It'd be serving you a lot better to be down getting me breakfast, Nan Byrne!" She came away very quietly from the bedside of her son and left the room. John remained for some time thinking over the things she had been saying. Then he rose wearily and went downstairs. It was only now he noticed that his mother had dried his clothes. It must have taken her a good portion of the night to do this. His boots, which had been so wet and muddy after his walk from Kilaconnaghan, were now polished[Pg 186] to resplendence and standing clean and dry beside the fire. The full realization of these small actions brought a fine feeling of tenderness into his mind.... He quickly prepared himself to leave the house. She observed him with concern as she went about cooking the breakfast for her man. "You're not going to Mass this morning, are ye, John?" "Oh, no!" he replied with a nervous quickness. "Our chat delayed me. It is now past nine." "Ah, dear, sure I never thought while I was talking. The last time I kept you it was the morning after the concert, and even then you were in time for 'half-past eight'.... But sure, anyhow, you're too tired this morning." "I'm going for a little walk before breakfast." The words broke in queerly upon the thought she had just expressed, but his reason was nothing more than to avoid his father, who would be presently snapping savagely at his breakfast in the kitchen. The wet road was cheerless and the bare trees and fields were cold and lonely. Everything was in contrast to the mood in which he had known it last summer. It seemed as if he would never know it in that mood again. Now that he had returned it was a poor thing and very small beside the pictures his dream had made.... He was wandering down The Road of the Dead and there was a girl coming towards him. He knew it was Rebecca Kerr, and this meeting did not appear in the least accidental. She was dressed, as he had not previously seen her, in a heavy brown coat, a thick scarf about her throat and[Pg 187] a pretty velvet cap which hid most of her hair. Her small feet were well shod in strong boots, and she came radiantly down the wet road. A look of surprise sprang into her eyes when she saw him, and she seemed uncertain of herself as they stopped to speak. "Back again?" she said, not without some inquisitive surprise in her tones. "Yes, another holiday," he said quickly. "Nothing wrong?" she queried. "Well, well, no; but the college has closed down for the period of the war." "That is a pity." He laughed a queer, excited little laugh, in which there did not seem to be any mirth or meaning. Then he picked himself up quickly. "You won't tell anybody?" "What about?" "This that I have told you, about the college." "Oh, dear no!" she replied very quickly, as if amazed and annoyed that he should have asked her to respect this little piece of information as a confidence. And she had not reckoned on meeting him at all. Besides she had not spoken so many words to him since the morning after the concert. She lifted her head high and went on walking between the muddy puddles on the way to the valley school. John felt somewhat crushed by her abruptness, especially after what he had told her. And where was the fine resolve with which his mother had hoped to infuse him of acting a brave part for her sake before the people of the valley? <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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