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Valley of the Squinting Windows

[Pg 83] <h2>CHAPTER X</h2> Next day Ulick Shannon made a call upon John Brennan and invited him for a drive. Outside upon the road Charlie Clarke's motor was snorting and humming. Ulick had learned to drive a car in Dublin, and had now hired Mr. Clarke's machine for the day. "You see," he said airily, "that I have dispensed with the sanctimonious Charlie and am driving myself. Meaning no respect to you, Brennan, one approach to a priest is as much as I can put up with at a time." Mrs. Brennan had come to the window, which looked out upon the little garden wicket by which they were standing.... Her eyes were dancing and wild thoughts were rushing into her mind.... Here, at last, was the achieved disaster and the sight her eyes had most dreaded to see—her son and the son of Henry Shannon talking together as brothers. An ache that was akin to hunger seemed to have suddenly attacked her. Her lips became parched and dry and her jaws went through the actions of swallowing although there was nothing in her mouth. Then she felt herself being altogether obliterated as she stood there by the window. She was like a wounded bird that had broken itself in an attempt to attain to the sunlight beyond.... And to think that it had fallen at last, this shadow of separation from her lovely son. John came to the door and called in: [Pg 84] "I'm going for a drive in the motor with Mr. Shannon, mother." These were his very words, and they caused her to move away towards the sewing-room with the big tears gathering into her eyes. From her seat she saw her son take up his proud position by the side of Ulick Shannon. There was something for you, now! Her son driving in a motor car with a young man who was going on to be a doctor, in the high noon of a working day, all down through the valley of Tullahanogue. If only it happened to be with any other one in the whole world. What would all the people say but what they must say?... She saw the two students laughing just before the car started as if some joke had suddenly leaped into being between them. Ned Brennan came into the room. He had been making an effort to do something in the garden when the car had distracted him from his task. Well, that was what you might call a grand thing! While he was here digging in his drought, his son, I thank ye, going off to drive in a motor with a kind of a gentleman. His mind went swiftly moving towards a white heat of temper which must be eventually cooled in the black pools of Garradrimna. He came into the room, a great blast of a man in his anger, his boots heavy with the clay of the garden. "Well, be the Holy Farmer! that's the grand turn-out!... But sure they're a kind of connections, don't you know, and I suppose 'tis only natural?" Great God! He had returned again to this, and to the words she feared most of all to hear falling from his mouth. [Pg 85] "A curious attraction, don't you know, that the breed of the Byrnes always had for the breed of the Shannons. Eh, Nan?" Mrs. Brennan said nothing. It had been the way with her that she felt a certain horror of Ned when he came to her in this state, but now she was being moved by a totally different feeling. She was not without a kind of pity for him as she suddenly realized once more how she had done him a terrible and enduring injury.... As he stood there glowering down upon her he was of immense bulk and significance. If he struck her now she would not mind in the least. "And they're like one another too, them two chaps, as like as brothers. And mebbe they are brothers. Eh, Nan, eh; what happened the child you had for Henry Shannon? It died, did it? Why 'tis only the other night that Larry Cully came at me again about it in Garradrimna. 'I see you have your sons home about you,' says he, 'and that must be the great comfort to a man, your son John,' says he, 'and your son Ulick. Maybe ye never heard tell,' says he, 'that Grace Gogarty's child died young and that Henry Shannon bought his other son from his other mother-in-law to prevent it being a rising disgrace to him. Bought it for a small sum,' says he, 'and put it in the place of his lawful son, and his wife never suspected anything until the day she died, poor woman; for she was to be pitied, having married such a blackguard.' Is that true, is it, Nan?" Oh, Blessed Mother! this was even more terrible than the suspicion Marse Prendergast had put upon her. It seemed less of a crime that the little innocent babe should[Pg 86] have been murdered in this house and buried in the garden than that her old, dead mother should have sold it to Henry Shannon. And how was she to know? Twenty-five years had passed since that time when she had been at Death's door, nor realizing anything.... And her mother had never told her.... It would be strange if she had gone digging at any time for the tiny bones of the little infant that had never been baptized. People passing the road might suspect her purpose and say hard things.... But sure they said hard things of her still after all the years. It was dreadful to think how any one could concoct a lie like this, and that no one could forget. Old Marse Prendergast knew well. Deep in her wicked mind, for twenty-five years, the secret had been hidden. It was a torture to think of the way she would be hinting at it forever.... And just quite recently she had threatened to tell John. Bit by bit was being erected in her mind the terrible speculation as to what really was the truth and the full extent of her sin. Yet it was not a thing she could set about making inquiries after.... She wondered and wondered did Myles Shannon, the uncle of Ulick, know the full truth. Why did not her husband drop that grimy, powerful hand? Her breasts craved its blow now, even as they had yearned long ago for the fumbling of the little, blind mouth. But he was merely asking her for money to buy drink for himself in Garradrimna. Hitherto this request had always given her pain, but now, somehow, it came differently to her ears. There was no hesitation on her part, no making of excuses. She went upstairs to the box which held her most dear possession—the money she[Pg 87] had saved so well through all the years for the fitting-out of Ned to go proudly with her to attend the ordination of their son John. She opened the box with the air of one doing a deliberate thing. The money, which amounted in all to about five pounds, was still in the form in which she had managed to scrape it together. In notes and gold and silver, and even copper. Before this it would have appeared as a sacrilege on her part to have touched a penny of it, but now she had no thought of this kind. Ned wanted the money to purchase the means of forgetfulness of the great injury she had done him. She counted thirty pennies, one by one, into the pocket of her apron. This seemed the least suspicious way of giving it to him, for he had still no idea that she could have any little store laid by. It was hardly possible when one considered how much he drank upon her in the village. She came down the stairs in silence, and spoke no word to him as she handed over the money. His lips seemed to split into a sort of sneer as he took it from her. Then he went out the door quickly and down the white road toward Garradrimna. For the admiration and surprise of John Brennan, Ulick Shannon had been displaying his skill with the wheel. Soon the white, tidy houses beyond the valley were whizzing past and they were running down the easy road which led into the village of Ballinamult. They had moved in a continuous cloud of dust from Tullahanogue. Ulick said he was choked with dust as he brought the[Pg 88] car to a standstill outside the "North Leinster Arms." He marched deliberately into the public bar, and John Brennan followed after with less sure footsteps, for it was his first appearance in a place of this kind. There was a little, plump girl standing up on a chair rearranging the bottles of whiskey and dusting the shelves. Ulick would seem to have already visited this tavern, for he addressed the girl rather familiarly as "Mary Essie." She looked at the young man impudently as she wheeled around to exhibit herself to the best advantage. Ulick leaned his elbows upon the low counter and gazed towards her with his deep, dark eyes. Some quite unaccountable thing caused John Brennan to blush, but he noticed that the girl was not blushing. She was more brazenly forcing her body into exhibition. Ulick called for a drink, whatever his friend Brennan would have, and a bottle of Bass for himself. It appeared a little wrong to John that he should be about to partake of a drink in a pub., for the "North Leinster Arms" was nothing more than a sufficiently bad public-house. He had a sudden recollection of having once been given cakes and sweets in an evil-smelling tap-room one day he had gone with his mother long ago to Mullaghowen. He thought of the kind of wine he had been given that day and immediately the name was forced to his lips by the thought—"Port wine!" When the barmaid turned around to fill their drinks the young men had a view of the curves of her body. John Brennan was surprised to find himself dwelling upon them in the intense way of his friend. Before they left Ulick had many drinks of various kinds, and it was interesting to observe how he [Pg 89]expanded with their influence. He began to tell "smutty" stories to Mary Essie. She listened with attention. No blush came into her face, and her glad neck looked brazen.... John Brennan felt himself swallowing great gulps of disgust.... His training had led him to associate the female form with the angelic form coming down from Heaven. Yet here was something utterly different.... A vulgar girl, with fat, round hands and big breasts, her lips red as a recent wound in soft flesh, and looking lonely. He was glad when they regained the sunlight, yet the day was of such a character as creates oppression by the very height of its splendor. Ulick was in such a mood for talk that they had almost forgotten the luncheon-basket at the back of the car. Beyond Ballinamult they stopped again where the ruins of a moldering Abbey lay quietly surrounded by a circle of furze-covered hills.... Ulick expanded still further with the meal, yet his discourse still ran along the old trail. He was favoring his friend with a sketch of his life, and it seemed to be made up largely of the women he had known in Dublin. Quite suddenly he said what seemed to John a very terrible thing: "I have learned a lot from them, and let me tell you this—it has been my experience that you could not trust your own mother or the girl of your heart. They seem to lack control, even the control of religion. They do not realize religion at all. They are creatures of impulse." Here was a sentiment that questioned the very fact of existence.... It seemed dreadful to connect the triumph of love and devotion that was his mother with this consequent suggestion of the failure of existence....[Pg 90] Together they went across the grassy distance towards the crumbling ruin wherein the good monks of old had lived and prayed. And surely, he thought, the great spirit of holiness which had led men hither to spend their lives in penance and good works could not have departed finally from this quiet place, nor from the green fields beyond the rim of furze-covered hills. Yet upon his ears were falling the even, convincing tones of Ulick Shannon, still speaking cynically. "Behold," he was saying, "that it is to this place the younger generation throng on the Sabbath. Around you, upon the ruined and bare walls, you will observe not pious words, but the coupled names of those who have come here to sin." "And look at this!" he exclaimed, picking from a niche in the wall a long shin bone of one of the ancient monks, which possessed the reputed power of cures and miracles. For a moment he examined it with a professional eye, then handed it to John Brennan. There were two names scribbled upon it in pencil, and beneath them a lewd expression. Ulick had only laid hands upon it by the merest accident, but it immediately gave body to all the airy ideas he had been putting forth. There was something so greatly irreverent in the appearance of this accidental piece of evidence that no argument could be put forward against it. It was terrible and conclusive. The evening was far advanced when John Brennan returned home. His mother and father were seated in the kitchen. His father was drunk, and she was reading him a holy story, with an immeasurable feeling of despondence in her tones. John became aware of this as he entered the house. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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