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Valley of the Squinting Windows

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[Pg 170] <h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> Through the earlier part of this term at college there was no peace in the mind of John Brennan, and his unsettled state arose, for the most part, from simple remembrance of things that had happened in the valley. Now it was because he could see again, some afternoon in the summer, Rebecca Kerr coming towards him down the road in a brown and white striped dress, that he thought was pretty, and swinging a sun-bonnet by its long cotton strings from her soft, small hand. Or again, some hour he had spent listening to Ulick Shannon as he talked about the things of life which are marked only by the beauty of passion and death. Always, too, with the aid of two letters he still treasured, his imagination would leap towards the creation of a picture—Rebecca and Ulick together in far-off Donegal. He did not go home at Christmas because it was so expensive to return to Ireland, and in the lonely stretches of the vacation, when all his college friends were away from him, he felt that they must surely be meeting again, meeting and kissing in some quiet, dusky place—Rebecca as he had seen her always and Ulick as he had known him. Even if he had wished to leave Ulick and Rebecca out of his mind, it would have been impossible, so persistently did his mother refer to both in her letters. There was never a letter which did not contain some allusion[Pg 171] to "them two" or "that one" or "that fellow." In February, when the days began to stretch out again, he thought only of the valley coming nearer, with its long period of delight.... Within the fascination of his musing he grew forgetful of his lofty future. Yet there were odd moments when he remembered that he had moved into the valley a very different man at the beginning of last June. The valley had changed him, and might continue to change him when he went there again. Nothing came to stay the even rise of his yearning save his mother's letters, which were the same recitals at all times of stories about the same people. At no time did he expect to find anything new in them, and so it was all the stronger blow when from one letter leaped out the news that Ulick Shannon had failed to pass his final medical exam., and was now living at home in Scarden House with his uncle Myles. That he had been "expelled from the University and disgraced" was the way she put it. It did not please John to see that she was exulting over what had happened to Ulick while hinting at the same time that there was no fear of a like calamity happening to her son. To him it appeared as not at all such an event as one might exult about. It rather evoked pity and condolence in the thought that it might happen to any man. It might happen to himself. Here surely was a fearful thing—the sudden dread of his return to the valley, a disgrace for life, and his mother a ruined woman in the downfall of her son.... This last letter of hers had brought him to review all the brave thoughts that had come to him by the lakeside, wild thoughts of living his own life, not in the way appointed for him by any other person, but freely, after[Pg 172] the bent of his own will. Yet when he came to think of it quietly there was not much he could do in the world with his present education. It seemed to have fitted him only for one kind of life. And his thoughts of the summer might have been only passing distractions which must disappear with the full development of his mind. To think of those ideas ever coming suddenly to reality would be a blow too powerful to his mother. It would kill her. For, with other knowledge, the summer holidays had brought him to see how much she looked forward to his becoming a priest. Quite unconsciously, without the least effort of his will, he found himself returning to his old, keen interest in his studies. He found himself coming back to his lost peace of mind. He felt somehow that his enjoyment of this grand contentment was the very best way he could flash back his mother's love. Besides it was the best earnest he had of the enjoyment of his coming holidays. Then the disaster came. The imminence of it had been troubling the rector for a long time. His college was in a state of disintegration, for the Great War had cast its shadow over the quiet walls. It was a charity college. This was a secret that had been well kept from the people of the valley by Mrs. Brennan. "A grand college in England" was the utmost information she would ever vouchsafe to any inquirer. She had formed a friendly alliance with the old, bespectacled postmistress and made all her things free of charge for keeping close the knowledge of John's exact whereabouts in England. Yet there was never a letter from mother to son or from son to mother that[Pg 173] the old maid did not consider it her bounden duty to open and read. The college had been supported by good people who could find nothing else to do with their money. But, in war-time, charity was diverted into other channels, and its income had consequently dwindled almost to vanishing point. Coupled with this, many of the students had left aside their books and gone into the Army. One morning the rector appeared in the lecture-hall to announce to the remnant that the college was about to be closed for "some time." He meant indefinitely, but the poor man could not put it in that way. John heard the news with mingled feelings. In a dumb way he had longed for this after his return from the valley, but now he saw in it, not the arrival of a desired event, but a postponement of the great intention that had begun to absorb him again. He was achieving his desire in a way that made it a punishment.... To-morrow he would be going home.... But of course his mother knew everything by this time and was already preparing a welcome for him. The March evening was gray and cold when he came into the deserted station of Kilaconnaghan. It had been raining ceaselessly since Christmas, and around and away from him stretched the sodden country. He got a porter to take his trunk out to the van and stand it on end upon the platform. Then he went into the waiting-room to meet his mother. But she was not there. Nor was the little donkey and trap outside the station house. Perhaps she was coming to meet him with Charlie Clarke in the grand and holy motor car. If he went on he might meet them coming through Kilaconnaghan. He[Pg 174] got the porter to take his box from its place on the platform and put it into the waiting-room. All down through the town there was no sign of them, and when he got out upon the road to Garradrimna and the valley there was no sign of them either. The night had fallen thick and heavy, and John, as he went on through the rain, looked forward to the comforting radiance of Charlie Clarke's headlights suddenly to flash around every corner. But the car did not come and he began to grow weary of tramping through the wet night. All along the way he was meeting people who shouldered up to him and strove to peer into his face as he slipped past. He did not come on to the valley road by way of Garradrimna, but instead by The Road of the Dead, down which he went slopping through great pools at every few yards. He was very weary when he came at last to the door of his mother's house. Before knocking he had listened for a while to the low hum of her reading to his father. Then he heard her moving to open the door, and immediately she was silhouetted in the lamp-light. "Is that you, John? We knew you were coming home. We got the rector's letter." He noticed a queer coldness in her tone. "I'd rather to God that anything in the world had happened than this. What'll they say now? They'll say you were expelled. As sure as God, they'll say you were expelled!" He threw himself into the first chair he saw. "Did any one meet you down the road? Did many meet you from this to Kilaconnaghan?" [Pg 175] He did not answer. This was a curious welcome he was receiving. Yet he noticed that tears were beginning to creep into her eyes, which were also red as if from much recent weeping. "Oh, God knows, and God knows again, John, I'd rather have died than it should have come to this. And why was it that after all me contriving and after all me praying and good works this bitter cross should have fallen? I don't know. I can't think for what I am being punished and why misfortune should come to you. And what'll they say at all at all? Oh you may depend upon it that it's the worst thing they'll say. But you mustn't tell them that the college is finished. For I suppose it's finished now the way everything is going to be finished before the war. But you mustn't say that. You must say that it is on special holidays you are, after having passed a Special examination. And you must behave as if you were on holidays!" Such a dreadful anxiety was upon her that she appeared no longer as his mother, the infinitely tender woman he had known. She now seemed to possess none of the pure contentment her loving tenderness should have brought her. She was altogether concerned as to what the people would say and not as to the effect of the happening upon her son's career. He had begun to think of this for himself, but it was not of it that she was now thinking.... She was thinking of herself, of her pride, and that was why she had not come to meet him. And now his clothes were wet and he was tired, for he had walked from Kilaconnaghan in the rain. [Pg 176] Ned Brennan, stirring out of his drunken doze, muttered thickly: "Ah, God blast yourselves and your college, can't you let a fellow have a sleep be the fire after his hard day!" <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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