when he came out upon the valley road he was no longer the admirable young man he had been less than a year since. he was a broken thing, and he was stained by another's blood. he was marked eternally by what he had done, and there was upon him a degradation unspeakable. he was an offense against existence and against the gathering, blessed gloom of the quiet evening.... he had murdered one who had been his friend, and it was a thing he might never be able to forget. the body, with all the lovely life so recently gone from it, he had weighted and sunk beneath the surface of the lake.... it was down there now, a poor, dead thing among the ooze of dead things from which the water had taken its color and quality. the wild spirit that had been ulick shannon, so contradictory in its many aspects, was now soaring lightly aloft upon the wings of clean winds and he, john brennan, who had effected this grand release, felt the weights still heavy about his heart.
he came on a group of children playing by the roadside. it seemed as if they had been driven across his path to thwart him with their innocence. he instantly remembered that other evening when he had been pained to hear them express the ugly, uncharitable notions of their parents regarding a child of another religion. now they were playing merrily as god had intended[pg 279] them to play, and religion, with its tyranny of compulsion towards thoughts of death and sin, seemed distant from them, and distant was it from him too. his mind was empty of any thought. would no kindly piece of imagination come down to cool his spirit with its grace or lift from his heart the oppression of the leaden weights he had bound about the body of ulick shannon?... at last he had remembrance of his mother. it had been borne in upon him during some of his lonely cycle-rides to and from ballinamult that things should not be, somehow, as they were. he was moving along exalted ways while his mother labored in lonely silence at her machine.... where was the money coming from? such an unproductive state as his required money for its upkeep. his father was no toiler, but she was always working there alone in the lonely room. her hands were grown gnarled and hard through her years of labor.... just presently she was probably discussing a dismal matter of ways and means with some woman of the valley, saying as she had said through the long years:
"thank god and his blessed mother this night, i still have me hands. aye, that's what i was just saying to mrs. so and so this morning—thank god i still have me hands!"
thus she was going on now, he imagined, as he had always heard her, a pathetic figure sitting there and looking painfully through the heavy, permanent mist that was falling down upon her eyes. and yet it was not thus she really was at this moment. for although it was a woman who held her company, there was no mood of peace between them. it was marse prendergast who was with her, and she was proceeding busily with her eternal[pg 280] whine. mrs. brennan was now disturbed in her mind and fearful of the great calamity that might happen. while she had bravely maintained the money in the little chest upstairs there had lingered, in spite of every affliction, a sense of quietness and independence. but now she was without help and as one distraught. of late this gibbering old woman had obtained a certain power over her, and a considerable portion of the once proud mrs. brennan had fallen finally away. although, at unaccountable moments, her strong pride would spring up to dazzle the people of the valley, she did not now possess that remarkable imperviousness which had so distinguished her attitude towards life. now she was in a condition of disintegration, unable to maintain an antagonism or hide a purpose. the old ruined woman, the broken shuiler of the roads, was beginning to behold the ruins of another woman, the ruins of mrs. brennan, who had once been so "thick" and proud.
"so you won't hearken to me request?"
"i can't, marse dear. i have no money to give you!"
this was a true word, for the little store upstairs had gone this way and that. tommy williams had had to be given his interest, and although people might think that john was getting his education for charity, no one knew better than she the heavy fees of the college in ballinamult. besides, he must keep up a good appearance in the valley.
but when marse prendergast made a demand she knew no reason and could make no allowance.
"well, nan, me dear, i must do me duty. i must speak out when you can't bribe me to be silent. i must do a horrid piece of business this night. i must turn[pg 281] a son against his mother. yes, that must be the way of it now, a son turned for good against his mother. for surely there could be no pardon in his grand, holy eyes for what you were once upon a time. but let me tell you this, that i'd have acquainted him anyhow, for i'd not have gone to me grave with that sin on me no matter what. they say it isn't right to offer a son to god where there's after being any big blemish in the family, and that if you do a woful misfortune or a black curse comes of it. and sure that was the quare, big blemish in your family, nan byrne, the quarest blemish ever was."
mrs. brennan began to cry. she seemed to have come at last to the end of all her long attempt to brazen things out.... marse prendergast was not slow to observe this acceptance of defeat, and saw that now surely was her time to be hard and bitter. she was growing so old, a withered stump upon the brink of years, and there was upon her an enormous craving for a little money. people were even driven, by her constant whine for this thing and that, to say how she had a little store of her own laid by which she gloated over with a wicked and senile delight. and for what, in god's name, was she hoarding and she an old, lone woman with the life just cross-wise in her?... and it was always mrs. brennan whom she had visited with her singular and special persecution.
"i suppose now you think you're the quare, clever one to be going on with your refusals from day to day. i suppose you think i don't know that you have a chesht full of money that you robbed from poor henry shannon, god be good to him, when he used to be coming running to see you, the foolish fellow!"
[pg 282]
"as god's me judge, marse prendergast, i haven't e'er a penny in the house. i'm in debt in garradrimna this blessed minute, and that's as sure as you're there!"
"go on out of that with your talk of debts, and you to be sending your son john through his college courses before all our eyes like any fine lady in the land. and think of all the grand money you'll be getting bye and bye in rolls and cartloads!"
"aye, with the help of god!"
even in the moment of her torment mrs. brennan could not restrain her vanity of her son.
"and to think of all that being before you now and still you keep up your mean refusals of the little thing i ask," said the old woman with the pertinacious unreasonableness of age.
"i haven't got the money, marse, god knows i haven't."
"god knows nothing, nan byrne, only your shocking villainy. and 'tis the great sin for you surely. and if god knows this, it is for some one else to know your sin. it is for your son john to know the kind of a mother that he loves and honors."
mrs. brennan had heard this threat on many an occasion yet even now the repetition of it made her grow suddenly pale.... an expression of sickliness was upon her face seen even through the shadowed sewing-room. always this thought had haunted her that some time john might come to know.
"long threatening comes at last!" was a phrase that had always held for her the darkest meaning. she could never listen to any woman make use of it without [pg 283]shuddering violently. marse prendergast had threatened so often and often.
"ah, no, nan byrne, this is something i could never let pass. and all the long days i saw you contriving here at the machine, and you so anxious and attentive, sure i used to be grinning to myself at the thoughts of the bloody fine laugh i'd be having at you some day. i used, that's god's truth!"
it seemed terrible to be told the story of this hate that had been so well hidden, now springing up before her in a withering blast of ingratitude and being borne to her understanding upon such quiet words.... she sighed ever so slightly, and her lips moved gently in the aspiration of a prayer.
"o jesus, mary and joseph!" was what she said.
the pious ejaculation seemed to leap at once towards the accomplishment of a definite purpose, for immediately it had the effect of moving marse prendergast towards the door.
"i'm going now!"
the words were spoken with an even more chilling quietness. mrs. brennan made a noise as if to articulate something, but no words would come from her.
"and let you not be thinking that 'tis only this little thing i'm going to tell him, for there's a whole lot more. i'm going to tell him all i know, all that i didn't tell you through the length of the years, though, god knows, it has been often burning me to tell.... you think, i suppose, as clever as you are, that the child was buried in the garden. well, that's not a fact, nor the color of a fact, for all i've made you afraid of it so often.... grace[pg 284] gogarty had no child of her own for henry shannon. ulick shannon is your own child that was sold be your ould mother for a few pound!"
"that's a lie for you, marse prendergast!"
"'tis no lie at all i'm telling you, but the naked truth. i suppose neither of them lads, ulick nor john, ever guessed the reason why they were so fond of one another, but that was the reason; and 'tis i used to enjoy seeing them together and i knowing it well. isn't it curious now to say that you're the mother of a blackguard and the mother of the makings of a priest?... mebbe you'd give me the little bit of money now? mebbe?"
mrs. brennan did not answer. big tears were rolling down her cheeks one after the other.... her heart had been rent by this sudden flash of information. even the last remaining stronghold of her vanity had been swept away. that she, who had claim in her own estimation to be considered the wise woman of the valley, could not have long since guessed at the existence of a fact so intimate.... her heart was wounded, not unto death, but immortally.... her son! ulick shannon her son! o mother of god!
john brennan was still in his agony as he saw the long-tongued shuiler coming towards him down the road. she was making little journeys into the ditches as she came along. she was gathering material for a fire although every bush was green.... she was always shivering at the fall of night. the appearance of the children had filled him with speculations as to where he might look for some comfort.... could it be derived from the precepts of religion translated into acts of[pg 285] human kindness? momentarily he was confused as he attempted to realize some act of goodness to be done here and now. he was unable to see.
old marse prendergast, coming towards him slowly, was the solitary link connecting his mind with any thought. to him she appeared the poor old woman in need of pity who was gathering green sticks from the hedge-rows to make her a fire which would not kindle. he remembered that morning, now some time distant, when he had helped her carry home a bundle of her sticks on his way from mass. it had appeared to him then, as it did now, a christ-like action, but his mother had rebuked him for it. yet he had always wished his mother to take the place of mary when he tried to snatch some comfort from the gospel story. soon he was by her side speaking as kindly as he could.... great fear was already upon him.
"god bless you, me little johneen, me little son; sure 'tis yourself has the decent, kind heart to be taking pity upon the old. arrah now! you're alone and lonely this evening, i notice, for your friend is gone from you. it bees lonely when one loses one's comrade. ah, 'tis many a year and more since i lost me comrade through the valley of life. since marks prendergast, the good husband of me heart and the father of me children, was lost on me. sure he was murdered on me one st. patrick's day fair in garradrimna. he was ripped open with a knife and left there upon the street in his blood for me to see.... that's the way, that's the way, me sweet gosoon; some die clean and quiet, and some go away in their blood like the way they came."
had she devoted much time and skill to it she could[pg 286] not have produced a more dire effect upon john than by this accidental turn of her talk.... the scene by the lakeside swam clearly into his eyes again.
"i suppose your good comrade is gone away?"
"whom, what?"
"ulick shannon, to be sure. i suppose he's after slipping away be this time anyway."
"aye, he's gone away."
"that was what you might call the nice lad. and it was no wonder at all that you were so much attached to one another. never a bit of wonder at all.... sure you were like brothers."
john was so solicitous in maintaining his silence that he did not notice the old woman's terrible sententiousness.... he went on pulling green sticks from the hedge and placing them very carefully by the side of those she had already gathered.
"just like brothers. that's what ye were, just like brothers. he, he, he!"
although he did not detect the note of laughter in it that was hollow and a mockery, he was nevertheless appalled by what should appear as a commendation of him who was gone.... he felt himself shaking even as the leaves in the hedgerows were being shaken by the light wind of evening.
"like brothers, avic machree."
even still he did not reply.
"like brothers, i say, and that's the whole story. for ye were brothers. at least you were of the one blood, because ye had the same woman for the mother of ye both."
certainly she was raving, but her words were having[pg 287] an unusual effect upon him. he was keeping closer to the hedge as if trying to hide his face.
"to-night, me fine gosoon, i'm going to do a terrible thing. i'm going to tell you who your mother is, and then you'll know a quare story. you'll know that ulick shannon, good luck to him wherever he's gone, was nothing less than your own brother.... it is she that is after forcing me on to it be her penurious and miserly ways. i didn't want to tell ye, john! i say, i didn't want to tell ye!"
her old, cracked voice trailed away into a high screech. john brennan was like a man stunned by a blow as he waited for her to speak the rest of the story.
"ulick shannon's father, henry shannon, was the one your mother loved. she never cared for your father, nor he for her. so you might say you are no love child. but there was a love child in it to be sure, and that child was ulick shannon. your mother was his mother. he was born out of wedlock surely, but he happened handy, and was put in the place of grace gogarty's child that died and it a weeshy, young thing.... it was your grandmother that sold him, god forgive her, if you want to know, for i was watching the deed being done.... your mother always thought the bastard was murdered in the house and buried in the garden. i used to be forever tormenting her by making her think that only it was me could tell. there was no one knew it for certain in the whole world, only me and them that were dead and gone. so your mother could not have found out from any one but me, and she might never have found out only for the way she used to be refusing me of me little dues.... but i can tell you that she found[pg 288] out this evening how she was the mother of ulick shannon, and that you, the beloved son she cherished in her heart and put on in all her pride to be a priest of god, was a near blood relation of the boy she was never done but running down. the boy that she, above all others, with her prate and gab made a drunkard of in the first place, and then rushed on, be always talking of the like about him, to do great harm to this girl. but sure it was myself that could not blame him at all, for it was in him both ways, the poor, unfortunate gosoon!"
there was no reason to doubt the old shuiler's story, with such passionate vehemence did it fall from her. and its coherence was very convincing. it struck him as a greater blow which almost obliterated his understanding. in the first moment he could stand apart from it and look even blindly it appeared as the swift descent of divine vengeance upon him for what he had just done.... he moved away, his mind a bursting tumult, and without a sight in his eyes.... the mocking laughter of marse prendergast rang in his ears. now why was she laughing at him when it was his mother who was her enemy?
he was walking, but the action was almost unnoticed by him. he was moving aimlessly within the dark, encircling shadow of his doom.... yet he saw that he was not far distant from garradrimna.... the last time he had been there at the period of the day he had been in company with ulick shannon. it was what had sprung out of those comings together that was now responsible for this red ending.... he remembered also how the port wine had lifted him out of himself and[pg 289] helped him to see rebecca kerr.... the windows were squinting through the gloom as he went the road.
there was stronger drink in garradrimna and pubs. of greater intensity than mcdermott's. there was "the world's end," for instance, that tavern so fantastically named by the hon. reginald moore in memory of an inn of the same name that had struck his fancy in england.... the title now seemed particularly appropriate.
it was towards this place his feet were moving. in another spell of thought which surprised him by the precaution it exhibited, he remembered that his father would not be there; for, although it had been ned brennan's famous haunt aforetime, he had been long ago forbidden its doors. it was in this, one of the seven places of degradation in garradrimna, he was now due to appear.
he went very timidly up to the back-door, which opened upon a little, secluded passage. he ordered a glass of whiskey from the greasy barmaid who came to attend him.... he felt for the money so carefully wrapped in tissue-paper in his waistcoat pocket. it was a bright gold sovereign that his mother had given him on the first day of his course at ballinamult college to keep against any time he might be called upon to show off the fact that he was a gentleman. as he unfolded it now, from the careful covering in which she had wrapped it, it seemed to put on a tragic significance.... he was fearfully anxious to be in the condition that had brought him his vision on the night he had slept by the lake.
he drank the whiskey at one gulp, and it seemed a long time until the barmaid returned with the change. sovereigns were marvels of rare appearance at "the[pg 290] world's end." he thanked her and called for another, paying her as she went. she was remarkably mannerly, for, in the narrow gloom of the place, she took him to be some rich stranger. she had seen the color of his money and liked it well.
the whiskey seemed to possess magical powers. it rapidly restored him to a mood wherein the distress that was his might soon appear a small thing. yet he grew restless with the urgency that was upon him and glanced around in search of a distraction for his galloping brain.... he bent down and peered through the little aperture which opened upon the public bar of "the world's end." in there he saw a man in a heated atmosphere and enveloped by dense clouds of tobacco-smoke. they were those who had come in the roads to forget their sweat and labor in the black joy of porter. theirs was a part of the tragedy of the fields, but it was a meaner tragedy. yet were they suddenly akin to him.... through the lugubrious expression on their dark faces a sudden light was shining. it was the light as if of some ecstasy. a desire fell upon him to enter into their dream, whatever it might be.... in the wild whirl that the whiskey had whipped up in his brain there now came a sudden lull. it was a lull after a great crescendo, as in beethoven's music.... he was hearing, with extraordinary clearness, what they were saying. they were speaking of the case of ulick shannon and rebecca kerr. these names were linked inseparably and were going hand in hand down all the byeways of their talk.... they were sure and certain that he had gone away. there was not a sign of him in garradrimna this evening. that put the cap on his[pg 291] guilt surely. wasn't she the grand whipster, and she supposed to be showing a good example and teaching religion to the childer? a nice one to have in the parish indeed! it was easy knowing from the beginning what she was and the fellow she struck up with—henry shannon's son. wasn't that enough for you? henry shannon, who was the best blackguard of his time!... just inside, and very near to john, a knot of men were discussing the more striking aspects of the powerful scandal.... they were recounting, with minute detail, the story of nan byrne.... wasn't it the strangest thing now how she had managed more or less to live it down? but people would remember it all again in the light of this thing. what ulick shannon had done now would make people think of what his father had done, and then they must needs remember her.... and to think that no one ever knew rightly what had become of the child. some there were who would tell you that her sister, bridget mulvey, and her mother, abigail byrne, buried it in the garden, and there were those who would tell you that it was living somewhere at the present time.... her son john was not a bad sort, but wasn't it the greatest crime for her to put him on to be a priest after what had happened to her, and surely no good could come of it?... and why wouldn't ned brennan know of it, and wasn't it that and nothing else that had made him the ruined wreck of a man he was? sure he'd never done a day's good since the night larry cully had lashed out the whole story for his benefit. and wasn't it quite possible that some one would be bad enough to tell john himself some time, or the ecclesiastical authorities? what about the mee-aw that had [pg 292]happened to him in the grand college in england that so much had been heard of? and there was sure to be something else happening before he was through the college at ballinamult. a priest, how are ye?
the whiskey had gone to his head, but, as he listened, john brennan felt himself grow more sober than he had ever before been.... so this was the supplement to the story he had heard a while ago. and now that he knew the whole story he began to tremble. continually flashing across his mind were the words of the man who was dead and silent at the bottom of the lake—"you could never know a woman, you could never trust her; you could not even trust your own mother." this was a hard thing for any man at all to have said in his lifetime, and yet how full of grim, sad truth did it now appear?... the kind forgetfulness of his choking bitterness that he had so passionately longed for would not come to him.... the dregs of his heart were beginning to turn again towards thoughts of magnanimity as they had already done in the first, clear spell of thought after his deed. he had then gone to gather sticks for the old woman, a kind thing, as jesus might have done in nazareth.... the change of the sovereign was in his hand and his impulse was strong upon him. he could not resist. it seemed as if a strong magnet was pulling a light piece of steel.... he had walked into the public bar of "the world's end." around him was a sea of faces, laughing, sneering, drinking, sweating, swearing, spitting. he was calling for a drink for himself and a round for the shop.... now the sea of faces was becoming as one face. and there was a look upon it which seemed made up of incredulity and [pg 293]contempt.... this was replaced by a different look when the pints were in their hands.... they were saying: "good health, mr. brennan!" with a sneer in their tones and a smile of flattery upon those lips which had just now been vomiting out the slime of their minds.
there was another and yet another round. as long as he could remain on his feet he remained standing drinks to them. there was a longing upon him to be doing this thing. and beyond it was the guiding desire to be rid of every penny of the sovereign his mother had given him to help him appear as a gentleman if he met company.... now it seemed to soil him, coming as it did from her. curious that feeling after all she had done for him, and she his mother. but it would not leave him.
the drink he had bought was fast trickling down the many throats that were burning to receive it. the rumor of his prodigality was spreading abroad through garradrimna, and men had gone into the highways and the byeways to call their friends to the banquet. two tramps on their way to the workhouse had heard of it and were already deep in their pints. upon john's right hand, arrived as if by magic, stood shamesy golliher, and upon his left the famous figure of padna padna, who was looking up into his face with admiration and brightness striving hard to replace the stare of vacancy in the dimming eyes. as he drank feverishly, fearful of losing any, shamesy golliher continuously ejaculated: "me sweet fellow, john! me sweet fellow!" and padna padna kept speaking to himself of the grand thing it was that there was one decent fellow left in the world, even if he was only nan byrne's[pg 294] son. around john brennan was a hum of flattery essentially in the same vein.... and it seemed to him that, in his own mind, he had soared far beyond them.... outwardly he was drunk, but inwardly he knew himself to be very near that rapture which would bring thoughts of rebecca as he staggered home alone along the dark road.
the companions of his bacchic night had begun to drift away from him. ten o'clock was on the point of striking, and he was in such a condition that he might be upon their hands at any moment. they did not want walter clinton, the proprietor of "the world's end," to be giving any of them the job of taking him home. the hour struck and the remnant went charging through the doorways like sheep through a gap. shamesy golliher limped out, leading padna padna by the hand, as if the ancient man had suddenly become metamorphosed into his second childishness.... "the bloody-looking idiot!" they were all sniggering to one another. "wasn't it a hell of a pity that ned brennan, his father, and he always bowseying for drink in mcdermott's and brannagan's, wasn't in 'the world's end' to-night?"
john was alone amidst the dregs of the feast. where the spilt drink was shining on the counter there was such a sight of glasses as he had never before seen. there were empty glasses and glasses still standing with half their drink in them, and glasses in which the porter had not been touched so drunk had everybody been.
walter clinton came in indignantly and said that it was a shame for him to be in such a state, and to go home out of that at once before the peelers got a hold[pg 295] of him.... and he went out with difficulty and down the old road of the elms towards his mother's house in the valley. he could hear the hurrying, heavy feet of those he had entertained so lavishly far down before him on the road.... for the moment he was happy. before his burning eyes was the form of rebecca kerr. her face had a look of quiet loveliness. he thought it was like the faces of the madonnas in father o'keeffe's parlor.... "rebecca! rebecca!" he called to her ever in the agony of his love. "thy hands, dear rebecca!" ... she was not soiled now by any earthly sin, for he had purified her through the miracle of blood. and she was clean like the night wind.
he was a pitiable sight as he went staggering on, crying out this ruined girl's name to the night silence of the lonely places.... at last he fell somewhere in the soft, dewy grass. for a long while he remained here—until he began to realize that his vision was passing with the decline within him of the flame by which it had been created. the winds upon his face and hair were cold, and it seemed that he was lying in a damp place. his eyes sprang open.... he was lying by the lakeside and at the place where he had murdered ulick shannon.
he jumped up of a sudden, for his fear had come back to him. with his mouth wide open and a clammy sweat upon his brow, he started to run across what seemed a never-ending grassy space.... he broke madly through fences of thorn and barbed wire, which tore his clothes and his hands. he stumbled across fields of tillage.... at last, with every limb shivering, he came near his mother's door.... presently he grew[pg 296] coldly conscious.... he could hear his father muttering drunkenly within. he came nearer, striving hard to steady himself and walk erect. he quickened his step to further maintain his pretense of sobriety. his foot tripped against something, and he lurched forward. he was caught in his mother's arms, for, at the sound of his approach, she had opened the door in resigned and mournful expectation.
"o jesus!" she said.
there were two of them now.
