At tea-time Mrs. Brennan was still talking to John of the girl who was coming to the valley. Outside the day was still full of the calm glory of summer. He went to the window and looked down upon the clean, blue stretch of the little lake.... He had grown weary of his mother's talk. What possible interest could he have in this unknown girl? He took a book from a parcel on the table. With this volume in his hand and reading it, as he might his breviary at some future time, he went out and down towards the lake. On his way, he met a few men moving to and from their tasks in the fields. He bade them the time of day and spoke about the beauty of the afternoon. As they replied, a curious kind of smile played around their lips, and there was not one who failed to notice his enviable condition of idleness.
"Indeed 'tis you that has the fine times!" "Indeed you might say 'tis you that has the fine times!" "Now isn't the learning the grand thing, to say that when you have it in your head you need never do a turn with your hands?"
Their petty comments had the effect of filling him with a distracting sense of irritation, and it was some time before he could pick up any continued interest in the book. It was the story of a young priest, such as he might expect to be in a few years. Suddenly it [Pg 56]appeared remarkable that he should be reading this foreshadowing of his future. That he should be seeing himself with all his ideas translated into reality and his training changed into the work for which he had been trained. Strange that this thought should have come into his mind with smashing force here now and at this very time. Hitherto his future had appeared as a thing apart from him, but now it seemed intimately bound up with everything he could possibly do.
He began to see very clearly for the first time the reason for his mother's anxiety to keep him apart from the life of the valley. Did it spring directly from her love for him, or was it merely selfish and contributory to her pride? The whole burden of her talk showed clearly that she was a proud woman. He could never come to have her way of looking at things, and so he now felt that if he became a priest it was she and not himself who would have triumphed.... He was still reading the book, but it was in a confused way and with little attention. The threads of the story had become entangled somehow with the threads of his own story.... Occasionally his own personality would cease to dominate it, and the lonely woman in the cottage, his mother sitting in silence at her machine, would become the principal character.... The hours went past him as he pondered.
The evening shadows had begun to steal down from the hills. The western sky was like the color of a golden chalice. Men were coming home weary from the labor of the fields; cows were moving towards field gates with wise looks in their eyes to await the milking; the young calves were lowing for their evening meal. The quiet[Pg 57] fir trees, which had slept all through the day, now seemed to think of some forgotten trust and were like vigilant sentries all down through the valley of Tullahanogue.
Suddenly the eyes of John Brennan were held by a splendid picture. The sweep of the Hill of Annus lay outlined in all the wonder of its curve, and, on the ridge of it, moving with humped body, was Shamesy Golliher, the most famous drunkard of the valley. He passed like a figure of destruction above the valley against the sunset. John smiled, for he remembered him and his habits, as both were known far and wide. He was now going towards a certain wood where the rabbits were plentiful. His snares were set there. The thin, pitiful cry of the entrapped creature now split the stillness, and the man upon the sweep of the world began to move with a more determined stride.... John Brennan, his mind quickening towards remembrance of incidents of his boyhood, knew that the cunning of Shamesy Golliher had triumphed over the cunning of the rabbits. Their hot little eager bodies must soon be sold for eightpence apiece and the money spent on porter in Garradrimna. It was strange to think of this being the ultimate fate of the rabbits that had once frisked so innocently over the green spaces of the woods.... He listened, with a slight turn of regret stirring him, until the last squeal had been absorbed by the stillness. Then he arose and prepared to move away from the lake. He was being filled by a deadly feeling of sadness. Hitherto the continuous adventure of adolescence had sustained him, but now he was a man and thinking of his future.
[Pg 58]
On his way across the sweep of the hill he encountered Shamesy Golliher. The famous drunkard was laden with the rabbits he had just taken from the snares. The strength of his thirst had also begun to attack him, so that by reason of both defects his legs now bent under him weakly as he walked. Yet his attitude did not suggest defeat, for he had never failed to maintain his reputation in the valley. He was the local bard, the satiric poet of the neighborhood. He was the only inhabitant of the valley who continually did what he pleased, for he throve within the traditional Gaelic dread of satire. No matter how he debased himself no man or woman dared talk of it for fear they might be made the subject of a song to be ranted in the taprooms of Garradrimna. And he was not one to respect the feelings of those whom he put into his rimes, for all of them were conceived in a mood of ribald and malignant glee.
"Me sound man John, how are ye?" he said, extending a white, nervous hand.
"I'm very well, thanks; and how are you, Shamesy?"
"Ah, just only middling. I don't look the very best. You'll excuse me not being shaved. But that's on account of the neuralgia. God blast it! it has me near killed. It has the nerves destroyed on me. Look at me hand." ... It was the idiosyncrasy of Shamesy Golliher to assert that drink was no part of his life.
Immediately he dropped into his accustomed vein. He gazed down the Hill of Annus and found material for his tongue. There were the daughters of Hughie Murtagh. They had no brother, and were helping their father in the fields.
[Pg 59]
"Them's the men, them's the men!" said Shamesy, "though glory be to God! 'twill be the hard case with them when they come to be married, for sure you wouldn't like to marry a man, now would you? And for pity's sake will you............