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diff --git a/13472-h/13472-h.htm b/13472-h/13472-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e934fa6 --- /dev/null +++ b/13472-h/13472-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4438 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Waysiders, by Seumas O'Kelly</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + HR { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .note {margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} /* footnote */ + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-left: 1em; font-size: smaller; float: right; clear: right;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + .poem .caesura {vertical-align: -200%;} + hr.full { width: 100%; + height: 5px; } + a:link {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:#ff0000} + pre {font-size: 8pt;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13472 ***</div> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Waysiders, by Seumas O'Kelly</h1> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<hr class="full" noshade> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<h1>WAYSIDERS</h1> + +<h2>STORIES OF CONNACHT</h2> + +<h3>By</h3> + +<h2>SEUMAS O'KELLY</h2> + +<h4><i>Author of "The Shuiler's Child," "The Lady of Deerpark," +"The Bribe," &c.</i></h4> + +<h3>NEW YORK</h3> + +<h4>MCMXVIII</h4> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='Contents'></a> +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<font size="+1"> <b><a href='#THE_CAN_WITH_THE_DIAMOND_NOTCH'>The Can with the +Diamond Notch</a> <br> + <a href='#BOTH_SIDES_OF_THE_POND'>Both Sides of the Pond</a> +<br> + <a href='#THE_WHITE_GOAT'>The White Goat</a><br> + <a href='#THE_SICK_CALL'>The Sick Call</a> <br> + <a href='#THE_SHOEMAKER'>The Shoemaker</a> <br> + <a href='#THE_RECTOR'>The Rector</a><br> + <a href='#THE_HOME_COMING'>The Home-coming</a> <br> + <a href='#A_WAYSIDE_BURIAL'>A Wayside Burial</a> <br> + <a href='#THE_GRAY_LAKE'>The Gray Lake</a> <br> + <a href='#THE_BUILDING'>The Building</a> <br> +</b></font> <!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='THE_CAN_WITH_THE_DIAMOND_NOTCH'></a> + +<br><br> +<h2>THE CAN WITH THE DIAMOND NOTCH</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>[Illustration: <i>Festus Clasby</i>]</p> + +<br> + + +<p>The name stood out in chaste white letters from the black +background of the signboard. Indeed the name might be said to +spring from the landscape, for this shop jumped from its rural +setting with an air of aggression. It was a commercial oasis on a +desert of grass. It proclaimed the clash of two civilisations. +There were the hills, pitched round it like the galleries of some +vast amphitheatre, rising tier upon tier to the blue of the sky. +There was the yellow road, fantastic in its frolic down to the +valley. And at one of its wayward curves was the shop, the shop of +Festus Clasby, a foreign growth upon the landscape, its one long +window crowded with sombre merchandise, its air that of +established, cob-web respectability.</p> + +<p>Inside the shop was Festus Clasby himself, like some great +masterpiece in its ancient frame. He was the product of the two +civilisations, a charioteer who drove the two fiery steeds of +Agricolo and Trade with a hand of authority. He was a man of lands +and of shops. His dark face, framed in darker hair and beard, was +massive and square. Behind the luxurious growth of hair the rich +blood glowed on the clear skin. His chest had breadth, his limbs +were great, showing girth at the hips and power at the calves. His +eyes were large and dark, smouldering in soft velvety tones. The +nose was long, the nostrils expressive of a certain animalism, the +mouth looked eloquent. His voice was low, of an agreeable even +quality, floating over the boxes and barrels of his shop like a +chant. His words never jarred, his views were vaguely comforting, +based on accepted conventions, expressed in round, soft, lulling +platitudes. His manner was serious, his movements deliberate, the +great bulk of the shoulders looming up in unconscious but dramatic +poses in the curiously uneven lighting of the shop. His hands gave +the impression of slowness and a moderate skill; they could make up +a parcel on the counter without leaving ugly laps; they could +perform a minor surgical operation on a beast in the fields without +degenerating to butchery; and they would always be doing something, +even if it were only rolling up a ball of twine. His clothes exuded +a faint suggestion of cinnamon, nutmeg and caraway seeds.</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby would have looked the part in any notorious +position in life; his shoulders would have carried with dignity the +golden chain of office of the mayoralty of a considerable city; he +would have looked a perfect chairman of a jury at a Coroner's +inquest; as the Head of a pious Guild in a church he might almost +be confused with the figures of the stained glass windows; marching +at the head of a brass band he would symbolise the conquering hero; +as an undertaker he would have reconciled one to death. There was +no technical trust which men would not have reposed in him, so +perfectly was he wrought as a human casket. As it was, Festus +Clasby filled the most fatal of all occupations to dignity without +losing his tremendous illusion of respectability. The hands which +cut the bacon and the tobacco, turned the taps over pint measures, +scooped bran and flour into scales, took herrings out of their +barrels, rolled up sugarsticks in shreds of paper for children, +were hands whose movements the eyes of no saucy customer dared +follow with a gleam of suspicion. Not once in a lifetime was that +casket tarnished; the nearest he ever went to it was when he bought +up—very cheaply, as was his custom—a broken man's +insurance policy a day after the law made such a practice illegal. +There was no haggling at Festus Clasby's counter. There was only +conversation, agreeable conversation about things which Festus +Clasby did not sell, such as the weather, the diseases of animals, +the results of races, and the scandals of the Royal Families of +Europe. These conversations were not hurried or yet protracted. +They came to a happy ending at much the same moment as Festus +Clasby made the knot on the twine of your parcel. But to stand in +the devotional lights in front of his counter, wedged in between +divisions and subdivisions of his boxes and barrels, and to scent +the good scents which exhaled from his shelves, and to get served +by Festus Clasby in person, was to feel that you had been indeed +served.</p> + +<p>The small farmers and herds and the hardy little dark mountainy +men had this reverential feeling about the good man and his shop. +They approached the establishment as holy pilgrims might approach a +shrine. They stood at his counter with the air of devotees. Festus +Clasby waited on them with patience and benignity. He might be some +warm-blooded god handing gifts out over the counter. When he +brought forth his great account book and entered up their purchases +with a carpenter's pencil—having first moistened the tip of +it with his flexible lips—they had strongly, deep down in +their souls, the conviction that they were then and for all time +debtors to Festus Clasby. Which, indeed and in truth, they were. +From year's end to year's end their accounts remained in that book; +in the course of their lives various figures rose and faded after +their names, recording the ups and downs of their financial +histories. It was only when Festus Clasby had supplied the +materials for their wakes that the great pencil, with one mighty +stroke of terrible finality, ran like a sword through their names, +wiping their very memories from the hillsides. All purchases were +entered up in Festus Clasby's mighty record without vulgar +discussions as to price. The business of the establishment was +conducted on the basis of a belief in the man who sold and +acquiescence in that belief on the part of the man who purchased. +The customers of Festus Clasby would as soon have thought of +questioning his prices as they would of questioning the right of +the earth to revolve round the sun. Festus Clasby was the planet +around which this constellation of small farmers, herds, and hardy +little dark mountainy men revolved; from his shop they drew the +light and heat and food which kept them going. Their very emotions +were registered at his counter. To the man with a religious turn he +was able, at a price, to hand down from his shelves the <i>Key of +Heaven</i>; the other side of the box he comforted the man who came +panting to his taps to drown the memory of some chronic +impertinence. He gave a very long credit, and a very long credit, +in his philosophy, justified a very, very long profit. As to +security, if Festus Clasby's customers had not a great deal of +money they had grass which grew every year, and the beasts which +Festus Clasby fattened and sold at the fairs had sometimes to eat +his debtors out of his book. If his bullocks were not able to do +even this, then Festus Clasby talked to the small farmer about a +mortgage on the land, so that now and again small farmers became +herds for Festus Clasby. In this way was he able to maintain his +position with his back to the hills and his toes in the valley, +striding his territory like a Colossus. When you saw his name on +the signboard standing stark from the landscape, and when you saw +Festus Clasby behind his counter, you knew instinctively that both +had always stood for at least twenty shillings in the pound.</p> + +<br> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Now, it came to pass that on a certain day Festus Clasby was +passing through the outskirts of the nearest country town on his +homeward journey, his cart laden with provisions. At the same +moment the spare figure of a tinker whose name was Mac-an-Ward, the +Son of the Bard, veered around the corner of a street with a new +tin can under his arm. It was the Can with the Diamond Notch.</p> + +<p>Mac-an-Ward approached Festus Clasby, who pulled up his +cart.</p> + +<p>"Well, my good man?" queried Festus Clasby, a phrase usually +addressed across his counter, his hands outspread, to longstanding +customers.</p> + +<p>"The last of a rare lot," said Mac-an-Ward, deftly poising the +tin can on the top of his fingers, so that it stood level with +Festus Clasby's great face. Festus Clasby took this as a business +proposition, and the soul of the trader revolved within him. Why +not buy the tin can from this tinker and sell it at a profit across +his counter, even as he would sell the flitches of bacon that were +wrapped in sacking upon his cart? He was in mellow mood, and laid +down the reins in the cart beside him.</p> + +<p>"And so she is the last?" he said, eyeing the tin can.</p> + +<p>"She is the Can with the Diamond Notch."</p> + +<p>"Odds and ends go cheap," said Festus Clasby.</p> + +<p>"She is the last, but the flower of the flock."</p> + +<p>"Remnants must go as bargains or else remain as remnants."</p> + +<p>"My wallet!" protested Mac-an-Ward, "you wound me. Don't speak +as if I picked it off a scrap heap."</p> + +<p>"I will not, but I will say that, being a tail end and an odd +one, it must go at a sacrifice."</p> + +<p>The Son of the Bard tapped the side of the can gently with his +knuckles.</p> + +<p>"Listen to him, the hard man from the country! He has no regard +for my feelings. I had the soldering iron in my hand in face of it +before the larks stirred this morning. I had my back to the East, +but through the bottom of that can there I saw the sun rise in its +glory. The brightness of it is as the harvest moon."</p> + +<p>"I don't want it for its brightness."</p> + +<p>"Dear heart, listen to the man who would not have brightness. He +would pluck the light from the moon, quench the heat in the heart +of the sun. He would draw a screen across the aurora borealis and +paint out the rainbow with lamp black. He might do such things, but +he cannot deny the brightness of this can. Look upon it! When the +world is coming to an end it will shine up at the sky and it will +say: 'Ah, where are all the great stars now that made a boast of +their brightness?' And there will be no star left to answer. They +will all be dead things in the heaven, buried in the forgotten +graves of the skies."</p> + +<p>"Don't mind the skies. Let me see if there may not be a leakage +in it." Festus Clasby held up the can between his handsome face and +the bright sky.</p> + +<p>"Leakages!" exclaimed Mac-an-Ward. "A leakage in a can that I +soldered as if with my own heart's blood. Holy Kilcock, what a mind +has this man from the country! He sees no value in its brightness; +now he will tell me that there is no virtue in its music."</p> + +<p>"I like music," said Festus Clasby. "No fiddler has ever stood +at my door but had the good word to say of me. Not one of them +could ever say that he went thirsty from my counter."</p> + +<p>Said the Son of the Bard: "Fiddlers, what are fiddlers? What +sound have they like the music of the sweet milk going into that +can from the yellow teats of the red cow? Morning and evening there +will be a hymn played upon it in the haggard. Was not the finest +song ever made called <i>Cailin deas crúidhte na mbo</i>? +Music! Do you think that the water in the holy well will not +improve in its sparkle to have such a can as this dipped into it? +It will be welcome everywhere for its clearness and its cleanness. +Heavenly Father, look at the manner in which I rounded the edge of +that can with the clippers! Cut clean and clever, soldered at the +dawn of day, the dew falling upon the hands that moulded it, the +parings scattered about my feet like jewels. And now you would +bargain over it. I will not sell it to you at all. I will put it in +a holy shrine."</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby turned the can over in his hands, a little +bewildered. "It looks an ordinary can enough," he said.</p> + +<p>"It is the Can with the Diamond Notch," declared +Mac-an-Ward.</p> + +<p>"Would it be worth a shilling now?"</p> + +<p>"He puts a price upon it! It is blasphemy. The man has no +religion; he will lose his soul. The devils will have him by the +heels. They will tear his red soul through the roof. Give me the +can; don't hold it in those hands any longer. They are coarse; the +hair is standing about the purple knuckles like stubbles in an +ill-cut meadow. That can was made for the hands of a delicate woman +or for the angels that carry water to the Court of Heaven. I saw it +in a vision the night before I made it; it was on the head of a +maiden with golden hair. Her feet were bare and like shells. She +walked across a field where daisies rose out of young grass; she +had the can resting on her head like one coming from the milking. +So I rose up then and said, 'Now, I will make a can fit for this +maiden's head.' And I made it out of the rising sun and the falling +dew. And now you ask me if it is worth a shilling."</p> + +<p>"For all your talk, it is only made of tin, and not such good +tin."</p> + +<p>"Not good tin! I held it in my hand in the piece before ever the +clippers was laid upon it. I bent it and it curved, supple as a +young snake. I shook it, and the ripples ran down the length of it +like silver waves in a little lake. The strength of the ages was in +its voice. It has gathered its power in the womb of the earth. It +was smelted from the precious metal taken from the mines of the +Peninsula of Malacca, and it will have its gleam when the sparkle +of the diamond is spent."</p> + +<p>"I'll give you a shilling for it, and hold your tongue."</p> + +<p>"No! I will not have it on my conscience. God is my judge, I +will break it up first. I will cut it into pieces. From one of them +will yet be made a breastplate, and in time to come it will be +nailed to your own coffin, with your name and your age and the date +of your death painted upon it. And when the paint is faded upon it +it will shine over the dust of the bone of your breast. It will be +dug up and preserved when all graveyards are abolished. They will +say, 'We will keep this breastplate, for who knows but that it bore +the name of the man who refused to buy the Can with the Diamond +Notch.'"</p> + +<p>"How much will you take for it?"</p> + +<p>"Now you are respectful. Let me put a price upon it, for it was +I who fashioned it into this shape. It will hold three gallons and +a half from now until the time that swallows wear shoes. But for +all that I will part with it, because I am poor and hungry and have +a delicate wife. It breaks my heart to say it, but pay into my +hands two shillings and it is yours. Pay quickly or I may repent. +It galls me to part with it; in your charity pay quickly and +begone."</p> + +<p>"I will not. I will give you one-and-six."</p> + +<p>"Assassin! You stab me. What a mind you have! Look at the greed +of your eyes; they would devour the grass of the fields from this +place up to the Devil's Bit. You would lock up the air and sell it +in gasping breaths. You are disgusting. But give me the one-and-six +and to Connacht with you! I am damning my soul standing beside you +and your cart, smelling its contents. How can a man talk with the +smell of fat bacon going between him and the wind? One-and-six and +the dew that fell at the making hardly dry upon my hands yet. +Farewell, a long farewell, my Shining One; we may never meet +again."</p> + +<p>The shawl of Mac-an-Ward's wife had been blowing around the +near-by corner while this discussion had been in progress. It +flapped against the wall in the wind like a loose sail in the +rigging. The head of the woman herself came gradually into view, +one eye spying around the masonry, half-closing as it measured the +comfortable proportions of Festus Clasby seated upon his cart. As +the one-and-six was counted out penny by penny into the palm of the +brown hand of the Son of the Bard, the figure of his wife floated +out on the open road, tossing and tacking and undecided in its +direction to the eye of those who understood not the language of +gestures and motions. By a series of giddy evolutions she arrived +at the cart as the last of the coppers was counted out.</p> + +<p>"I have parted with my inheritance," said Mac-an-Ward. "I have +sold my soul and the angels have folded their wings, weeping."</p> + +<p>"In other words, I have bought a tin can," said Festus Clasby, +and his frame and the entire cart shook with his chuckling.</p> + +<p>The tinker's wife chuckled with him in harmony. Then she reached +out her hand with a gesture that claimed a sympathetic examination +of the purchase. Festus Clasby hesitated, looking into the eyes of +the woman. Was she to be trusted? Her eyes were clear, grey, and +open, almost babyish in their rounded innocence. Festus Clasby +handed her the tin can, and she examined it slowly.</p> + +<p>"Who sold you the Can with the Diamond Notch?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"The man standing by your side."</p> + +<p>"He has wronged you. The can is not his."</p> + +<p>"He says he made it."</p> + +<p>"Liar! He never curved it in the piece."</p> + +<p>"I don't much care whether he did or not. It is mine now, +anyhow."</p> + +<p>"It is my brother's can. No other hand made it. Look! Do you see +this notch on the piece of sheet iron where the handle is fastened +to the sides?"</p> + +<p>"I do."</p> + +<p>"Is it not shaped like a diamond?"</p> + +<p>"It is."</p> + +<p>"By that mark I identify it. My brother cuts that diamond-shaped +notch in all the work he puts out from his hands. It is his private +mark. The shopkeepers have knowledge of it. There is a value on the +cans with that notch shaped like a diamond. This man here makes +cans when he is not drunk, but the notch to them is square. The +shopkeepers have knowledge of them, too, for they do not last. The +handles fall out of them. He has never given his time to the art, +and so does not know how to rivet them."</p> + +<p>"She vilifies me," said Mac-an-Ward, <i>sotto voce</i>.</p> + +<p>"Then I am glad he has not sold me one of his own," said Festus +Clasby. "I have a fancy for the lasting article."</p> + +<p>"You may be able to buy it yet," said the woman. "My brother is +lying sick of the fever, and I have his right to sell the Cans with +the Diamond Notch on the handles where they are riveted."</p> + +<p>"But I have bought it already."</p> + +<p>"This man," said the damsel, in a tone which discounted the +husband, "had no right to sell it. If it is not his property, but +the property of my brother, won't you say that he nor no other man +has a right to sell it?"</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby felt puzzled. He was unaccustomed to dealing with +people who raised questions of title. His black brows knit.</p> + +<p>"How can a man who doesn't own a thing sell a thing?" she +persisted. "Is it a habit of yours to sell that which you do not +own?"</p> + +<p>"It is not," Festus Clasby said, feeling that an assault had +been wantonly made on his integrity as a trader. "No one could ever +say that of me. Honest value was ever my motto."</p> + +<p>"And the motto of my brother who is sick with the fever. I will +go to him and say, 'I met the most respectable-looking man in all +Europe, who put a value on your can because of the diamond notch.' +I will pay into his hands the one-and-six which is its price."</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby had, when taken out of his own peculiar province, +a heavy mind, and the type of mind that will range along +side-issues and get lost in them if they are raised often enough +and long enough. The diamond notch on the handle, the brother who +was sick of the fever, the alleged non-title of Mac-an-Ward, the +interposition of the woman, the cans with the handles which fall +out, and the cans with the handles which do not fall out, the +equity of selling that which does not belong to you—all these +things chased each other across Festus Clasby's mind. The Son of +the Bard stood silent by the cart, looking away down the road with +a pensive look on his long, narrow face.</p> + +<p>"Pay me the one-and-six to put into the hands of my brother," +the woman said.</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby's mind was brought back at once to his pocket. +"No," he said, "but this man can give you my money to pay into the +hand of your brother."</p> + +<p>"This man," she said airily, "has no interest for me. Whatever +took place between the two of you in regard to my brother's can I +will have nothing to say to."</p> + +<p>"Then if you won't," said Festus Clasby, "I will have nothing to +do with you. If he had no right to the can you can put the police +on to him; that's what police are for."</p> + +<p>"And upon you," the woman added. "The police are also for +that."</p> + +<p>"Upon me?" Festus Clasby exclaimed, his chest swelling. "My name +has never crossed the mind of a policeman, except, maybe, for what +he might owe me at the end of the month for pigs' heads. I never +stood in the shadow of the law. And to this man standing by your +side I have nothing to say."</p> + +<p>"You have. You bought from him that which did not belong to him. +You received, and the receiver is as bad as the rogue. So the law +has it. The shadow of the law is great."</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby came down from his cart, his face troubled. "I am +not used to this," he said.</p> + +<p>"You are a handsome man, a man thought well of. You have great +provisions upon your cart. This man has nothing but the unwashed +shirt which hangs on his slack back. It will not become you to +march handcuffed with his like, going between two policemen to the +bridewell."</p> + +<p>"What are you saying of me, woman?"</p> + +<p>"It will be no token of business to see your cart and the +provisions it contains driven into the yard of the barracks. All +the people of this town will see it, for they have many eyes. The +people of trade will be coming to their doors, speaking of it. 'A +man's property was molested,' they will say. 'What property?' will +be asked. 'The Can with the Diamond Notch,' they will answer; 'the +man of substance conspired with the thief to make away with it.' +These are the words that will be spoken in the streets."</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby set great store on his name, the name he had got +painted for the eye of the country over his door.</p> + +<p>"I will be known to the police as one extensive in my dealings," +he said. "They will not couple me with this man who is known as one +living outside of the law."</p> + +<p>"It is not for the Peelers to put the honest man on one side and +the thief on the other. That will be for the court. You will stand +with him upon my charge. The Peelers will say to you, 'We know you +to be a man of great worth, and the law will uphold you.' But the +law is slow, and a man's good name goes fast.'"</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby fingered his money in his pocket, and the touch of +it made him struggle. "The can may be this man's for all I know. +You have no brother, and I believe you to be a fraud."</p> + +<p>"That, too, will be for the law to decide. If I have a brother, +the law will produce him when his fever is ended. If I have no +brother the law will so declare it. If my brother makes a Can with +the Diamond Notch, the law will hear of its value. If my brother +does not make a Can with the Diamond Notch you will know me as one +deficient in truth. There is no point under the stars that the law +cannot be got to declare upon. But as is right, the law is slow, +and will wait for a man to come out of his fever. Before it can +decide, another man's good name, like a little cloud riding across +the sky, is gone from the memory of the people and will not come +riding back upon the crest of any wind."</p> + +<p>"It will be a great price to be paying for a tin can," said +Festus Clasby. He was turning around with his fingers the coins in +his pocket.</p> + +<p>The woman put the can on her arm, then covered it up with her +shawl, like a hen taking a chick under the protection of her +wing.</p> + +<p>"I have given you many words," she said, "because you are a man +sizeable and good to the eye of a foolish woman. If I had not a +sick brother I might be induced to let slip his right in the Can +with the Diamond Notch for the pleasure I have found in the look of +your face. When I saw you on the cart I said, 'There is the build +of a man which is to my fancy.' When I heard your voice I said, +'That is good music to the ear of a woman.' When I saw your eye I +said, 'There is danger to the heart of a woman.' When I saw your +beard I said, 'There is a great growth from the strength of a man.' +When you spoke to me and gave me your laugh I said, 'Ah, what a +place that would be for a woman to be seated, driving the roads of +the country on a cart laden with provisions beside one so much to +the female liking.' But my sick brother waits, and now I go to do +that which may make away with the goodness of your name. I must +seek those who will throw the shadow of the law over many."</p> + +<p>She moved away, sighing a quick sigh, as one might who was +setting out on a disagreeable mission. Festus Clasby called to her +and she came back, her eyes pained as they sought his face. Festus +Clasby paid the money, a bright shilling and two threepenny bits, +into her hand, wondering vaguely, but virtuously, as he did so, +what hardy little dark mountainy man he would later charge up the +can to at the double price.</p> + +<p>"Now," said the wife of Mac-an-Ward, putting the money away, +"you have paid me for my brother's can and you would be within your +right in getting back your one-and-six from this bad man." She +hitched her shawl contemptuously in the direction of +Mac-an-Ward.</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby looked at the Son of the Bard with his velvety +soft eyes. "Come, sir," said he, his tone a little nervous. "My +money!"</p> + +<p>Mac-an-Ward hitched his trousers at the hips like a sailor, spat +through his teeth, end eyed Festus Clasby through a slit in his +half-closed eyes. There was a little patter of the feet on the road +on the part of Mac-an-Ward, and Festus Clasby knew enough of the +world and its ways to gather that these were scientific movements +invented to throw a man in a struggle. He did not like the look of +the Son of the Bard.</p> + +<p>"I will go home and leave him to God," he said. "Hand me the can +and I will be shortening my road."</p> + +<p>At this moment three small boys, ragged, eager, their faces hard +and weather-beaten, bounded up to the cart. They were breathless as +they stood about the woman.</p> + +<p>"Mother!" they cried in chorus. "The man in the big shop! He is +looking for a can."</p> + +<p>"What can?" cried the woman.</p> + +<p>The three young voices rose like a great cry: "The Can with the +Diamond Notch."</p> + +<p>The woman caught her face in her hands as if some terrible thing +had been said. She stared at the youngsters intently.</p> + +<p>"He wants one more to make up an order," they chanted. "He says +he will pay—"</p> + +<p>The woman shrank from them with a cry. "How much?" she +asked.</p> + +<p>"Half-a-crown!"</p> + +<p>The wife of Mac-an-Ward threw out her arms in a wild gesture of +despair. "My God!" she cried. "I sold it. I wronged my sick +brother."</p> + +<p>"Where did you sell it, mother?"</p> + +<p>"Here, to this handsome dark man."</p> + +<p>"How much did he pay?"</p> + +<p>"Eighteen-pence."</p> + +<p>The three youngsters raised their hard faces to the sky and +raised a long howl, like beagles who had lost their quarry.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the woman's face brightened. She looked eagerly at +Festus Clasby, then laid the hand of friendship, of appeal, on his +arm.</p> + +<p>"I have it!" she cried, joyfully.</p> + +<p>"Have what?" asked Festus Clasby.</p> + +<p>"A way out of the trouble," she said. "A means of saving my +brother from wrong. A way of bringing him his own for the Can with +the Diamond Notch."</p> + +<p>"What way might that be?" asked Festus Clasby, his manner +growing sceptical.</p> + +<p>"I will go to the shopman with it and get the half-crown. Having +got the half-crown I will hurry back here—or you can come +with me—and I will pay you back your one-and-six. In that way +I will make another shilling and do you no wrong. Is that +agreed?"</p> + +<p>"It is not agreed," said Festus Clasby. "Give me out the tin +can. I am done with you now."</p> + +<p>"It's robbery!" cried the woman, her eyes full of a blazing +sudden anger.</p> + +<p>"What is robbery?" asked Festus Clasby.</p> + +<p>"Doing me out of a shilling. Wronging my sick brother out of his +earnings. A man worth hundreds, maybe thousands, to stand between a +poor woman and a shilling. I am deceived in you."</p> + +<p>"Out with the can," said Festus Clasby.</p> + +<p>"Let the woman earn her shilling," said Mac-an-Ward. His voice +came from behind Festus Clasby.</p> + +<p>"Our mother must get her shilling," cried the three +youngsters.</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby turned about to Mac-an-Ward, and as he did so he +noticed that two men had come and set their backs against a wall +hard by; they leaned limply, casually, against it, but they were, +he noticed, of the same tribe as the Mac-an-Wards.</p> + +<p>"It was always lucky, the Can with the Diamond Notch," said the +woman. "This offer of the man in the big shop is a sign of it. I +will not allow you to break my brother's luck and he lying in his +fever."</p> + +<p>"By heaven!" cried Festus Clasby. "I will have you all arrested. +I will have the law of you now."</p> + +<p>He wheeled about the horse and cart, setting his face for the +police barrack, which could be seen shining in the distance in the +plumage of a magpie. The two men who stood by came over, and from +the other side another man and three old women. With Mac-an-Ward, +Mrs. Mac-an-Ward, and the three young Mac-an-Wards, they grouped +themselves around Festus Clasby, and he was vaguely conscious that +they were grouped with some military art. A low murmur of a dispute +arose among them, rising steadily. He could only hear snatches of +their words: 'Give it back to him,' 'He won't get it,' 'How can he +be travelling without the Can with the Diamond Notch?' 'Is it the +Can with the Diamond Notch?' 'No,' 'Maybe it is, maybe it is not,' +'Who knows that?' 'I say yes,' 'Hold your tongue,' 'Be off, you +slut,' 'Rattle away.'</p> + +<p>People from the town were attracted to the place. Festus Clasby, +the dispute stirring something in his own blood, shook his fist in +the long narrow face of Mac-an-Ward. As he did so he got a tip on +the heels and a pressure upon the chest sent him staggering a few +steps back. One of the old women held him up in her arms and +another old woman stood before him, striking her breast. Festus +Clasby saw the wisps of hair hanging about the bony face and froth +at the corners of her mouth. Vaguely he saw the working of the +bones of her wasted neck, and below it a long V-shaped gleam of the +yellow tanned breast, which she thumped with her fist. Afterwards +the memory of this ugly old trollop remained with him. The +youngsters were shooting in and out through the group, sending up +unearthly shrieks. Two of the men peeled off their coats and were +sparring at each other wickedly, shouting all the time, while +Mac-an-Ward was making a tumultuous peace. The commotion and the +strife, or the illusion of strife, increased. "Oh," an onlooker +cried, "the tinkers are murdering each other!"</p> + +<p>The patient horse at last raised its head with a toss and a +snort over the rabble, and then wheeled about to break away. With +the instinct of his kind, Festus Clasby rushed to the animal's head +and held him. As he did so the striped petticoats and the tossing +shawls of the women flashed about the shafts and the body of the +cart. The men raised a hoarse roar.</p> + +<p>A neighbour of Festus Clasby, driving up the street at this +moment, was amazed to see the great man of lands and shops in the +midst of the wrangling tinkers. He pulled up, marvelling, then went +to him.</p> + +<p>"What is this, Festus?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"They have robbed me," cried Festus Clasby.</p> + +<p>"Robbed you?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, of money and of property."</p> + +<p>"Good God! How much money?"</p> + +<p>"I don't rightly know—I forget—some shillings, +maybe."</p> + +<p>"Oh! And of property?"</p> + +<p>"No matter. It is only one article, but property."</p> + +<p>"Come home, Festus; in the name of God get out of this," advised +the good neighbour.</p> + +<p>But Festus Clasby was strangely moved. He was behaving like a +man who had drink taken. Something had happened wounding to his +soul. "I will not go," he cried. "I must have back my money."</p> + +<p>The tinkers had now ceased disputing among themselves. They were +grouped about the two men as if they were only spectators of an +interesting dispute.</p> + +<p>"Back I must have my money!" cried Festus Clasby, his great hand +going up in a mighty threat. The tinkers clicked their tongues on +the roofs of their mouths in a sound of amazement, as much as to +say, "What a terrible thing! What a wonderful and a mighty +man!"</p> + +<p>"I advise you to come," persuaded his neighbour.</p> + +<p>"Never! God is my judge, never!" cried Festus Clasby.</p> + +<p>Again the tinkers clicked their tongues, looked at each other in +wonder.</p> + +<p>"You will be thankful you brought your life out of this," said +the neighbour. "Let it not be said of you on the countryside that +you were seen wrangling with the tinkers in this town."</p> + +<p>"Shame! Shame! Shame!" broke out like a shocked murmur among the +attentive tinkers.</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby faced his audience in all his splendid +proportions. Never was he seen so moved. Never had such a great +passion seized him. The soft tones of his eyes were no longer soft. +They shone in fiery wroth. "I will at least have that which I +bought twice over!" he cried. "I will have my tin can!"</p> + +<p>Immediately the group of tinkers broke up in the greatest +disorder. Hoarse cries broke out among them. They behaved like +people upon whom some fearful doom had been suddenly pronounced. +The old women threw themselves about, racked with pain and terror. +They beat their hands together, threw wild arms in despairing +gestures to the sky, raising a harrowing lamentation. The men +growled in sullen gutturals. The youngsters knelt on the road, +giving out the wild beagle-like howl. Voices cried above the +uproar: "Where is it? Where is the Can with the Diamond Notch? Get +him the Can with the Diamond Notch! He must have the can with the +Diamond Notch! How can he travel without the Can with the Diamond +Notch? He'll die without the Can with the Diamond Notch!"</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby was endeavouring to deliver his soul of +impassioned protests when his neighbour, assisted by a bystander or +two, forcibly hoisted him up on his cart and he was driven away +amid a great howling from the tinkers.</p> + +<p>[Illustration: <i>Festus Clasby</i>]</p> + +<p>It was twilight when he reached his place among the hills, and +the good white letters under the thatch showed clear to his eyes. +Pulling himself together he drove with an air about the gable and +into the wide open yard at the back, fowls clearing out of his way, +a sheep-dog coming to welcome him, a calf mewing mournfully over +the half-door of a stable. Festus Clasby was soothed by this +homely, this worshipful, environment, and got off the cart with a +sigh. Inside the kitchen he could hear the faithful women trotting +about preparing the great master's meal. He made ready to carry the +provisions into the shop. When he unwrapped the sacking from the +bacon, something like a sudden stab went through his breast. +Perspiration came out on his forehead. Several large long slices +had been cut off in jagged slashes from the flitches. They lay like +wounded things on the body of the cart. He pulled down the other +purchases feverishly, horror in his face. How many loaves had been +torn off his batch of bread? Where were all the packets of tea and +sugar, the currants and raisins, the flour, the tobacco, the +cream-of-tartar, the caraway seeds, the nutmeg, the lemon peel, the +hair oil, the—</p> + +<p>Festus Clasby wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He +stumbled out of the yard, sat up on a ditch, and looked across the +silent, peaceful, innocent country. How good it was! How lovely +were the beasts grazing, fattening, in the fields! His soft velvety +eyes were suddenly flooded with a bitter emotion and he wept.</p> + +<p>The loaves of bread were under the shawl of the woman who had +supported Festus Clasby when he stumbled; the bacon was under +another bright shawl; the tobacco and flour fell to the lot of her +whose yellow breast showed the play of much sun and many winds; the +tea and sugar and the nutmeg and caraway seeds were under the wing +of the wife of the Son of the Bard in the Can with the Diamond +Notch.</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='BOTH_SIDES_OF_THE_POND'></a> +<h2>BOTH SIDES OF THE POND</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<br> + + +<p>Mrs. Donohoe marked the clearness of the sky, the number and +brightness of the stars.</p> + +<p>"There will be a share of frost to-night, Denis," she said.</p> + +<p>Denis Donohoe, her son, adjusted a primitive bolt on the stable +door, then sniffed at the air, his broad nostrils quivering +sensitively as he raised his head.</p> + +<p>"There is ice in the wind," he said.</p> + +<p>"Make a start with the turf to the market to-morrow," his mother +advised. "People in town will be wanting fires now."</p> + +<p>Denis Donohoe walked over to the dim stack of brown turf piled +at the back of the stable. It was there since the early fall, the +dry earth cut from the bog, the turf that would make bright and +pleasant fires in the open grates of Connacht for the winter +months. Away from it spread the level bogland, a sweep of country +that had, they said, in the infancy of the earth been a great oak +forest, across which in later times had roved packs of hungry +wolves, and which could at this day claim the most primitive form +of industry in Western Europe. Out into this bogland in the summer +had come from their cabins the peasantry, men and women, Denis +Donohoe among them; they had dug up slices of the spongy, wet sod, +cut it into pieces rather larger than bricks, licked it into shape +by stamping upon it with their bare feet, stacked it about in +little rows to dry in the sun, one sod leaning against the other, +looking in the moonlight like a great host of wee brown fairies +grouped in couples for a midnight dance on the carpet of purple +heather. Now the time had come to convert it into such money as it +would fetch.</p> + +<p>Denis Donohoe whistled merrily that night as he piled the donkey +cart, or "creel," with the sods of turf. Long before daybreak next +morning he was about, his movements quick like one who had great +business on hands. The kitchen of the cabin was illuminated by a +rushlight, the rays of which did not go much beyond a small deal +table, scrubbed white, where he sat at his breakfast, an unusually +good repast, for he had tea, home-made bread and a boiled egg. His +mother moved about the dim kitchen, waiting on him, her bare feet +almost noiseless on the black earthen floor. He ate heartily and +silently, making the Sign of the Cross when he had finished. His +mother followed him out on the dark road to bid him good luck, +standing beside the creel of turf.</p> + +<p>"There should be a brisk demand now that the winter is upon us," +she said hopefully. "God be with you."</p> + +<p>"God and Mary be with you, mother," Denis Donohoe made answer as +he took the donkey by the head and led him along the dark road. The +little animal drew his burden very slowly, the cart creaking and +rocking noisily over the uneven road. Now and then Denis Donohoe +spoke to him encouragingly, softly, his gaze at the same time going +to the east, searching the blank sky for a hint of the dawn to +come.</p> + +<p>But they had gone rocking and swaying along the winding road for +a long time before the day dawned. Denis Donohoe marked the spread +of the light, the slow looming up of a range of hills, the sweep of +brown patches of bog, then grey and green fields, broken by the +glimmer of blue fakes, slopes of brown furze making for them a dull +frame.</p> + +<p>"Now that we have the blessed light we won't feel the journey at +all," Denis Donohoe said to the donkey.</p> + +<p>The ass drew the creel of turf more briskly, shook his winkers +and swished his tail. When they struck very sharp hills Denis +Donohoe got to the back of the cart, put his hands to the shafts, +and, lowering his head, helped to push up the load, the muscles +springing taut at the back of his thick limbs as he pressed hard +against the bright frosty ground.</p> + +<p>As they came down from the hills he already felt very hungry, +his fingers tenderly fondling the slices of oaten bread he had put +away in the pocket of his grey homespun coat. But he checked the +impulse to eat, the long jaw of his swarthy face set, his strong +teeth tight together awaiting the right hour to play their eager +part. If he ate all the oaten bread now—splendid, dry, hard +stuff, made of oat meal and water, baked on a gridiron—it +would leave too long a fast afterwards. Denis Donohoe had been +brought up to practise caution in these matters, to subject his +stomach to a rigorous discipline, for life on the verge of a bog is +an exacting business. Instead of obeying the impulse to eat Denis +Donohoe blew warm breaths into his purple hands, beat his arms +about his body to deaden the bitter cold, whistled, took some steps +of an odd dance along the road, and went on talking to the donkey +as if he were making pleasant conversation to a companion. The only +sign of life to be seen on earth or air was a thin line of wild +duck high up in the sky, one group making wide circles over a vivid +mountain lake.</p> + +<p>Half way on his journey to the country town Denis Donohoe pulled +up his little establishment. It was outside a lonely cottage +exactly like his own home. There was the same brown thatch on the +roof, a garland of verdant wild creepers drooping from a spot at +the gable, the same two small windows without any sashes in the +front wall, the same narrow rutty pathway from the road, the same +sort of yellow hen cackling heatedly, her legs quivering as she +clutched the drab half door, the same scent of decayed cabbage +leaves in the air. Denis Donohoe took a sack of hay from the top of +the creel of turf, and spread some of it on the side of the road +for the donkey. While he did so a woman who wore a white cap, a +grey bodice, a thick woollen red petticoat, under which her bare +lean legs showed, came to the door, waving the yellow hen off her +perch.</p> + +<p>"Good day to you, Mrs. Deely," Denis Donohoe said, showing his +strong teeth.</p> + +<p>"Welcome, Denis. Won't you step in and warm yourself at the +fire, for the day is sharp, and you are early on the road?"</p> + +<p>Denis Donohoe sat with the woman by the fire for some time, +their exchange of family gossip quiet and agreeable. The young man +was, however, uneasy, glancing about the house now and then like +one who missed something. The woman, dropping her calm eyes on him, +divined his thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Agnes is not about," she said. "She started off for the Cappa +Post Office an hour gone, for we had tidings that a letter is there +for us from Sydney."</p> + +<p>"A letter from her sister?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mary is married there and doing well."</p> + +<p>Denis Donohoe resumed his journey.</p> + +<p>At the appointed spot he ravenously devoured the oaten bread, +then stretched himself on his stomach on the ground and took some +draughts of water from a roadside stream, drawing it up with a slow +sucking noise, his teeth chattering, his eyes on the bright pebbles +that glittered between some green cress at the bottom. When he had +finished the donkey also laved his thirst at the spot.</p> + +<p>He reached the market town while it was yet morning. He led the +creel of turf through the straggling streets, where some people +with the sleep in their eyes were moving about. The only sound he +made was a low word of encouragement to the donkey.</p> + +<p>"How much for the creel?" a man asked, standing at his shop +door.</p> + +<p>"Six shilling," Denis Donohoe replied, and waited, for it was +above the business of a decent turf-seller to praise his wares or +press for a sale.</p> + +<p>"Good luck to you, son," said the merchant, "I hope you'll get +it." He smiled, folded his hands one over the other, and retired to +his shop.</p> + +<p>Denis Donohoe moved on, saying in an undertone to the donkey, +"Gee-up, Patsy. That old fellow is no good."</p> + +<p>There were other inquiries, but nobody purchased. They said that +money was very scarce. Denis Donohoe said nothing; money was too +remote a thing for him to imagine how it could be ever anything +else except scarce. He grew tired of going up and down past shops +where there was no sign of business, so he drew the side streets +and laneways, places where children screamed about the road, where +there was a scent of soapy water, where women came to their doors +and looked at him with eyes that expressed a slow resentment, their +arms bare above the elbows, their hair hanging dankly about their +ears, their voices, when they spoke, monotonous, and always +sounding a note of tired complaint.</p> + +<p>On the rise of a little bridge Denis Donohoe met a red-haired +woman, a family of children skirmishing about her; there was a +battle light in her wolfish eyes, her idle hands were folded over +her stomach.</p> + +<p>"How much, gossoon?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Six shilling."</p> + +<p>"Six devils!" She walked over to the creel, handling some of the +sods of turf Denis Donohoe knew she was searching a +constitutionally abusive mind for some word contemptuous of his +wares. She found it at last, for she smacked her lips. It was in +the Gaelic. "<i>Spairteach!</i>" she cried—a word that was +eloquent of bad turf, stuff dug from the first layer of the bog, a +mere covering for the correct vein beneath it.</p> + +<p>"It's good stone turf," Denis Donohoe protested, a little +nettled.</p> + +<p>The woman was joined by some people who were hanging about, +anxious to take part in bargaining which involved no personal +liability. They argued, made jokes, shouted, and finally began to +bully Denis Donohoe, the woman leading, her voice half a scream, +her stomach heaving, her eyes dancing with excitement, a yellow +froth gathering at the corners of her angry mouth, her hand +gripping a sod of the turf, for the only dissipation life now +offered her was this haggling with and shouting down of turf +sellers. Denis Donohoe stood immovable beside his cart, patient as +his donkey, his swarthy face stolid under the shadow of his +broad-brimmed black hat, his intelligent eyes quietly measuring his +noisy antagonists. When the woman's anger had quite spent itself +the turf was purchased for five shillings.</p> + +<p>Denis Donohoe carried the sods in his arms to the kitchen of the +purchaser's house. It entailed a great many journeys in and out, +the sods being piled up on his hooked left arm with a certain +skill. His route lay through a small shop, down a semi-dark +hallway, across a kitchen, the sods being stowed under a stairway +where cockroaches scampered from the thudding of the falling +sods.</p> + +<p>Women were moving about the kitchen, talking incessantly, +fumbling about tables, always appearing to search for something +that had been lost, one crooning over a cradle that she rocked +before the fire. The smell of cooking, the sound of something fatty +hissing on a pan, brought a sense of faintness to Denis Donohoe, +for he was ravenously hungry again.</p> + +<p>He stumbled awkwardly in and out of the place with his armfuls +of brown sods The women moved with reluctance out of his way. Once +a servant girl raised the most melancholy pair of wide brown eyes +he had ever seen, saying to him, "It always goes through me to hear +the turf falling in the stair-hole. It reminds me of the day I +heard the clay falling on me father's coffin, God be with him and +forgive him, for he died in the horrors."</p> + +<p>By the time Denis Donohoe had delivered the cartload of turf the +little donkey had eaten all the hay in the sack. In the small shop +Denis purchased some bacon, flour and tea, so that he had only some +coppers to bring home with him. After some hesitation he handed +back one penny for some biscuits, and these he ate as soon as he +set out on the return journey.</p> + +<p>The little donkey went over the road through the hills on the +way back with spirit, for donkeys are good homers. Denis Donohoe +sat up on the front of the cart, his legs dangling down beside the +shaft. The donkey trotted down the slopes gayly, the harness +rattling, the cart swaying, jolting, making an amazing noise.</p> + +<p>The donkey cocked his ears, flecked his tail, even indulged in +one or two buck-jumps, as he rattled down the hilly roads. Denis +Donohoe once or twice leaned out over the shaft, and brought his +open hand down on the haunch of the donkey, but it was more a +caress than a whack.</p> + +<p>The light began to fade, the landscape to grow more obscure. +Suddenly Denis Donohoe broke into song. They were going over a +level stretch of ground. The donkey walked quietly. The quivering +voice rang out over the darkening landscape, gaining in quality and +in steadiness, a clear light voice, the notes coming with the +instinctive intonation, the perfect order of the born folk singer. +It was some old Gaelic song, a refrain that had been preserved like +the trunks of the primeval oaks in the bogs, such a refrain as +might claim kinship with the Dresden <i>Amen</i>, sung by +generations of German peasants until at last it reached the ears of +Richard Wagner, giving birth to a classic. As he sang Denis Donohoe +raised his swarthy face, his profile sharp against the pale sky, +his eyes, half in rapture like all folk singers, ranging over the +hills, his long throat palpitating, swelling and slackening like +the throat of a bird quivering in song. Then a light from the +sash-less windows of Mrs. Deely's cabin shone faintly and silence +again brooded over the place. When he reached the cabin Denis +Donohoe dismounted and walked into the kitchen, his eyes bright, +his steps so eager that he became conscious of it and pulled up at +once.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Deely was sitting by the fire, her knitting needles busy. +Denis Donohoe sat down beside her. While they were speaking a young +girl came from the only room in the house, and, crossing the +kitchen, stood beside the open fireplace.</p> + +<p>"Agnes had great news from Australia from Mary," Mrs. Deely +said. "She enclosed the price of the passage from this place to +Sydney."</p> + +<p>"I will be making the voyage the end of this month," the girl +herself added.</p> + +<p>There was an awkward silence, during which Mrs. Deely carefully +piloted one of her needles through an intricate turn in the heel of +the sock.</p> + +<p>"Well, I wish you luck, Agnes," Denis Donohoe said at last, and +then gave a queer odd little laugh, a little laugh that made Mrs. +Deely regard him quickly and seriously. She noticed that he had his +eyes fixed on the ground.</p> + +<p>"It will be a great change from this place," the girl said, +fingering something on the mantelpiece. "Mary says Sydney is a +wonderful big city."</p> + +<p>Denis Donohoe slowly lifted his eyes, taking in the shape of the +girl from the bare feet to the bright ribbon that was tied in her +hair. What he saw was a slim girl, her limbs showing faintly in the +folds of a cheap, thin skirt, a loose, small shawl resting on the +shoulders, her bosom heaving gently where the shawl did not meet, +her profile delicate and faint in the light of the fire, her eyes, +suddenly turned upon him, being the eyes of a girl conscious of his +eyes, her low breath the sweet breath of a girl stepping into her +womanhood.</p> + +<p>"Well, God prosper you, Agnes Deely," Denis Donohoe said after +some time, and rose from his seat.</p> + +<p>The two women came out on the road to see him off. He did not +dally, jumped on to the front of the cart and rattled away.</p> + +<p>Overhead the sky was winter clear, the stars merry, eternal, the +whole heaven brilliant in its silent, stupendous song, its +perpetual <i>Magnificat</i>; but Denis Donohoe made the rest of the +journey in a black silence, gloom in the rigid figure, the stooping +shoulders, the dangling legs; and the hills seemed to draw their +grim shadows around his tragic ride to the lonely light in his +mother's cabin on the verge of the dead brown bog.</p> + +<br> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>There was a continuous clatter of conversation that rose and +fell and broke like the waves on the beach, there was the dull +shuffling of uneasy feet on the ground, the tinkling of glasses, +the rattle of bottles, and over it all the half hysterical laugh of +a tipsy woman. Above the racket a penetrating, quivering voice was +raised in song.</p> + +<p>Now and again bleary eyes were raised to, the stage, shadowy in +a fog of tobacco smoke. The figure on the boards strutted about, +made some fantastic steps, the face pallid in the streaky light, +the mouth scarlet as a tulip for a moment as it opened wide, the +muscles about the lips wiry and distinct from much practice, the +words of the song coming in a vehement nasal falsetto and in a +brogue acquired in the Bowery. The white face of the man who +accompanied the singer on the piano was raised for a moment in a +tired gesture that was also a protest; in the eyes of the singer as +they met those of the accompanist was an expression of cynical +Celtic humour; in the smouldering gaze of the pianist was the +patient, stubborn soul of the Slav. The look between these +entertainers, one from Connacht the other from Poland, was a little +act of mutual commiseration and a mutual expression of contempt for +the noisy descendants of the Lost Tribes who made merry in the +place.</p> + +<p>A Cockney who had exchanged Houndsditch for the Bowery leered up +broadly at the Celt prancing about the stage. He turned to the +companion who sat drinking with him, a tall, bony half-caste, her +black eyes dancing in a head that quivered from an ague acquired in +Illinois.</p> + +<p>"'E's all ryght, is Paddy," said the voice from Houndsditch. He +pointed a thumb that was a certificate of villainy in the direction +of the stage.</p> + +<p>"Sure," said the coloured lady, whose ancestry rambled back away +Alabama. She looked up at the stage with her bold eyes.</p> + +<p>"I know him," she said, thoughtfully. "And I like him," she +added grinning. "We all like him. He's one of the boys."</p> + +<p>"Wot price me?" said the Houndsditch man.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you're good, too," said the coloured lady. "Blow in another +cocktail, honey." She struck her breast where the uneasy bone +showed through the dusky skin. "I've a fearful thirst right +there."</p> + +<p>Little puckers gathered about the small, humorous eyes of the +Cockney as he looked at her. "My," he said, "you 'ave got a thirst +and a capacity, Ole Sahara!"</p> + +<p>The coloured lady raised the cocktail to her fat lips, and as +she did so there was a sudden racket, men shouting, women clapping +their hands, the voice of the tipsy woman dominant in its hysteria +over the uproar. The singer was bowing profuse acknowledgments from +the stage, his eyes, sly in their cynical humour, upon the face of +the Slav at the piano, his head thrown back, the pallor of his face +ghastly.</p> + +<p>The lady from Alabama joined in the tribute to the singer.</p> + +<p>"'Core, 'core," cried Ole Sahara, raising her glass in the dim +vapour. "Here's to Denis Donohoe!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='THE_WHITE_GOAT'></a> +<h2>THE WHITE GOAT</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<br> + + +<p>The white goat stood in a little clearing closed in by a ring of +whins on the hillside. Her head swayed from side to side like the +slow motion of the pendulum of a great clock. The legs were a +little spread, the knees bent, the sides slack, the snout grey and +dry, the udder limp.</p> + +<p>The Herd knew the white goat was in great agony. She had refused +the share of bran he had brought her, had turned away from the +armful of fresh ivy leaves his little daughter held out to her. He +had desisted from the milking, she had moaned so continuously.</p> + +<p>Some days before the Herd had found the animal injured on the +hill; the previous night he had heard the labourers making a noise, +shouting and singing, as they crossed from the tillage fields. He +knew what had happened when he had seen the marks of their +hob-nailed boots on her body. She was always a sensitive brute, of +a breed that came from the lowlands. The sombre eyes of the Herd +glowed in a smouldering passion as he stood helplessly by while the +white goat swung her head from side to side.</p> + +<p>He gathered some dry bracken and spread a bed of it near the +white goat. It would be unkind to allow her to lie on the wet grass +when the time came that she could no longer stand. He looked up at +the sky and marked the direction of the wind. It had gone round to +the west. Clouds were beginning to move across the sky. There was a +vivid light behind the mountains. The air was still. It would rain +in the night. He had thought for the white goat standing there in +the darkness, swaying her head in agony, the bracken growing sodden +at her feet, the rain beating into her eyes. It was a cold place +and wind-swept. Whenever the white goat had broken her tether she +had flown from it to the lowlands. He remembered how, while leading +her across a field once, she had drawn back in some terror when +they had come to a pool of water.</p> + +<p>The Herd looked at his little daughter. The child had drawn some +distance away, the ivy leaves fallen from her bare arms. He was +conscious that some fear had made her eyes round and bright. What +was it that the child feared? He guessed, and marvelled that a +child should understand the strange thing that was about to happen +up there on the hill. The knowledge of Death was shining +instinctively in the child's eyes. She was part of the stillness +and greyness that was creeping over the hillside.</p> + +<p>"We will take the white goat to the shelter of the stable," the +Herd said.</p> + +<p>The child nodded, the fear still lingering in her eyes. He +untied the tether and laid his hand on the horn of the goat. She +answered to the touch, walking patiently but unsteadily beside +him.</p> + +<p>After a while the child followed, taking the other horn, gently, +like her father, for she had all his understanding of and nearness +to the dumb animals of the fields. They came slowly and silently. +The light failed rapidly as they came down the hill. Everything was +merged in a shadowy vagueness, the colour of the white goat between +the two dim figures alone proclaiming itself. A kid bleated +somewhere in the distance. It was the cry of a young thing for its +suckle, and the Herd saw that for a moment the white goat raised +her head, the instinct of her nature moving her. Then she tottered +down the hill in the darkness.</p> + +<p>When they reached the front of the stable the white goat backed +painfully from the place. The Herd was puzzled for a moment. Then +he saw the little pool of water in a faint glimmer before their +feet. He brought the animal to one side, avoiding it, and she +followed the pressure of his directing hand.</p> + +<p>He took down a lantern that swung from the rafters of the stable +and lighted it. In a corner he made a bed of fresh straw. The +animal leaned over a little against the wall, and they knew she was +grateful for the shelter and the support. Then the head began to +sway in a weary rhythm from side to side as if the pain drove it +on. Her breath quickened, broke into little pants. He noted the +thin vapour that steamed from about her body. The Herd laid his +hand on her snout. It was dry and red hot. He turned away leading +the child by the hand, the lantern swinging from the other, +throwing long yellow streaks of light about the gloom of the +stable. He closed the door softly behind him.</p> + +<br> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>It was late that night when the Herd got back from his rounds of +the pastures. His boots soaked in the wet ground and the clothes +clung to his limbs, for the rain had come down heavily. A rumble of +thunder sounded over the hills as he raised the latch of his door. +He felt glad he had not left the white goat tethered in the whins +on the hill.</p> + +<p>His little daughter had gone to sleep. His wife told him the +child on being put to bed had wept bitterly, but refused to confess +the cause of her grief. The Herd said nothing, but he knew the +child had wept for the white goat. The thought of the child's +emotion moved him, and he turned out of the house again, standing +in the darkness and the rain. Why had they attacked the poor brute? +He asked the question over and over again, but only the rain beat +in his face and around him was darkness, mystery. Then he heard the +voices higher up on the side of the hill, first a laugh, then some +shouts and cries. A thick voice raised the refrain of a song, and +it came booming through the murky atmosphere. The Herd could hear +the words:</p> + +<i>Where are the legs with which you run?</i><br> +<span style='margin-left: 4em;'><i>Hurroo! Hurroo!</i></span><br> +<i>Where are the legs with which you run?</i><br> +<span style='margin-left: 4em;'><i>Hurroo! Hurroo!</i></span><br> +<i>Where are the legs with which you run</i><br> +<i>When first you went to carry a gun?</i><br> +<i>Indeed, your dancing days are done!</i><br> +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'><i>Och, Johnny, I hardly knew +ye!</i></span><br> + + +<p>And then came the chorus like a roar down the hills:</p> + +<i>With drums and guns, and, guns and drum</i><br> +<i>The enemy nearly slew ye;</i><br> +<i>My darling dear, you look so queer,</i><br> +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'><i>Och, Johnny, I hardly knew +ye!</i></span><br> + + +<p>The voices of the labourers passing from the tillage fields died +away, and the rumble of thunder came down more frequently from the +hills. The Herd crossed his garden, his boots sinking in the soft +ground. Half way across he paused, for a loud cry had dominated the +fury of the breaking storm. His ears were quick for the cries of +animals in distress. He went on rapidly toward the stable.</p> + +<p>The ground grew more sloppy and a thin stream of water came from +the rim of his soft black hat, streaming down his face. He noted +the flashes of lightning overhead. Through it all the cry of the +white goat sounded, with that weird, vibrating "mag-gag" that was +the traditional note of her race. It had a powerful appeal for the +Herd. It stirred a feeling of passion within him as he hurried +through the rain.</p> + +<p>How they must have lacerated her, a poor brute chained to the +sod, at the mercy of their abuse! The red row of marks along her +gams, raw and terrible, sprang to his sight out of the darkness. +Vengeance, vengeance! He gripped his powerful hands, opening and +closing the fists. Then he was conscious of something in the storm +and the darkness that robbed him of his craving for personal +vengeance. All that belonged to the primitive man welled up in him. +He knew that in the heart of the future there lurked a +reckoning—something, somebody—that would count the +tally at the appointed time. Then he had turned round the gable of +the stable. He saw the ghostly white thing, shadowy in the +blackness, lying prostrate before the door. He stood still, his +breath drawn inward.</p> + +<p>There was a movement in the white shape. He could discern the +blurred outline of the head of the animal as she raised it up a +little. There was a low moan followed by a great cry. The Herd +stood still, terror in his heart. For he interpreted that cry in +all the terrible inarticulate consciousness of his own being. That +cry sounded in his ears like an appeal to all the generations of +wronged dumb things that had ever come under the lash of the +tyranny of men. It was the protest of the brute creation against +humanity, and to the Herd it was a judgment. Then his eyes caught a +murky gleam beside the fallen white shape, and the physical sense +of things jumped back to his mind.</p> + +<p>He remembered that in wet weather a pool of water always +gathered before the stable door. He remembered that there was a +glimmer of it there when he had led the white goat into the stable. +He remembered how she had shown fear of it.</p> + +<p>He stooped down over the white goat where she lay. Thin wisps of +her hair floated about looking like dim wraiths against the +blackness of the pool. He caught a look of the brown eyes and was +aware that the udder and teats bulged up from the water. He sank +down beside her, the water making a splash as his knees dropped +into the place. The animal raised her head a little and with pain, +for the horns seemed to weigh like lead. But it was an +acknowledgment that she was conscious of his presence; then the +head fell back, a gurgle sounding over one of the ears.</p> + +<p>The Herd knew what had happened, and it was all very tragical to +his mind. His wife had come out to the stable for something, and +had left the door open behind her. The white goat, goaded by the +growing pain, had staggered out the door, perhaps feeling some +desire for the open fields in her agony. Then she had seen before +the threshold of the door that which had always been a horror to +her—a pool of water. The Herd could see her tottering and +swaying and then falling into it with a cry, fulfilling her +destiny. He wondered if he himself had the same instinct for the +things that would prove fatal to him? Why was he always so nervous +when he stooped to or lay upon the ground? Why did it always give +him a feeling that he would be trampled under the hooves of +stampeding cattle rounded up for treatment for the warble fly? He +trembled as he heard the beat of hooves on the ground behind him. +He peered about and for a while did not recognise the shape that +moved restlessly about in the darkness. He heard the neigh of the +brood mare. He knew then she had been hovering about the stable +afraid to go in out of the storm. She was afraid to go in because +of the thing that lay before the stable door. He heard the +answering call of the young foal in the stable, and he knew that +it, too, was afraid to come out even at the call of its dam. Death +was about in that night of storm, and all things seemed conscious +of it.</p> + +<p>He stooped down over the white goat and worked his hands under +her shoulders. He lifted her up and felt the strain all over his +frame, the muscles springing tense on his arms. She was a dead +weight, and he had always prided on her size. His knees dug into +the puddle in the bottom of the pool as he felt the pressure on his +haunches. He strained hard as he got one of his feet under him. +With a quick effort he got the other foot into position and rose +slowly, lifting the white form out of the pool. The shaggy hair +hung from the white goat, limp and reeking, numerous thin streams +of water making a little ripple as they fell. The limbs of the Herd +quivered under the weight, he staggered back, his heavy boots +grinding in the gravel; then he set his teeth, the limbs steadied +themselves, he swayed uncertainly for a moment, then staggered +across the stable door, conscious of the hammer strokes of the +heart of the white goat beating against his own heart. He laid her +down in the bed of straw and heard the young foal bounding out of +the stable in terror. The Herd stood in the place, the sweat +breaking out on his forehead, then dropping in great beads.</p> + +<p>The white goat began to moan. The Herd was aware from the +rustling of the straw that her limbs were working convulsively. He +knew from the nature of her wounds that her death would be +prolonged, her agonies extreme. What if he put her out of pain? It +would be all over in a moment. His hand went to his pocket, feeling +it on the outside. He made out the shape of the knife, but +hesitated.</p> + +<p>One of the hooves of the white goat struck him on the ankle as +her limbs worked convulsively. His hand went into his pocket and +closed around the weapon. He would need to be quick and sure, to +have a steady hand, to make a swift movement. He allowed himself +some moments to decide. Then the blade of the knife shot back with +a snap.</p> + +<p>The sound seemed to reach the white goat in all its grim +significance. She struggled to her feet, moaning more loudly. The +Herd began to breathe hard. He was afraid she would cry out even as +she had cried out as she lay in the pool before the stable door. +The terror of the things that made up that cry broke in upon the +Herd. He shook with fear of it. Then he stooped swiftly, his +fingers nervously feeling over the delicate course of the throat of +the white goat. His hands moved a little backwards and forwards in +the darkness. He felt the hot stream on his hands, then the animal +fell without a sound, her horns striking against the wall. He stood +over her for a moment and was conscious that his hands were wet. +Then he remembered with a shudder that the whole tragedy of the +night had been one of rains and pools and water and clinging damp +things, of puddles and sweats and blood. Even now the knife he held +in his fingers was dripping. He let it fall. It fell with a queer +thud, sounding of flesh, of a dead body. It had fallen on the dead +body of the white goat. He turned with a groan and made his way +uncertainly for the stable door.</p> + +<p>At the door he stood, thoughts crowding in upon him, questions +beating upon his brain and giving no time for answer. Around him +was darkness, mystery, Death. What right had he to thrust his hand +blindly into the heart of this mystery? Who had given him the power +to hasten the end, to summon Death before its time? Had not Nature +her own way for counting out the hours and the minutes? Had not +she, or some other power, appointed an hour for the white goat to +die? She would live, even in agony, until they could bear her up no +longer; and having died Nature would pass her through whatever +channel her laws had ordained. Had not the white goat made her last +protest against his interference when she had risen to her feet in +her death agony? And if the white goat, dumb beast that she was, +had suffered wrong at the hands of man, then there was, the Herd +now knew, a Power deliberate and inexorable, scrupulous in its +delicate adjustment of right and wrong, that would balance the +account at the appointed audit.</p> + +<p>He had an inarticulate understanding of these things as he moved +from the stable door. He tripped over a barrow unseen in the +darkness and fell forward on his face into the field. As he lay +there he heard the thudding of hooves on the ground. He rose, dizzy +and unnerved, to see the dim shapes of some cattle that had +gathered down about the place from the upland. He felt the rain +beating upon his face, the clothes hung dank and clammy to his +limbs. His boots soaked and slopped when he stepped. A boom of +thunder sounded overhead and a vivid flash of lightning lit up for +an instant a great elm tree. He saw all its branches shining with +water, drops glistening along a thousand stray twigs. Then the +voices of the labourers returning over the hills broke in upon his +ears. He heard their shouts, the snatches of their songs, their +noise, all the ribaldry of men merry in their drink.</p> + +<p>The Herd groped through the darkness for his house like a +half-blind man, his arms out before him, and a sudden gust of wind +that swept the hillside shrieked about the blood of the white goat +that was still wet upon his hands.</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='THE_SICK_CALL'></a> +<h2>THE SICK CALL</h2> + +<br> + + +<p>A man wearing the grey frieze coat and the soft black hat of the +peasantry rode up to the Monastery gate on a wiry, long-tailed nag. +When he rang the bell at the hall-door there was a clatter of +sandals on a flagged hall inside.</p> + +<p>The door was opened by a lay Brother in a brown habit, a girdle +about the waist from which a great Rosary beads was suspended. The +peasant turned a soft black hat nervously in his hands as he +delivered his message. The Friar who visited ailing people was, he +said, wanted. A young man was lying very ill away up on the hills. +Nothing that had been done for him was of any account. He was now +very low, and his people were troubled. Maybe the Friar would come +and raise his holy hands over Kevin Hooban?</p> + +<p>The peasant gave some account of how the place might be reached. +Half an hour later the Spanish Friar was on a side-car on his way +to the mountain. I was on the other side of the car. The Spanish +Friar spoke English badly. The peasantry—most of whom had +what they called <i>Béarla briste</i> (broken +English)—could understand only an occasional word of what he +said. At moments of complete deadlock I, a Mass server, acted as a +sort of interpreter. For this, and for whatever poor companionship +I afforded, I found myself on the sick call.</p> + +<p>The road brought us by a lake which gave a chilly air to the +landscape in the winter day, then past a strip of country meagrely +wooded. We turned into a narrow road that struck the hills at once, +skirting a sloping place covered with scrub and quite dark, like a +black patch on the landscape. After that it was a barren pasture, +prolific only in bleached boulders of rocks, of bracken that lay +wasted, of broom that was sere. It was a very still afternoon, not +a breath of wind stirring. Sheep looking bulky in their heavy +fleeces lay about in the grass, so motionless that they might be +the work of a vigorous sculptor. The branches of the trees were so +still, so delicate in their outlines against the pale sky, that +they made one uneasy; they seemed to have lost the art of waving, +as if leaves should never again flutter upon them. A net-work of +low stone walls put loosely together, marking off the absurdly +small fields, straggled over the face of the landscape, looking in +the curious evening light like a great grey web fantastically spun +by some humorous spider. The brown figure of a shepherd with a +sheep crook in his hand rose up on a distant hill. He might be a +sacred figure in the red chancel of the western sky. In a moment he +was gone, leaving one doubtful if he had not been an illusion. A +long army of starlings trailed rapidly across the horizon, a +wriggling motion marking their course like the motion in the body +of a gigantic snake. Everything on the hills seemed, as the light +reddened and failed, to grow vast, grotesque. The silence which +reigned over it all was oppressive.</p> + +<p>Stray cabins skirted the roadside. Some people moved about them, +leaving one the impression of a remoteness that was melancholy. The +women in their bare feet made little curtesies to the Friar. +Children in long dresses ran into the cabins at sight of the +strangers, like rabbits scuttling back to their burrows. Having +found refuge they looked out over the half-doors as the car passed, +their eyes sparkling, humorous, full of an alert inquisitiveness, +their faces fresh as the wind.</p> + +<p>A group of people swung along the road, speaking volubly in +Irish, giving one the impression that they had made a great journey +across the range of hills. They gave us a salutation that was also +a blessing. We pulled up the car and they gathered about the Friar, +looking up at him from under their broad-brimmed black hats, the +countenances for the most part dark and primitive, the type more of +Firbolg than Milesian origin.</p> + +<p>When the Friar spoke to them they paused, shuffled, looked at +each other, puzzled. Half unconsciously I repeated the priest's +words for them.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you are heading for the house where Kevin Hooban is lying +sick?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"The priest is going to read over him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And maybe they are expecting him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"We heard it said he is very low, a strangeness coming over +him."</p> + +<p>"Is the house far?"</p> + +<p>"No, not too far when you are once a-past the demesne wall, with +the ivy upon it. Keep on the straight road. You will come to a +stream and a gullet and a road clipping into the hills from it to +the right; go past that road. West of that you will see two poplar +trees. Beyond them you will come to a boreen. Turn down that +boreen; it is very narrow, and you had best turn up one side of the +car and both sit together, or maybe the thorny hedges would be +slashing you on the face in the darkness of the place. At the end +of the boreen you will come to a shallow river, and it having a +shingle bottom. Put the mare to it and across with you. Will you be +able to remember all that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, thanks."</p> + +<p>"Very well. Listen now. When you are across the river with the +shingly bottom draw up on the back meadow. You will see a light +shining to the north. Let one bawl out of you and Patch Keetly will +be at hand to take the mare by the head. He will bring you to the +house where Kevin Hooban is lying in his trouble. And God grant, +Father, that you will be able to reach out a helping hand to him, +and to put your strength in holy words between him and them that +has a hold of him; he is a fine young man without fault or blemish, +and the grandest maker of music that ever put a lip to the +fideóg. Keep an eye out for the poplar trees."</p> + +<p>"Very good. God be with you."</p> + +<p>"God speed you kindly."</p> + +<p>We drove on. As we did so we tried to piece the directions +together. The two poplar trees appeared to touch some curious +strain of humour in the Spanish Friar. But it all came to pass as +the prophet had spoken. We came to the ivy wall, to the stream, the +gullet, the road that clipped into the hills to the right, and a +long way beyond it the two poplar trees, tall, shadowy, great in +their loneliness on the hills, sentinels that appeared to guard +some mountain frontier. The light had rapidly gone. The whole +landscape had swooned away into a vague, dark chaos. Overhead the +stars began to show, the air was cutting; it bit with frost. And +then we turned down the dark boreen, the mare venturing into it +with some misgiving. I think the Friar was praying in an undertone +in his native Basque as we passed through the narrow mountain +boreen. At the end of it we came to the shallow river with the +shingly bottom. Again the mare required some persuasion before she +ventured in, the wheels crunching on the gravel, her fetlocks +splashing the slow-moving, chocolate-coloured water. On the +opposite bank we reached a sort of plateau, seen vaguely in the +light. I "let a bawl out of me." It was like the cry of some +lonely, lost bird on the wing. The Friar shook with laughter. I +could feel the little rock of his body on the springs of the car. A +figure came suddenly out of the darkness and silently took the mare +by the head. The car moved on across the vague back meadow. Patch +Keetly was piloting us to a light that shone in the north.</p> + +<p>People were standing about the front of the long, low-thatched +house. Lights shone in all the windows, the door stood open. The +people did not speak or draw near as we got down from the car. +There was a fearful silence about the place. The grouping of the +people expressed mystery. They eyed us from their curiously aloof +angles. They seemed as much a part of the atmosphere of the hills, +as fixed in the landscape as the little clumps of furze or the two +lonely poplars that mounted guard over the mouth of the boreen.</p> + +<p>"Won't the holy Father be going into the house?" Patch Keetly +asked. "I will unyoke the mare and give her a share of oats in the +stable."</p> + +<p>The Friar spoke to me in an undertone, and we crossed to the +open door of the house.</p> + +<p>The door led directly into the kitchen. Two women were standing +well back from the door, something respectful, a little mysterious +and a little fearful in their attitude. Their eyes were upon the +Friar, and from their expressions they might have expected some +sort of apparition to cross the threshold. They made a curtesy to +him, dipping their bodies in a little sudden jerk. Nobody else was +in the kitchen, and, despite the almost oppressive formality of +their attitude, they somehow conveyed a sense of the power of women +in the household in time of crisis. They were in supreme command, +the men all outside, when a life had to be battled for. The elder +of the women came forward and spoke to the priest, bidding him +welcome. The reception looked as if it had been rehearsed, both +women painfully anxious to do what was right.</p> + +<p>There appeared some little misunderstanding, and I was too dazed +with the cold—which I had only fully felt when I got off the +car and found my legs cramped—to come to the rescue as +interpreter. The Spanish Friar was accustomed to these little +embarrassments, and he had a manner of meeting them with a smile. +The misunderstanding and the embarrassment seemed to thaw the +formality of the reception. The women looked relieved. They were +obviously not expected to say anything, and they had no fear now +that they would be put to the ordeal of meeting a possibly superior +person, one who might patronise them, make a flutter in their home, +appal them by expecting a great deal of attention, in short, be +"very Englified." The Spanish Friar had very quick intuitions and +some subtle way of his own for conveying his emotions and his +requirements. He was in spirit nearer to the peasantry than many of +the Friars who themselves came from the flesh of the peasantry. And +these two peasant women, very quick in both their intuitions and +their intelligence, seemed at the very moment of the breakdown of +the first attempt at conversation to understand him and he to +understand them. The elder of the women led the priest into a room +off the kitchen where I knew Kevin Hooban lay ill.</p> + +<p>The younger woman put a chair before the fire and invited me to +sit there. While I sat before the fire I could hear the quick but +quiet step of her feet about the kitchen, the little swish of her +garments. Presently she drew near to the fire and held out a glass. +It contained what looked like discoloured water, very like the +water in the shallow river with the shingly bottom. I must have +expressed some little surprise, even doubt, in my face, for she +held the glass closer, as if reassuring me. There was something +that inspired confidence in her manner. I took the glass and sipped +the liquid. It left a half-burned, peaty taste in the mouth, and +somehow smacked very native in its flavour. I thought of the hills, +the lonely bushes, the slow movement of the chocolate-coloured +river, the men with the primitive dark faces under the +broad-brimmed hats, their mysterious, even dramatic way of grouping +themselves around the lighted house. The peaty liquid seemed a brew +out of the same atmosphere. I knew it was poteen. And in a moment I +felt it coursing through my body, warming my blood. The young woman +stood by the fire, half in shadow, half in the yellow flame of the +turf fire, her attitude quiet but tense, very alert for any +movement in the sick room.</p> + +<p>The door of the room stood slightly open, and the low murmur of +the Friar's voice reciting a prayer in Latin could be heard. The +young woman sighed, her bosom rising and falling in a quick breath +of pain. Then she made the sign of the Cross.</p> + +<p>"My brother is very low," she said, sitting down by the fire +after a time. Her eyes were upon the fire. Her face was less hard +than the faces I had seen on the hills. She looked +good-natured.</p> + +<p>"Is he long ill?"</p> + +<p>"This long while. But to look at him you would conceit he was as +sound as a trout. First he was moody, moping about the place, and +no way wishful for company. Hours he would spend below at the butt +of the meadow, nearby the water, sitting under the thorn bush and +he playing upon the fideóg. Then he began to lose the use of +his limbs, and crying he used to be within in the room. Some of the +people who have knowledge say he is lying under a certain +influence. He cannot speak now. The holy Friar will know what is +best to be done."</p> + +<p>When the Friar came out of the room he was divesting himself of +the embroidered stole he had put over his shoulders.</p> + +<p>The white-capped old woman had excitement in her face as she +followed him.</p> + +<p>"Kevin spoke," she said to the other. "He looked up at the +blessed man and he made an offer to cross himself. I could not hear +the words he was speaking, that soft they come from his lips."</p> + +<p>"Kevin will live," said the younger woman, catching some of the +excitement of her mother. She stood tensely, drawn up near the +fire, gazing vacantly but intently across the kitchen, as if she +would will it so passionately that Kevin should live that he would +live. She moved suddenly, swiftly, noiselessly across the floor and +disappeared into the room.</p> + +<p>The priest sat by the fire for some time, the old woman standing +by, respectful, but her eyes riveted upon him as if she would pluck +from him all the secrets of existence. The priest was conscious, a +little uneasy, and a little amused, at this abnormal scrutiny. Some +shuffling sounded outside the house as if a drove of shy animals +had come down from the mountain and approached the dwelling. +Presently the door creaked. I looked at it uneasily. The atmosphere +of the place, the fumes of the poteen in my head, the heat of the +fire, had given me a more powerful impression of the mysterious, +the weird. Nothing showed at the door for some time, but I kept my +eye upon it. I was rewarded. A cluster of heads and shoulders of +men, swarthy, gloomy, some awful foreboding in the expression of +their faces, hung round the door and peered silently down at the +Friar seated at the fire. Again I had the sense that they would not +be surprised to see any sort of apparition. The heads disappeared, +and there was more shuffling outside the windows as if shy animals +were hovering around the house. The door creaked again, and another +bunch of heads and shoulders made a cluster about it. They looked, +as far as I could see them, the same group of heads, but I had the +feeling that they were fresh spectators. They were taking their +view in turn.</p> + +<p>The priest ventured some conversation with the woman of the +house.</p> + +<p>"Do you think will Kevin live, Father?"</p> + +<p>"He should have more courage," the Friar said.</p> + +<p>"We will all have more courage now that you have read over +him."</p> + +<p>"Keep the faith. It is all in the hands of God. It is only what +is pleasing to Him that will come to pass."</p> + +<p>"Blessed be His Holy Name." The woman inclined her head as she +spoke the words. The priest rose to go.</p> + +<p>The young girl came out of the room. "Kevin will live," she +said. "He spoke to me." Her eyes were shining as she gazed at her +mother.</p> + +<p>"Could you tell what words he spoke?"</p> + +<p>"I could. He said, 'In the month of April, when the water runs +clear in the river, I will be playing the fideóg.' That is +what Kevin said."</p> + +<p>"When the river is clear—playing the fideóg," the +elder woman repeated, some look of trouble, almost terror, in her +face. "The cross of Christ between him and that fideóg!"</p> + +<p>The priest was moving to the door and I followed. As I did so I +got a glimpse, through the partly open room door, of the invalid. I +saw the long, pallid, nervous-looking face of a young man on the +pillow. A light fell on his brow, and I thought it had the height, +and the arch, the good shape sloping backward to the long head, of +a musician. The eyes were shining with an unnatural brightness. It +was the face of an artist, an idealist, intensified, idealised, by +illness, by suffering, by excitement, and I wondered if the vision +which Kevin Hooban had of playing the fideóg by the river, +when it ran clear in April, were a vision of his heaven or his +earth.</p> + +<p>We left the house. Patch Keetly was taking the loop from a trace +as he harnessed the mare in the yellow light of a stable lantern. +We mounted the car. The groups of men drew about us, their +movements again sounding like the shuffling of shy animals on the +sod, and they broke silence for the first time.</p> + +<p>There was more said about Kevin Hooban. From various allusions, +vague and unsubstantial, little touches in the kind, musical +voices, I gathered that they believed him to be under the influence +of the Good People. The sense of mystery and ill-omen came back to +me, and I carried away a memory of the dark figures of the people +grouped about the lonely lighted house, standing there in sorrow +for the flute-player, the grass at their feet sparkling with +frost.</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='THE_SHOEMAKER'></a> +<h2>THE SHOEMAKER</h2> + +<br> + + +<p>Obeying a domestic mandate, Padna wrapped a pair of boots in +paper and took them to the shoemaker, who operated behind a window +in a quiet street.</p> + +<p>The shoemaker seemed to Padna a melancholy man. He wore great +spectacles, had a white patch of forehead, and two great bumps upon +it. Padna concluded that the bumps had been encouraged by the +professional necessity of constantly hanging his head over his +knees.</p> + +<p>The shoemaker invited Padna to sit down in his workshop, which +he did. Padna thought it must be very dreary to sit there all day +among old and new boots, pieces of leather, boxes of brass eyelets, +awls, knives, and punchers. No wonder the shoemaker was a +melancholy-looking man.</p> + +<p>Padna maintained a discreet silence while the shoemaker turned +his critical glasses upon the boots he had brought him for repair. +Suddenly the great glasses were turned upon Padna himself, and the +shoemaker addressed him in a voice of amazing pleasantness.</p> + +<p>"When did you hear the cuckoo?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Padna, at first startled, pulled himself together. "Yesterday," +he replied.</p> + +<p>"Did you look at the sole of your boot when you heard him?" the +shoemaker asked.</p> + +<p>"No," said Padna.</p> + +<p>"Well," said the shoemaker, "whenever you hear the cuckoo for +the first time in the spring always look at the sole of your right +boot. There you will find a hair. And that hair will tell you the +kind of a wife you will get."</p> + +<p>The shoemaker picked a long hair from the sole of Padna's boot +and held it up in the light of the window.</p> + +<p>"You'll be married to a brown-haired woman," he said. Padna +looked at the hair without fear, favour, or affection, and said +nothing.</p> + +<p>The shoemaker took his place on his bench, selected a half-made +shoe, got it between his knees, and began to stitch with great +gusto. Padna admired the skilful manner in which he made the holes +with his awl and drew the wax-end with rapid strokes. Padna +abandoned the impression that the shoemaker was a melancholy man. +He thought he never sat near a man so optimistic, so mentally +emancipated, so detached from the indignity of his occupation.</p> + +<p>"These are very small shoes you are stitching," said Padna, +making himself agreeable.</p> + +<p>"They are," said the shoemaker. "But do you know who makes the +smallest shoes in the world? You don't? Well, well!... The smallest +shoes in the world are made by the clurichaun, a cousin of the +leprechaun. If you creep up on the west side of a fairy fort after +the sun has set and put your ear to the grass you'll hear the +tapping of his hammer. And do you know who the clurichaun makes +shoes for? You don't? Well, well!... He makes shoes for the +swallows. Oh, indeed they do, swallows wear shoes. Twice a year +swallows wear shoes. They wear them in the spring, and again at the +fall of the year. They wear them when they fly from one world to +another. And they cross the Dead Sea. Did you ever hear tell of the +Dead Sea? You did. Well, well!... No bird ever yet flew across the +Dead Sea. Any of them that tried it dropped and sank like a stone. +So the swallows, when they come to the Dead Sea, get down on the +bank, and there the clurichauns have millions of shoes waiting for +them. The swallows put on their shoes and walk across the Dead Sea, +stepping on bright yellow and black stepping-stones that shine +across the water like a lovely carpet. And do you know what the +stepping-stones across the Dead Sea are? They are the backs of +sleeping frogs. And when the swallows are all safe across the frogs +waken up and begin to sing, for then it is known the summer will +come. Did you never hear that before? No? Well, well!"</p> + +<p>A cat, friendly as the shoemaker himself, leapt on to Padna's +lap. The shoemaker shifted the shoe he was stitching between his +knees, putting the heel where the toe had been.</p> + +<p>"Do you know where they first discovered electricity?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>"In America," Padna ventured.</p> + +<p>"No. In the back of a cat. He was a big buck Chinese cat. Every +hair on him was seven inches long, in colour gold, and thick as +copper wire. He was the only cat who ever looked on the face of the +Empress of China without blinking, and when the Emperor saw that he +called him over and stroked him on the back. No sooner did the +Emperor of China stroke the buck cat than back he fell on his plush +throne, as dead as his ancestors. So they called in seven wise +doctors from the seven wise countries of the East to find out what +it was killed the Emperor. And after seven years they discovered +electricity in the backbone of the cat, and signed a proclamation +that it was from the shock of it the Emperor had died. When the +Americans read the proclamation they decided to do whatever killing +had to be done as the cat had killed the Emperor of China. The +Americans are like that—all for imitating royal +families."</p> + +<p>"Has this cat any electricity in her?" Padna asked.</p> + +<p>"She has," said the shoemaker, drawing his wax-end. "But she's a +civilised cat, not like the vulgar fellow in China, and civilised +cats hide their electricity much as civilised people hide their +feelings. But one day last summer I saw her showing her +electricity. A monstrous black rat came prowling from the brewery, +a bald patch on his head and a piece missing from his left haunch. +To see that fellow coming up out of a gullet and stepping up the +street, in the middle of the broad daylight, you'd imagine he was +the county inspector of police."</p> + +<p>"And did she fight the rat?" Padna asked.</p> + +<p>The shoemaker put the shoe on a last and began to tap with his +hammer. "She did fight him," he said. "She went out to him twirling +her moustaches. He lay down on his back. She lay down on her side. +They kept grinning and sparring at each other like that for half an +hour. At last the monstrous rat got up in a fury and come at her, +the fangs stripped. She swung round the yard, doubled in two, +making circles like a Catherine-wheel about him until the old +blackguard was mesmerised. And if you were to see the bulk of her +tail then, all her electricity gone into it! She caught him with a +blow of it under the jowl, and he fell in a swoon. She stood over +him, her back like the bend of a hoop, the tail beating about her, +and a smile on the side of her face. And that was the end of the +monstrous brewery rat."</p> + +<p>Padna said nothing, but put the cat down on the floor. When she +made some effort to regain his lap he surreptitiously suggested, +with the tip of his boot, that their entente was at an end.</p> + +<p>A few drops of rain beat on the window, and the shoemaker looked +up, his glasses shining, the bumps on his forehead gleaming. "Do +you know the reason God makes it rain?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Padna, who had been listening to the conversation of two farmers +the evening before, replied, "I do. To make turnips grow."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" said the shoemaker, reaching out for an awl. "God +makes it rain to remind us of the Deluge. And I don't mean the +Deluge that was at all at all. I mean the Deluge that is to come. +The world will be drowned again. The belly-band of the sky will +give, for that's what the rainbow is, and it only made of colours. +Did you never know until now what the rainbow was? No? Well, +well!... As I was saying, when the belly-band of the sky bursts the +Deluge will come. In one minute all the valleys of the earth will +be filled up. In the second minute the mountains will be topped. In +the third minute the sky will be emptied and its skin gone, and the +earth will be no more. There will be no ark, no Noah, and no dove. +There will be nothing only one great waste of grey water and in the +middle of it one green leaf. The green leaf will be a sign that God +has gone to sleep, the trouble of the world banished from His mind. +So whenever it rains remember my words."</p> + +<p>Padna said he would, and then went home.</p> + +<br> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>When Padna called on the shoemaker for the boots that had been +left for repair they were almost ready. The tips only remained to +be put on the heels. Padna sat down in the little workshop, and +under the agreeable influence of the place he made bold to ask the +shoemaker if he had grown up to be a shoemaker as the geranium had +grown up to be a geranium in its pot on the window.</p> + +<p>"What!" exclaimed the shoemaker. "Did you never hear tell that I +was found in the country under a head of cabbage? No! Well, well! +What do they talk to you at home about at all?"</p> + +<p>"The most thing they tell me," said Padna, "is to go to bed and +get up in the morning. What is the name of the place in the country +where they found you?"</p> + +<p>"Gobstown," said the shoemaker. "It was the most miserable place +within the ring of Ireland. It lay under the blight of a good +landlord, no better. That was its misfortune, and especially my +misfortune. If the Gobstown landlord was not such a good landlord +it's driving on the box of an empire I would be to-day instead of +whacking tips on the heels of your boots. How could that be? I'll +tell you that.</p> + +<p>"In Gobstown the tenants rose up and demanded a reduction of +rent; the good landlord gave it to them. They rose up again and +demanded another reduction of rent; he gave it to them. They went +on rising up, asking reductions, and getting them, until there was +no rent left for anyone to reduce. The landlord was as good and as +poor as our best.</p> + +<p>"And while all this was going on Gobstown was surrounded by +estates where there were the most ferocious +landlords—rack-renting, absentee, evicting landlords, +landlords as wild as tigers. And these tiger landlords were leaping +at their tenants and their tenants slashing back at them as best +they could. Nothing, my dear, but blood and the music of grape-shot +and shouts in the night from the jungle. In Gobstown we had to sit +down and look on, pretending, moryah, that we were as happy as the +day was long.</p> + +<p>"Not a scalp was ever brought into Gobstown. No man of us ever +went out on an adventure which might bring him home again through +the mouth of the county jail. Not a secret enterprise that might +become a great public excitement was ever hatched, not to speak of +being launched. We had not as much as a fife-and-drum band. We did +not know how to play a tin whistle or beat upon the tintinnabulum. +We never waved a green flag. We had not a branch of any kind of a +league. We had no men of skill to draft a resolution, indite a +threatening letter, draw a coffin, skull, and cross-bones, fight a +policeman, or even make a speech. We were never a delegate at a +convention, an envoy to America, a divisional executive, a +deputation, or a demonstration. We were nothing. We wilted under +the blight of our good landlord as the green stalk wilts under the +frost of the black night.... Hand me that knife. The one with the +wooden handle.</p> + +<p>"In desperation we used rouse ourselves and march into the +demonstrations on other estates. We were a small and an unknown +tribe. The Gobstown contingent always brought up the rear of the +procession—a gawky, straggling, bad-stepping, hay-foot, +straw-foot lot! The onlookers hardly glanced at us. We stood for +nothing. We had no name. Once we rigged up a banner with the words +on it, 'Gobstown to the Front!' but still we were put to the back, +and when we walked through this town the servant girls came out of +their kitchens, laughed at us, and called out, 'Gobstown to the +Back of the Front!'</p> + +<p>"The fighting men came to us, took us aside, and asked us what +we were doing in Gobstown. We had no case to make. We offered to +bring forward our good landlord as a shining example, to lead our +lamb forward in order that he might show up the man-eaters on the +other estates. The organisers were all hostile. They would not +allow us into the processions any more. If we could bring forward +some sort of roaring black devil we would be more than welcome. +Shining examples were not in favour. We were sent home in disgrace +and broke up. As the preachers say, our last state was worse than +our first.</p> + +<p>"We became sullen and drowsy and fat and dull. We got to hate +the sight of each other, so much so that we began to pay our rents +behind each other's backs, at first the reduced rents, then, gale +day by gale day, we got back to the original rent, and kept on +paying it. Our good landlord took his rents and said nothing. +Gobstown became the most accursed place in all Ireland. Brother +could not trust brother. And there were our neighbours going from +one sensation to another. They were as lively as trout, as +enterprising as goats, as intelligent as Corkmen. They were thin +and eager and good-tempered. They ate very little, drank water, +slept well, men with hard knuckles, clean bowels, and pale eyes. +Anything they hit went down. They were always ready to go to the +gallows for each other.</p> + +<p>"I had a famous cousin on one of these estates, and I suppose +you heard of him? You didn't! What are they teaching you at school +at all? Latin grammar? Well, well!... My cousin was a clumsy fellow +with only a little of middling kind of brains, but a bit of fight +in him. Yet look at the way he got on, and look at me, shodding +little boys like yourself! I was born under a lucky star but my +cousin was born under a lucky landlord—a ferocious fellow who +got into a garret in London and kept roaring across at Ireland for +more and more blood. Every time I thought of that old skin of a man +howling in the London garret I said to myself, 'He'll be the making +of my cousin.' And so, indeed, he was. Three agents were brought +down on my cousin's estate. State trials were running like great +plays in the courthouse. Blood was always up. They had six +fife-and-drum bands and one brass band. They had green and gold +banners with harps and streamers, and mottoes in yellow lettering, +that took four hardy men to carry on a windy day. The heads of the +Peelers were hardly ever out of their helmets. The resident +magistrate rose one day in the bosom of his family, his eyes +closed, to say grace before meals, and from dint of habit he was +chanting the Riot Act over the table until his wife flew at him +with, 'How dare you, George! The mutton is quite all right!' Little +boys no bigger than yourself walking along the roads to school in +that splendid estate could jump up on the ditch and make good +speeches.</p> + +<p>"My cousin's minute books—he was secretary of +everything—would stock a book-shop, and were noted for +beautiful expressions. He was the author of ten styles of +resolution construction. An enemy christened him Resolving +Kavanagh. Every time he resolved to stand where he always stood he +revolved. Everybody put up at his house. He was seen in more +torchlight processions than Bryan O'Lynn. A room in his house was +decorated in a beautiful scheme of illuminated addresses with +border designs from the Book of Kells. The homes of the people were +full of the stumps of burned-down candles, the remains of great +illuminations for my cousin whenever he came out of prison. I tell +you no lie when I say that that clumsy cousin of mine became clever +and polished, all through pure practice. He had the best of tutors. +The skin of a landlord in the London garret, his agents, their +understrappers, removable magistrates, judges, Crown solicitors, +county inspectors of police, sergeants, constables, secret service +men,—all drove him from fame to fame until in the end they +chased him out the only gap that was left open to the like of +him—the English Parliament. Think of the streak of that man's +career! And there was I, a man of capacity and brains, born with +the golden spoon of talent in my mouth, dead to the world in +Gobstown! I was rotting like a turnip under the best and the most +accursed of landlords. In the end I could not stand it—no man +of spirit could.</p> + +<p>"One day I took down my ashplant, spat on my fist, and set out +for my cousin's place. He gave me no welcome. I informed him as to +how the land lay in Gobstown. I said we must be allowed to make a +name for ourselves as the producers of a shining example of a +landlord. My cousin let his head lie over a little to one side and +then said, 'In this country shining examples ought only be used +with the greatest moderation.' He looked out through the window and +after some time said, 'That Gobstown landlord is the most dangerous +lunatic in all Ireland.' 'How is that?' said I. 'Because,' said my +famous cousin, 'he has a perfect heart.' He put his head over to +the other side, looked at me and said, 'If Gobstown does not do +something he may be the means of destroying us all.' 'How?' said I. +'He may become contagious,' said my cousin. 'Only think of his +example being followed and Ireland turned into one vast tract of +Gobstowns! Would not any fate at all be better than that?' I who +knew said, 'God knows it would.'</p> + +<p>"My cousin sighed heavily. He turned from me, leaving me +standing there in the kitchen, and I saw him moving with a ladder +to the loft overhead. This he mounted and disappeared in the black +rafters. I could hear him fumbling somewhere under the thatch. +Presently down he came the ladder, a gun in one hand, and a fistful +of cartridges in the other. He spoke no word, and I spoke no word. +He came to me and put the gun in my hand and the handful of +cartridges in my pocket. He walked to the fire and stood there with +his back turned. I stood where I was, a Gobstown mohawk, with the +gun in my hand. At last I said, 'What is this for?' and grounded +the gun a little on the floor. My cousin did not answer at once. At +last he said without moving, 'It's for stirring your tea, what +else?' I looked at him and he remained as he was and, the sweat +breaking out on the back of my neck, I left the house and made +across the fields for home, the cartridges rattling in my pocket +every ditch I leapt, the feel of the gun in my hand becoming more +familiar and more friendly.</p> + +<p>"At last I came to the summit of a little green hill overlooking +Gobstown, and there I sat me down. The sight of Gobstown rose the +gorge in me. Nothing came out of it but weak puffs of turf smoke +from the chimneys—little pallid thin streaks that wobbled in +the wind. There, says I, is the height of Gobstown. And no sound +came up out of it except the cackle of geese, and then the bawl of +an old ass in the bog. There, says I, is the depth of Gobstown. And +rising up from the green hill I made up my mind to save Ireland +from Gobstown even if I lost my own soul. I would put a bullet in +the perfect heart of our good landlord.</p> + +<p>"That night I lay behind a certain ditch. The moon shone on the +nape of my neck. The good landlord passed me by on the road, he and +his good wife, chattering and happy as a pair of lovers. I groped +for the gun. The queerest feeling came over me. I did not even +raise it. I had no nerve. I quaked behind the ditch. His footsteps +and her footsteps were like cracks of this hammer on my head. I +knew, then, in that minute, that I was no good, and that Gobstown +was for ever lost.... What happened me? Who can say that for +certain? Many a time have I wondered what came over me in that +hour. I can only guess.... Nobody belonging to me had ever been +rack-rented. I had never seen any of my own people evicted. No +great judge of assize had ever looked down on me from his bench to +the dock and addressed to me stern words. I had never heard the +clang behind me of a prison door. No royal hand of an Irish +constabularyman had ever brought a baton down on my head. No +carbine had ever butted the soft places of my body. I had no scars +that might redden with memories. The memories I had and that might +give me courage were not memories of landlords. There was nothing +of anger in my heart for the Gobstown landlord, and he went by. I +dragged my legs out of the ditch and drowned my cousin's gun in a +boghole. After it I dropped in the handful of cartridges. They made +a little gurgle in the dark water like blood in a shot man's +throat. And that same night I went home, put a few things in a red +handkerchief, and stole out of Gobstown like a thief. I walked +along the roads until I came to this town, learned my trade, became +a respectable shoemaker, and—tell your mother I never use +anything only the best leather. There are your boots, Padna, tips +and all ... half-a-crown. Thanks, and well wear!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='THE_RECTOR'></a> +<h2>THE RECTOR</h2> + +<br> + + +<p>The Rector came round the gable of the church. He walked down +the sanded path that curved to the road. Half-way down he paused, +meditated, then turning gazed at the building. It was square and +solid, bulky against the background of the hills. The Rector +hitched up his cuffs as he gazed at the structure. Critical puckers +gathered in little lines across the preserved, peach-like cheeks. +He put his small, nicely-shaped head to one side. There was a +proprietorial, concerned air in his attitude. One knew that he was +thinking of the repairs to the church, anxious about the gutters, +the downpipe, the missing slates on the roof, the painting of the +doors and windows. He struck an attitude as he pondered the problem +of the cracks on the pebble-dashed walls. His umbrella grounded on +the sand with decision. He leaned out a little on it with +deliberation, his lips unconsciously shaping the words of the +ultimatum he should deliver to the Select Vestry. His figure was +slight, he looked old-world, almost funereal, something that had +become detached, that was an outpost, half-forgotten, lonely; a man +who had sunk into a parish where there was nothing to do. He +mumbled a little to himself as he came down to the gate in the high +wall that enclosed the church grounds.</p> + +<p>A group of peasants was coming along the yellow, lonely road, +talking and laughing. The bare-footed women stepped with great +active strides, bearing themselves with energy. They carried heavy +baskets from the market town, but were not conscious of their +weight. The carded-wool petticoats, dyed a robust red, brought a +patch of vividness to the landscape. The white "bauneens" and soft +black hats of the men afforded a contrast. The Rector's eyes gazed +upon the group with a schooled detachment. It was the look of a man +who stood outside of their lives, who did not expect to be +recognised, and who did not feel called upon to seem conscious of +these peasant folk. The eyes of the peasants were unmoved, +uninterested, as they were lifted to the dark figure that stood at +the rusty iron gate leading into the enclosed church grounds. He +gave them no salutation. Their conversation voluble, noisy, dropped +for a moment, half through embarrassment, half through a feeling +that something alive stood by the wayside. A vagueness in +expression on both sides was the outward signal that two +conservative forces had met for a moment and refused to +compromise.</p> + +<p>One young girl, whose figure and movements would have kindled +the eye of an artist, looked up and appeared as if she would smile. +The Rector was conscious of her vivid face, framed in a fringe of +black hair, of a mischievousness in her beauty, some careless +abandon in the swing of her limbs. But something in the level dark +brows of the Rector, something that was dour, forbade her smile. It +died in a little flush of confusion. The peasants passed and the +Rector gave them time to make some headway before he resumed his +walk to the Rectory.</p> + +<p>He looked up at the range of hills, great in their extent, +mighty in their rhythm, beautiful in the play of light and mist +upon them. But to the mind of the Rector they expressed something +foreign, they were part of a place that was condemned and lost. He +began to think of the young girl who, in her innocence, had +half-smiled at him. Why did she not smile? Was she afraid? Of what +was she afraid? What evil thing had come between her and that +impulse of youth? Some consciousness—of what? The Rector +sighed. He had, he was afraid, knowledge of what it was. And that +knowledge set his thoughts racing over their accustomed course. He +ran over the long tradition of his grievances—grievances that +had submerged him in a life that had not even a place in this +wayside countryside. His mind worked its way down through all the +stages of complaint until it arrived at the <i>Ne Temere</i> +decree. The lips of the Rector no longer formed half-spoken words; +they became two straight, tight little thin lines across the teeth. +They would remain that way all the afternoon, held in position +while he read the letters in the <i>Irish Times</i>. He would give +himself up to thoughts of politics, of the deeds of wicked men, of +the transactions that go on within and without governments, doping +his mind with the drug of class opiates until it was time to go to +bed.</p> + +<p>Meantime he had to pass a man who was breaking stones in a ditch +by the roadside. The hard cracks of the hammer were resounding on +the still air. The man looked up from his work as the Rector came +along; the grey face of the stone-breaker had a melancholy +familiarity for him. The Rector had an impulse—it was seldom +he had one. He stood in the centre of the road. The <i>Ne +Temere</i> decree went from his mind.</p> + +<p>"Good-day, my man," he said, feeling that he had made another +concession, and that it would be futile as all the others.</p> + +<p>"Good-day, sir," the stone-breaker made answer, hitching himself +upon the sack he had put under his haunches, like one very ready +for a conversation.</p> + +<p>There was a pause. The Rector did not know very well how to +continue. He should, he knew, speak with some sense of +colloquialism if he was to get on with this stonebreaker, a person +for whom he had a certain removed sympathy. The manner of these +people's speech was really a part of the grievances of the Rector. +Their conversation, he often secretly assured himself, was peppered +with Romish propaganda. But the Rector made another concession.</p> + +<p>"It's a fine day, thank God," he said. He spoke like one who was +delivering a message in an unfamiliar language. "Thank God" was +local, and might lend itself to an interpretation that could not be +approved. But the Rector imported something into the words that was +a protection, something that was of the pulpit, that held a +solemnity in its pessimism.</p> + +<p>"A fine day, indeed, glory be to God!" the stonebreaker made +answer. There was a freshness in his expression, a cheerfulness in +the prayer, that made of it an optimism.</p> + +<p>The Rector was so conscious of the contrast that it gave him +pause again. The peach-like colourings on the cheeks brightened, +for a suspicion occurred to him. Could the fellow have meant +anything? Had he deliberately set up an optimistic Deity in +opposition to the pessimistic Deity of the Rector? The Rector +hitched up the white cuffs under his dark sleeves, swung his +umbrella, and resumed his way, his lips puckered, a little feverish +agitation seizing him.</p> + +<p>"A strange, down-hearted kind of a man," the stonebreaker said +to himself, as he reached out for a lump of lime-stone and raised +his hammer. A redbreast, perched on an old thorn bush, looking out +on the scene with curious eyes, stretched his wing and his leg, as +much as to say, "Ah, well," sharpened his beak on a twig, and +dropped into the ditch to pick up such gifts as the good earth +yielded.</p> + +<p>The Rector walked along the road pensive, but steadfast, his +eyes upon the alien hills, his mind travelling over ridges of +problems that never afforded the gleam of solution. He heard a +shout of a laugh. Above the local accents that held a cadence of +the Gaelic speech he heard the sharp clipping Northern accent of +his own gardener and general factotum. He had brought the man with +him when he first came to Connacht, half as a mild form of +colonisation, half through a suspicion of local honesty. He now saw +the man's shaggy head over the Rectory garden wall, and outside it +were the peasants.</p> + +<p>How was it that the gardener got on with the local people? How +was it that they stood on the road to speak with him, shouting +their extravagant laughter at his keen, dry Northern humour?</p> + +<p>When he first came the gardener had been more grimly hostile to +the place than the Rector himself. There had been an ugly row on +the road, and blows had been struck. But that was some years ago. +The gardener now appeared very much merged in the life of the +place; the gathering outside the Rectory garden was friendly, +almost a family party. How was it to be accounted for? Once or +twice the Rector found himself suspecting that at the bottom of the +phenomenon there might be all unconscious among these people a +spirit of common country, of a common democracy, a common humanity, +that forced itself to the surface in course of time. The Rector +stood, his lips working, his nicely-shaped little head quivering +with a sudden agitation. For he found himself thinking along +unusual lines, and for that very reason dangerous +lines—frightfully dangerous lines, he told himself, as an +ugly enlightenment broke across his mind, warming it up for a few +moments and no more. As he turned in the gate at the Rectory it was +a relief to him—for his own thoughts were frightening +him—to see the peasants moving away and the head of the +gardener disappear behind the wall. He walked up the path to the +Rectory, the lawn dotted over with sombre yew trees all clipped +into the shape of torpedoes, all trained directly upon the forts of +Heaven! The house was large and comfortable, the walls a faded +yellow. Like the church, it was thrown up against the background of +the hills. It had all the sombre exclusiveness that made appeal to +the Rector. The sight of it comforted him at the moment, and his +mental agitation died down. He became normal enough to resume his +accustomed outlook, and before he had reached the end of the path +his mind had become obsessed again by the thought of the <i>Ne +Temere</i> decree. Something should, he felt convinced, be done, +and done at once.</p> + +<p>He ground his umbrella on the step in front of the Rectory door +and pondered. At last he came to a conclusion, inspiration lighting +up his faded eyes. He tossed his head upwards.</p> + +<p>"I must write a letter to the papers," he said. "Ireland is +lost."</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='THE_HOME_COMING'></a> +<h2>THE HOME-COMING</h2> + +<br> + Persons:<br> +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'>Mrs. Ford</span><br> +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'>Donagh Ford</span><br> +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'>Hugh Deely</span><br> +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'>Agnes Deely</span><br> +<br> +<span style='margin-left: 1em;'>Scene: A farmhouse in +Connacht.</span><br> + + +<p>Hugh: They'll make short work of the high field. It's half +ploughed already.</p> + +<p>Donagh: It was good of the people to gather as they did, giving +us their labour.</p> + +<p>Hugh: The people had always a wish for your family, Donagh. Look +at the great name your father left behind him in Carrabane. It +would be a fine sight for him if he had lived to stand at this door +now, looking at the horses bringing the plough over the ground.</p> + +<p>Donagh: And if he could move about this house, even in his great +age. He never got accustomed to the smallness of the hut down at +Cussmona.</p> + +<p>Hugh: When I was a bit of a gosoon I remember the people talking +about the eviction of Donagh Ford. It was terrible work used to be +in Carrabane those times. Your father was the first man to fight, +and that was why the people thought so well of him.</p> + +<p>Donagh: He would never speak of it himself, for at home he was a +silent, proud man. But my mother used to be telling me of it many a +time.</p> + +<p>Hugh: Your mother and yourself have the place back now. And you +have Agnes to think of.</p> + +<p>Donagh: Agnes is a good thought to me surely. Was she telling +you we fixed the day of the wedding yesterday at your uncle's?</p> + +<p>Hugh: She was not. A girl like her is often shy of speaking +about a thing of that kind to her brother. I'd only be making game +of her. (<i>A cheer is heard in the distance outside. Hugh goes to +look out door.</i>)</p> + +<p>Hugh: Here is the car coming up the road with your mother and +Agnes. They're giving her a welcome.</p> + +<p>Donagh (<i>looking out of window</i>): She'll be very proud of +the people, they to have such a memory of my father.</p> + +<p>Hugh: I'll run out and greet her. (<i>In a sly undertone.</i>) +Agnes is coming up. (<i>He goes out laughing. Donagh hangs up +harness on some pegs. Agnes Deely, wearing a shawl over her head +and carrying a basket on her arm, comes in.</i>)</p> + +<p>Agnes: Donagh, your mother was greatly excited leaving the hut. +I think she doesn't rightly understand what is happening.</p> + +<p>Donagh: I was afeard of that. The memory slips on her betimes. +She thinks she's back in the old days again.</p> + +<p>Agnes (<i>going to dresser, taking parcels from the +basket.</i>): My father was saying that we should have everything +here as much like what it used to be as we can. That's why he +brought up the bin. When they were evicted he took it up to his own +place because it was too big for the hut.</p> + +<p>Donagh: Do you know, Agnes, when I came up here this morning +with your brother, Hugh, I felt the place strange and lonesome. I +think an evicted house is never the same, even when people go back +to it. There seemed to be some sorrow hanging over it.</p> + +<p>Agnes (<i>putting up her shawl</i>): Now Donagh, that's no way +for you to be speaking. If you were to see how glad all the people +were! And you ought to have the greatest joy.</p> + +<p>Donagh: Well, then I thought of you, Agnes, and that changed +everything. I went whistling about the place. (<i>Going to +her.</i>) After coming down from your uncle's yesterday evening I +heard the first cry of the cuckoo in the wood at Raheen.</p> + +<p>Agnes: That was a good omen, Donagh.</p> + +<p>Donagh: I took it that way, too, for it was the first greeting I +got after parting from yourself. Did you hear it, Agnes?</p> + +<p>Agnes: I did not. I heard only one sound the length of the +evening.</p> + +<p>Donagh: What sound was that, Agnes?</p> + +<p>Agnes: I heard nothing only the singing of one song, a lovely +song, all about Donagh Ford!</p> + +<p>Donagh: About me?</p> + +<p>Agnes: Yes, indeed. It was no bird and no voice, but the singing +I heard of my own heart.</p> + +<p>Donagh: That was a good song to hear, Agnes. It is like a +thought that would often stir in a man's mind and find no word to +suit it. It is often that I thought that way of you and could speak +no word.</p> + +<p>Agnes: All the same I think I would have an understanding for +it, Donagh.</p> + +<p>Donagh: Ah, Agnes, that is just it. That is what gives me the +great comfort in your company. We have a great understanding of +each other surely.</p> + +<p>Hugh (<i>speaking outside</i>): This is the way, Mrs. Ford. They +are waiting for you within. (<i>He comes in.</i>) Donagh, here is +your mother. (<i>Mrs. Ford, leaning on a stick, comes to the door, +standing on the threshold for a little. Hugh and Donagh take off +their hats reverently.</i>)</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: And is that you, Donagh. Well, if it is not the fine +high house you got for Agnes. Eh, pet?</p> + +<p>Agnes (<i>taking shawl from her</i>): It is your own house +Donagh has taken you back to.</p> + +<p>Hugh: Did you not hear the people giving you a welcome, Mrs. +Ford?</p> + +<p>Donagh: Don't you remember the house, mother?</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: I have a memory of many a thing, God help me. And I +heard the people cheering. I thought maybe it was some strife was +going on in Carrabane. It was always a place of one struggle or +another. (<i>She looks helplessly about house, muttering as she +hobbles to the bin. She raises the lid.</i>) Won't you take out a +measure of oats to the mare, Donagh? And they have mislaid the +scoop again. I'm tired telling them not to be leaving it in the +barn. Where is that Martin Driscoll and what way is he doing his +business at all? (<i>She turns to close the bin.</i>)</p> + +<p>Hugh (<i>to Donagh</i>): Who is Martin Driscoll?</p> + +<p>Donagh: A boy who was here long ago. I heard a story of him and +a flight with a girl. He lies in a grave in Australia long +years.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>moving from bin, her eyes catching the +dresser</i>): Who put the dresser there? Was it by my orders? That +is a place where it will come awkward to me.</p> + +<p>Agnes (<i>going to her</i>): Sit down and rest yourself. You are +fatigued after making the journey.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>as they cross to fire</i>): Wait until I lay eyes +on Martin Driscoll and on Delia Morrissey of the cross! I tell you +I will regulate them.</p> + +<p>Donagh (<i>to Hugh</i>): Delia Morrissey—that is the name +of the girl I spoke of. She was lost on the voyage, a girl of great +beauty.</p> + +<p>Agnes (<i>to Mrs. Ford</i>): Did you take no stock of the people +as you came on the car?</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: In throth I did. It was prime to see them there +reddening the sod and the little rain drops falling from the +branches of the trees.</p> + +<p>Hugh: They raised a great cheer for you.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Did you say that it was to me they were giving a +welcome?</p> + +<p>Donagh: Indeed it was, mother.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>laughing a little</i>): Mind that, Agnes. They are +the lively lads to be taking stock of an old woman the like of me +driving the roads.</p> + +<p>Hugh: The people could not but feel some stir to see what they +saw this day. I declare to you, Donagh, when I saw her old stooped +dark figure thrown against the sky on the car it moved something in +me.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: What are you saying about a stir in the country, Hugh +Deely?</p> + +<p>Hugh: Was it not something to see the planter going from this +place? Was it not something to see you and Donagh coming from a +miserable place in the bog?</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>sharply</i>): The planter, did you say? +(<i>Clutching her stick to rise</i>). Blessed be God! Is Curley the +planter gone from Carrabane? Don't make any lie to me, Hugh +Deely.</p> + +<p>Hugh: Curley is gone.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>rising with difficulty, her agitation +growing</i>): And his wife? What about his trollop of a wife?</p> + +<p>Donagh: The whole brood and tribe of them went a month back.</p> + +<p>Agnes: Did not Donagh tell you that you were back in your own +place again? (<i>Mrs. Ford moves about, a consciousness of her +surroundings breaking upon her. She goes to room door, pushing it +open.</i>)</p> + +<p>Hugh: It is all coming back to her again.</p> + +<p>Donagh: She was only a little upset in her mind.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>coming from room door</i>): Agnes, and you, Hugh +Deely, come here until I be telling you a thing of great wonder. It +was in this house Donagh there was born. And it was in that room +that we laid out his little sister, Mary. I remember the March day +and the yellow flowers they put around her in the bed. She had no +strength for the rough world. I crossed her little white hands on +the breast where the life died in her like a flame. Donagh, my son, +it was nearly all going from my mind.</p> + +<p>Agnes: This is no day for sad thoughts. Think of the great thing +it is for you to be back here again.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Ah, that's the truth, girl. Did the world ever hear +of such a story as an old woman like me to be standing in this +place and the planter gone from Currabane! And if Donagh Ford is +gone to his rest his son is here to answer for him.</p> + +<p>Donagh: The world knows I can never be the man my father +was.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>raising her stick with a little cry</i>): Ah-ha, +the people saw the great strength of Donagh Ford. 'They talk of a +tenant at will,' he'd say, 'but who is it that can chain the +purpose of a man's mind.' And they all saw it. There was no great +spirit in the country when Donagh Ford took the courage of his own +heart and called the people together.</p> + +<p>Hugh: This place was a place of great strife then.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: God send, Agnes Deely, that you'll never have the +memory of a bitter eviction burned into your mind.</p> + +<p>Donagh: That's all over and done now, mother. There is a new +life before you.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Well, they had their way and put us across the +threshold. But if they did it was on this hearth was kindled a +blaze that swept the townland and wrapped the country. It went from +one place to another and no wave that rose upon the Shannon could +hold it back. It was a thing that no power could check, for it ran +in the blood and only wasted in the vein of the father to leap +fresh in the heart of the son. Ah, I will go on my knees and kiss +the threshold of this house for the things it calls to mind. +(<i>She goes to door, kneeling down and kissing the +threshold.</i>)</p> + +<p>Hugh: It is a great hold she has on the old days and a great +spirit. (<i>A low murmur of voices is heard in the distance +outside.</i>)</p> + +<p>Donagh: They are turning the ploughs into the second field.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: What's that you say about the ploughs?</p> + +<p>Donagh (<i>going to her</i>): The boys are breaking up the land +for us. (<i>He and Hugh help her to rise. They are all grouped at +the door.</i>)</p> + +<p>Agnes: It was they who cheered you on the road.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: The sight is failing me.</p> + +<p>Donagh. I can only make out little dark spots against the green +of the fields.</p> + +<p>Donagh: Those are the people, mother.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>crossing to fireplace</i>): The people are +beginning to gather behind the ploughs again. Tell me, Donagh, what +way is the wind coming?</p> + +<p>Donagh: It is coming up from the South.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>speaking more to herself</i>): Well, I can ask no +more now. The wind is from the South and it will bear that cheer +past where HE is lying in Gurteen-na-Marbh. It is a kind wind and +it carries good music. Take my word for it every sound that goes on +the wind is not lost to the dead.</p> + +<p>Hugh: You ought to take her out of these thoughts.</p> + +<p>Agnes: Leave her with me for a little while. (<i>Hugh and Donagh +move to door.</i>)</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Where are you going, Donagh?</p> + +<p>Donagh: Down to the people breaking the ground. They will be +waiting for word of your home-coming.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Ah, sure you ought to have the people up here, <i>a +mhic</i>. I'd like to see all the old neighbours about me and hear +the music of their voices.</p> + +<p>Hugh: Very well. I'll step down and bid them up. (<i>He +goes.</i>)</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: You'll have the anxiety of the farm on your mind from +this out, Donagh.</p> + +<p>Donagh: Well, it is not the hut, with the hunger of the bog +about it, that I will be bringing Agnes into now.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Agnes, come here, love, until I look upon the +sweetness of your face. (<i>Agnes goes to her, kneeling by her +side.</i>) You'll be in this place with Donagh. It is a great +inheritance you will have in the name of Donagh Ford. It is no idle +name that will be in this house but the name of one who knew a +great strength. It will be a long line of generations that the name +of the Fords will reach out to, generations reaching to the time +that Ireland herself will rise by the power of her own will.</p> + +<p>Agnes (<i>rising</i>): You will only sadden yourself by these +thoughts. Think of what there is in store for you.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: I'm an old woman now, child. There can be no fresh +life before me. But I can tell you that I was young and full of +courage once. I was the woman who stood by the side of Donagh Ford, +that gave him support in the day of trial, that was always the +strong branch in the storm and in the calm. Am I saying any word +only what is a true word, Donagh?</p> + +<p>Donagh: The truth of that is well known to the people. (<i>He +goes to door.</i>)</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Very well. Gather up all the people now, son. Let +them come in about this place for many of them have a memory of it. +Let me hear the welcome of their voices. They will have good words +to say, speaking on the greatness of Donagh Ford who is dead.</p> + +<p>Donagh: They are coming out from the fields with Hugh, mother. I +see the young fellows falling into line. They are wearing their +caps and sashes and they have the band. I can see them carrying the +banner to the front of the crowd. Here they are marching up the +road. (<i>The strains of a fife and drum band playing a spirited +march are heard in the distance. Mrs. Ford rises slowly, +"humouring" the march with her stick, her face expressing her +delight. The band stops.</i>)</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: That's the spirit of Carrabane. Let the people now +look upon me in this place and let them take pride in my son.</p> + +<p>Donagh: I see Stephen Mac Donagh.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Let him be the first across the threshold, for he +went to jail with Donagh Ford. Have beside him Murt Cooney that +lost his sight at the struggle of Ballyadams. Let him lift up his +poor blind face till I see the rapture of it.</p> + +<p>Donagh: Murt Cooney is coming, and Francis Kilroy and Brian +Mulkearn.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: It was they who put a seal of silence on their lips +and bore their punishment to save a friend of the people. Have a +place beside me for the widow of Con Rafferty who hid the smoking +revolver the day the tyrant fell at the cross of Killbrack.</p> + +<p>Donagh: All the old neighbours are coming surely.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>crossing slowly to door, Agnes going before +her</i>): Let me look into their eyes for the things I will see +stirring there. I will reach them out the friendship of my hands +and speak to them the words that lie upon my heart. The rafters of +this house will ring again with the voices that Donagh Ford +welcomed and that I loved. Aye, the very fire on the hearth will +leap in memory of the hands that tended it.</p> + +<p>Donagh: This will be such a day as will be made a boast of for +ever in Carrabane. (<i>Agnes goes out door to meet the +people.</i>)</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford: Let there be music and the sound of rejoicing and +shouts from the hills. Let those who put their feet in anger upon +us and who are themselves reduced to-day look back upon the +strength they held and the power they lost.</p> + +<p>Donagh: I will bid the music play up. (<i>He goes out.</i>)</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ford (<i>standing alone at the door</i>): People of +Carrabane, gather about the old house of Donagh Ford. Let the fight +for the land in this place end where it began. Let the courage and +the strength that Donagh Ford knew be in your blood from this day +out. Let the spirit be good and the hand be strong for the work +that the heart directs. Raise up your voices with my voice this day +and let us make a great praise on the name of Ireland. (<i>She +raises her stick, straightening her old figure. The band strikes up +and the people cheer outside as the curtain falls.</i>)</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='A_WAYSIDE_BURIAL'></a> +<h2>A WAYSIDE BURIAL</h2> + +<br> + + +<p>The parish priest was in a very great hurry and yet anxious for +a talk on his pet subject. He wanted to speak about the new +temperance hall. Would I mind walking a little way with him while +he did so? He had a great many things to attend to that day.... We +made our way along the street together, left the town behind us, +and presently reached that sinister appendage of all Irish country +towns, the workhouse. The priest turned in the wide gate, and the +porter, old, official, spectacled, came to meet him.</p> + +<p>"Has the funeral gone?" asked the priest, a little +breathless.</p> + +<p>"I'll see, Father." The porter shuffled over the flags, a great +door swung open; there was a vista of whitewashed walls, a chilly, +vacant corridor, and beyond it a hall where old men were seated on +forms at a long, white deal table. They were eating—a silent, +grey, bent, beaten group. Through a glass partition we could see +the porter in his office turning over the leaves of a great +register.</p> + +<p>"I find," he said, coming out again, speaking as if he were +giving evidence at a sworn inquiry, "that the remains of Martin +Quirke, deceased, were removed at 4.15."</p> + +<p>"I am more than half an hour late," said the priest, regarding +his watch with some irritation.</p> + +<p>We hurried out and along the road to the country, the priest +trailing his umbrella behind him, speaking of the temperance hall +but preoccupied about the funeral he had missed, my eyes marking +the flight of flocks of starlings making westward.</p> + +<p>Less than a mile of ground brought us to the spot where the +paupers were buried. It lay behind a high wall, a narrow strip of +ground, cut off from a great lord's demesne by a wood. The scent of +decay was heavy in the place; it felt as if the spring and the +summer had dragged their steps here, to lie down and die with the +paupers. The uncut grass lay rank and grey and long—Nature's +unkempt beard—on the earth. The great bare chestnuts and oaks +threw narrow shadows over the irregular mounds of earth. Small, +rude wooden crosses stood at the heads of some of the mounds, +lopsided, drunken, weather-beaten. No names were inscribed upon +them. All the bones laid down here were anonymous. A robin was +singing at the edge of the wood; overhead the rapid wings of wild +pigeons beat the air.</p> + +<p>A stable bell rang impetuously in the distance, dismissing the +workmen on the lord's demesne. By a freshly-made grave two +gravediggers were leaning on their spades. They were paupers, too; +men who got some privilege for their efforts in this dark strip of +earth between the wood and the wall. One of them yawned. A third +man stood aloof, a minor official from the workhouse; he took a +pipe from his mouth as the priest approached.</p> + +<p>The three men gave one the feeling that they were rather tired +of waiting, impatient to have their little business through. It was +a weird spot in the gathering gloom of a November evening. The only +bright thing in the place, the only gay spot, the only cheerful +patch of colour, almost exulting in its grim surroundings, was the +heap of freshly thrown up soil from the grave. It was rich in +colour as newly-coined gold. Resting upon it was a clean, white, +unpainted coffin. The only ornament was a tin breastplate on the +lid and the inscription in black letters:</p> + +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'>Martin Quirke,</span><br> +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'>Died November 3, 1900.</span><br> +<span style='margin-left: 2em;'>R.I.P.</span><br> + + +<p>The white coffin on the pile of golden earth was like the altar +of some pagan god. I stood apart as the priest, vesting himself in +a black stole, approached the graveside and began the recital of +the burial service in Latin. The gravediggers, whose own bones +would one day be interred anonymously in the same ground, stood on +either side of him with their spades, two grim acolytes. The minor +official from the workhouse, the symbol of the State, bared a long, +narrow head, as white and as smooth as the coffin on the heap of +earth. I stood by a groggy wooden cross, the eternal observer.</p> + +<p>The priest spoke in a low monotone, holding the book close to +his eyes in the uncertain light. And as he read I fell to wondering +who our brother in the white coffin might be. Some merry tramp who +knew the pain and the joy of the road? Some detached soul who had +shaken off the burden of life's conventions, one who loved lightly +and took punishment casually? One who saw crime as a science, or +merely a broken reed? Or a soldier who had carried a knapsack in +foreign campaigns? A creature of empire who had found himself in +Africa, or Egypt, or India, or the Crimea, and come back again to +claim his pile of golden earth in the corner of the lord's demesne? +If the men had time, perhaps they would stick a little wooden cross +over the spot where his bones were laid down....</p> + +<p>The priest's voice continued the recitation of the burial +service and the robin sang at the edge of the dim wood. Down the +narrow strip of rank burial ground a low wind cried, and the light, +losing its glow in the western sky, threw a grey pall on the grass. +And under the influence of the moment a little memory of people I +had known and forgotten went across my mind, a memory that seemed +to stir in the low wind, a memory of people who had at the last got +their white, clean coffin and their rest on a pile of golden earth, +people who had gone like our brother in the deal boards.... There +was the man, the scholar, who had taught his school, who had an +intelligence, who could talk, who, perhaps, could have written +only—. The wind sobbed down the narrow strip of ground.... He +had made his battle, indeed, a long-drawn-out battle, for he had +only given way step by step, gradually but inexorably yielding +ground to the thing that was hunting him out of civilised life. He +had gone from his school, his home, his friends, fleeing from one +miserable refuge to another in the miserable country town. +Eventually he had passed in through the gates of the workhouse. It +was all very vivid now—his attempts to get back to the life +he had known, like a man struggling in the quicksands. There were +the little spurts back to the town, the well-shaped head, the face +which still held some remembrance of its distinction and its +manhood erect over the quaking, broken frame; that splendid head +like a noble piece of sculpture on the summit of a crumbling ruin. +Forth he would come, the flicker of resistance, a pallid +battle-light in the eyes, a vessel that had been all but wrecked +once more standing up the harbour to meet the winds that had driven +it from the seas—and after a little battle once more taking +in the sheets and crawling back to the anchorage of the dark +workhouse, there to suffer in the old way, in secret to curse, to +pray, to despair, to hope, to contrive some little repairs to the +broken physique in order that there might be yet another journey +into waters that were getting more and more shadowy. And the day +came when the only journey that could be made was a shuffle to the +gate, the haunted eyes staring into a world which was a nightmare +of regrets. How terrible was the pathos of that life, that +struggle, that tragedy, how poignant its memory while the robin +sang at the edge of the dim wood!... And there was that red-haired, +defiant young man with the build of an athlete, the eyes of an +animal. How bravely he could sing up the same road to the dark +house! It was to him as the burrow is to the rabbit. He would come +out to nibble at the regular and lawful intervals, and having +nibbled return to sleep and shout and fight for his "rights" in the +dark house. And once, on a spring day, he had come out with a +companion, a pale woman in a thin shawl and a drab skirt, and they +had taken to the roads together, himself swinging his ashplant, his +stride and manner carrying the illusion of purpose, his eyes on +everything and his mind nowhere; herself trotting over the broken +stones in her canvas shoes beside him, a pale shadow under the fire +of his red head. They had gone away into a road whose milestones +were dark houses, himself singing the song of his own life, a song +of mumbled words, without air or music; herself silent, clutching +her thin shawl over her breast, her feet pattering over the little +stones of the road.... The wind whistled down over the graves, by +the wooden crosses.... There was that little woman who at the close +of the day, when the light was charitable in its obscurity, opened +her door and came down from the threshold of her house, painfully +as if she were descending from a great height. Nobody was about. +All was quietness in the quiet street. And she drew the door to, +put the key in the lock, her hand trembled, the lock clicked! The +deed was done! Who but herself could know that the click of the key +in the lock was the end, the close, the dreadful culmination of the +best part of a whole century of struggle, of life? Behind that door +she had swept up a bundle of memories that were now all an agony +because the key had clicked in the lock. Behind the door was the +story of her life and the lives of her children and her children's +children. Where was the use, she might have asked, of blaming any +of them now? What was it that they had all gone, all scattered, +leaving her broken there at the last? Had not the key clicked in +the lock? In that click was the end of it all; in the empty house +were the ghosts of her girlhood, her womanhood, her motherhood, her +old age, her struggles, her successes, her skill in running her +little shop, her courage in riding one family squall after another! +The key had clicked in the lock. She moved down the quiet street, +sensitive lest the eye of the neighbours should see her, a +tottering, broken thing going by the vague walls, keeping to the +back streets, setting out for the dark house beyond the town. She +had said to them, "I will be no trouble to you." And, indeed, she +was not. They had little more to do for her than join her hands +over her breast.... The wind was plaintive in the gaunt trees of +the dark wood.... Which of us could say he would never turn a key +in the lock of an empty house? How many casual little twists of the +wrist of Fate stand between the best of us and the step down from +the threshold of a broken home? What rags of memories have any of +us to bundle behind the door of the empty house when the hour comes +for us to click the key in the lock?... The wind cried down the +narrow strip of ground where the smell of decay was in the +grass.</p> + +<p>There was a movement beside the white coffin, the men were +lifting it off the golden pile of earth and lowering it into the +dark pit. The men's feet slipped and shuffled for a foothold in the +yielding clay. At last a low, dull thud sounded up from the mouth +of the pit. Our brother in the white coffin had at last found a +lasting tenure in the soil.</p> + +<p>The official from the dark house moved over to me. He spoke in +whispers, holding the hat an official inch of respect for the dead +above the narrow white shred of his skull.</p> + +<p>"Martin Quirke they are burying," he said.</p> + +<p>"Who was he?"</p> + +<p>"Didn't you ever hear tell of Martin Quirke?"</p> + +<p>"No, never."</p> + +<p>"A big man he was one time, with his acres around him and his +splendid place. Very proud people they were—he and his +brother—and very hot, too. The Quirkes of Ballinadee."</p> + +<p>"And now—"</p> + +<p>I did not finish the sentence. The priest was spraying the +coffin in the grave with the golden earth.</p> + +<p>"Ashes to ashes and dust to dust." It fell briskly on the +shallow deal timber.</p> + +<p>"'Twas the land agitation, the fight for the land, that brought +Martin Quirke down," said the official as the earth sprayed the +pauper's coffin. "He was one of the first to go out under the Plan +of Campaign—the time of the evictions. They never got back +their place. When the settlement came the Quirkes were broken. +Martin lost his spirit and his heart. Drink it was that got him in +the end, and now—"</p> + +<p>"Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat +eis," the priest's voice said.</p> + +<p>"All the same," said the official, "It was men like Martin +Quirke who broke the back of landlordism. He was strong and he was +weak. God rest him!"</p> + +<p>I walked away over the uneven ground, the memory of the land +agitation, its bitterness and its passion, oppressing me. Stories +of things such as this stalked the country like ghosts.</p> + +<p>The priest overtook me, and we turned to leave. Down the narrow +strip of the lord's demesne were the little pauper mounds, like +narrow boxes wrapped in the long grey grass. Their pathos was +almost vibrant in the dim November light. And away beyond them were +a series of great heaps, looking like broad billows out to sea. The +priest stood for a moment.</p> + +<p>"You see the great mounds at the end?" he asked. "They are the +Famine Pits."</p> + +<p>"The Famine Pits?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; the place where the people were buried in heaps and +hundreds, in thousands, during the Famine of '46 and '47. They died +like flies by the roadside. You see such places in almost every +part of Ireland. I hope the people will never again die like +that—die gnawing the gravel on the roadside."</p> + +<p>The rusty iron gate in the demesne wall swung open and we passed +out.</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='THE_GRAY_LAKE'></a> +<h2>THE GRAY LAKE</h2> + +<br> + + +<p>"I can see every colour in the water except gray," said the lady +who was something of a sceptic.</p> + +<p>"That," said the humorist, tilting back his straw hat, "is the +very reason they call it the Gray Lake. The world bristles with +misnomers."</p> + +<p>"Which explains," said the lady sceptic, "why they call Eamonn a +<i>seannachie</i>."</p> + +<p>"Hi!" called out the humorist. "Do you hear that, Eamonn?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Cad tá ort?</i>" asked Eamonn. He had been leaning +out over the prow of the boat, looking vaguely into the water, and +now turned round. Eamonn was always asking people, "<i>Cad +tá ort?</i>" and before they had time to answer he was +saying, or thinking, something else.</p> + +<p>"Why do they call this the Gray Lake?" asked the lady sceptic. +"It never looked really gray, did it?"</p> + +<p>"Of course it did," said Eamonn. "The first man who ever saw it +beheld it in the gray light of dawn, and so he called it <i>Baile +Loch Riabhach</i>, the Town of the Gray Lough."</p> + +<p>"When might that be?" asked the lady sceptic drily.</p> + +<p>"The morning after the town was drowned," said Eamonn.</p> + +<p>"What town?"</p> + +<p>"The town we are now rowing over."</p> + +<p>"Good heavens! Is there a town beneath us?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Seadh</i>", said Eamonn. "Just now I was trying if I could +see anything of the ruins at the bottom of the lake."</p> + +<p>"And you did, of course."</p> + +<p>"I think so."</p> + +<p>"What did you see?"</p> + +<p>"Confusion and the vague, glimmering gable of a house or two. +Then the oars splashed and the water became dense."</p> + +<p>"But tell us how the town came to be at the bottom of the lake," +said the man who rowed, shipping his oars. The boat rocked in the +quick wash of the waves. The water was warming in vivid colours +under the glow of the sunset. Eamonn leaned back in his seat at the +prow of the boat. His eyes wandered away over the water to the +slope of meadows, the rise of hills.</p> + +<p>"<i>Anois, Eamonn</i>," said the lady sceptic, still a little +drily. "The story!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;'> +<p>Long and long ago, said Eamonn, there was a sleepy old town +lying snug in the dip of a valley. It was famous for seven of the +purest springs of water which ever sparkled in the earth. They +called it the Seven Sisters. Round the springs they built an +immense and costly well. Over the well was a great leaden lid of +extraordinary weight, and by a certain mechanical device this lid +was closed on the well every evening at sundown. The springs became +abnormally active between sundown and sunrise, so that there was +always a danger that they might flood the valley and destroy the +people. As security against this the citizens had built the great +well with its monster lid, and each evening the lid was locked over +the well by means of a secret lock and a secret key.</p> + +<p>The most famous person in the town of the Seven Sisters was the +Keeper of the Key. He was a man of dignified bearing, important +airs, wearing white silk knee-breeches, a green swallow-tail coat, +and a cocked hat. On the sleeve of his coat was embroidered in gold +the image of a key and seven sprays of water. He had great +privileges and authority, and could condemn or reprieve any sort of +criminal except, of course, a sheep stealer. He lived in a mansion +beside the town, and this mansion was almost as famous as the seven +famous springs. People travelled from far places to see it. A +flight of green marble steps led to a broad door of oak. On the +broad oaken door he had fashioned one of the most remarkable +knockers and the most beautiful door knob that were known to +Europe. Both were of beaten gold. The knocker was wrought in the +shape of a key. The door knob was a group of seven water nymphs. A +sensation was created which agitated all Ireland when this work of +art was completed by five of the foremost goldsmiths in the land. +The Keeper of the Key of the Seven Sisters issued a Proclamation +declaring that there was a flaw in the rounding of one of the +ankles of the group of seven water nymphs. He had the five +goldsmiths suddenly arrested and put on their trial. "The Gael," +said the Keeper of the Key, "must be pure-blooded in his art. I am +of the Clann Gael, I shall not allow any half-artist to come to my +door, there work under false pretence and go unpunished." The +goldsmiths protested that their work was the work of artists and +flawless as the design. Not another word would they be allowed to +speak. Bards and artists, scholars and men skilled in controversy, +flocked from all parts to see the door knob. A terrible controversy +ensued. Sides were taken, some for, others against, the ankle of +the water nymph. They came to be known as the Ankleites and the +anti-Ankleites. And in that tremendous controversy the Keeper of +the Key proved the masterly manner of man he was. He had the five +goldsmiths convicted for failure as supreme artists, and they were +sentenced to banishment from the country. On their way from the +shore to the ship that was to bear them away their curragh sprang a +sudden leak, and they were all drowned. That was the melancholy end +of the five chief goldsmiths of Eirinn.</p> + +<p>Every morning at daybreak trumpets were blown outside the +mansion of the Keeper of the Key. The gates of a courtyard swung +open and out marched an armed guard, men in saffron kilts, bearing +spears and swords. They formed up before the flight of marble +steps. A second fanfare of the trumpets, and back swung the great +oaken door, disclosing the Keeper of the Key in his bright silks +and cocked hat. Out he would come on the doorstep, no attendants by +him, and pulling to the great door by the famous knob he would +descend the marble steps, the guard would take up position, and, +thus escorted, he would cross the drawbridge of the moat and enter +the town of the Seven Sisters, marching through the streets to the +great well. People would have gathered there even at that early +hour, women bearing vessels to secure their supply of the water, +which, it was said, had an especial virtue when taken at the break +of day. No mortal was allowed nearer than fifty yards to the well +while the Keeper proceeded to unlock the lid. His guard would stand +about, and with a haughty air he would approach the well solus. The +people would see him make some movements, and back would slide the +enormous lid. A blow on the trumpets proclaimed that the well was +open, and the people would approach it, laughing and chattering, +and the Keeper of the Key would march back to his mansion in the +same military order, ascend the steps, push open the great door, +and the routine of daily life would ensue. For the closing of the +well at sundown a similar ceremony was observed. The only +additional incident was the marching of a crier through the +streets, beating great wooden clappers, and standing at each street +corner calling out in a loud voice: "Hear ye people that the lock +is on the Seven Sisters. All's well!"</p> + +<p>In those days there was a saying among the people which was in +common usage all over Ireland. When a man became possessed of any +article or property to which he had a doubtful title his neighbours +said, with a significant wag of the head, "He got it where the +Keeper gets the Key." This saying arose out of a mysterious thing +in the life of the Keeper of the Key. Nobody ever saw the secret +key. It was not in his hands when he came forth from the mansion +morning and evening to fulfil his great office. He did not carry it +in his pockets, for the simple reason that he had had no pockets. +He kept no safe nor secret panel nor any private drawer in his +mansion that the most observant among his retainers could espy. Yet +that there was a secret key, and that it was inserted in a lock, +anybody could see for himself, even at a distance of fifty yards, +twice a day at the well. It was as if at that moment the key came +into his hand out of the air and again vanished into air when the +proper business was over. Indeed, there were people of even those +remote and enlightened days who attributed some wizardy to the +Keeper of the Key. It added to the awe in which he was held and to +the sense of security which the proceedings of his whole life +inspired in his fellow-citizens. Nevertheless had the Keeper of the +Key his enemies. A man of distinction and power can no more tread +the paths of his ambitions without stirring up rivalries and +hostilities than can the winds howl across the earth and leave the +dust on the roads undisturbed. The man who assumes power will +always, sooner or later, have his power to hold put to the test. So +it was with the Keeper of the Key. There were people who nursed the +ambition of laying hands on the secret key. That secured, they +would be lords of the town of the Seven Sisters. The reign of the +great Keeper would be over. His instinct told him that these +dangers were always about. He was on the alert. He had discovered +treachery even within the moat of his own keep. His servants and +guards had been tampered with. But all the attempts upon his key +and his power had been in vain. He kept to the grand unbroken +simplicity of his masterly routine. He had crushed his enemies +whenever they had arisen. "One who has survived the passions of +Ireland's poets," he would say—for the poets had all been +Ankleites—"is not likely to bow the knee before snivelling +little thieves." A deputation which had come to him proposing that +the well should be managed by a constitutional committee of the +citizens was flogged by the guards across the drawbridge. The +leader of this deputation was a deformed tailor, who soon after +planned an audacious attack on the mansion of the Keeper of the +Key. The Keeper, his guards, servants and retainers were all one +night secretly drugged and for several hours of the night lay +unconscious in the mansion. Into it swarmed the little tailor and +his constitutional committee; they pulled the whole interior to +pieces in search of the key. The very pillows under the head of the +Keeper had been stabbed and ransacked. It was nearing daybreak when +the Keeper awoke, groggy from the effects of the narcotic. The +guard was roused. The whole place was in confusion. The robbers had +fled, leaving the great golden knocker on the door hanging from its +position; they were removing it when surprised. The nymphs were +untouched. The voice of the Keeper of the Key was deliberate, +authoritative, commanding, amid the confusion. The legs of the +guards quaked beneath them, their heads swam, and they said to each +other, "Now surely is the key gone!" But their master hurried them +to their morning duty, and they escorted him to the well a little +beyond daybreak, and, lo, at the psychological moment, there was +the key and back rolled the lid from the precious well. "Surely," +they said, "this man is blessed, for the key comes to him as a gift +from Heaven. The robbers of the earth are powerless against him." +When the citizens of the Seven Sisters heard of what had taken +place in the evil hours of the night they poured across the +drawbridge from the town and acclaimed the Keeper of the Key before +his mansion. He came out on the watch tower, his daughter by his +side, and with dignified mien acknowledged the acclamations of the +citizens. And before he put the lid on the well that night the +deformed tailor and his pards were all dragged through the streets +of the Seven Sisters and cast into prison.</p> + +<p>Never was the popularity of the Keeper at so high a level as +after this episode. They would have declared him the most perfect +as the most powerful of men were it not for one little spot on the +bright sun of his fame. They did not like his domestic habits. The +daughter who stood by his side on the watch tower was a young girl +of charm, a fair, frail maiden, a slender lily under the towering +shadow of her dark father. The citizens did not, perhaps, +understand his instincts of paternity; and, indeed, if they +understood them they would not have given them the sanction of +their approval. The people only saw that the young girl, his only +child, was condemned to what they called a life of virtual +imprisonment in the mansion. She was a warm-blooded young creature, +and like all warm-blooded creatures, inclined to gaiety of spirits, +to impulsive friendships to a joyous and engaging frankness. These +traits, the people saw, the father disapproved of and checked, and +the young girl was regarded with great pity. "Ah," they would say, +"he is a wonderful Keeper of the Key, but, alas, how harsh a +father!" He would not allow the girl any individual freedom; she +was under eternal escort when abroad; she was denied the society of +those of her years; she was a flower whose fragrance it was not the +privilege of the people to enjoy. It may be that the people, in +murmuring against all this, did not make sufficient allowance for +the circumstances of the life of the Keeper of the Key. He was +alone, he stood apart from all men. His only passion in life had +been the strict guardianship of a trust. In these circumstances his +affections for his only child were direct and crude and, too, maybe +a little unconsciously harsh. His love for his child was the love +of the oyster for its pearl. The people saw nothing but the rough, +tight shells which closed about the treasure in the mansion of the +Keeper of the Key. More than one considerable wooer had approached +that mansion, laying claim to the pearl which it held. All were met +with the same terrible dark scowl and sent about their business. +"You, sir," the Keeper of the Key would say, "come to my door, +knock upon my knocker, lay hands upon my door knob—my golden +door knob—and ask for my daughter's hand! Sir, your audacity +is your only excuse. Let it also be your defence against my wrath. +Now, sir, a very good day!" And when the citizens heard that yet +another gallant wooer had come and been dismissed they would say, +"The poor child, the poor child, what a pity!"</p> + +<p>The truth was that the daughter of the Keeper of the Key was not +in the least unhappy. She had a tremendous opinion of her father; +she lavished upon him all the warm affection of her young ardour. +She reigned like a young queen within the confines of her home. She +was about the gardens and the grounds all day, as joyous as a bird. +Once or twice her governess gave her some inkling as to the suitors +who came to the mansion requesting her hand, for that is an affair +that cannot be kept from the most jealously-guarded damsel. The +governess had a sense of humour and entertained the girl with +accounts of the manner of lovers who, as she put it, washed up the +marble steps of the mansion to the oak door, like waves on a shore, +and were sent back again into the ocean of rejections. The young +girl was much amused and secretly flattered at these events. "Ah," +she would say, in a little burst of rapture, "how splendid is my +father!" The pearl rejoices in the power of the oyster to shut it +away from the world.</p> + +<p>Now (continued Eamonn), on the hilly slopes of the country +called Sunnach there was a shepherd boy, and people who saw that he +was a rare boy in looks and intelligence were filled with pity for +his unhappy lot. The bodach for whom he herded was a dour, +ill-conditioned fellow, full of curses and violent threats, but the +boy was content in the life of the hillsides, and troubled very +little about the bodach's dour looks. "Some day," he would say to +himself laughingly, "I will compose terrible verses about his black +mouth." One day the shepherd boy drove a little flock of the +bodach's lively sheep to the fair in the town of the Seven Sisters. +As he passed the mansion of the Keeper of the Key he cried out, +"How up! how up! how up!" His voice was clear and full, the notes +as round and sweet as the voice of the cuckoo. The daughter of the +Keeper of the Key was seated by a window painting a little picture +when she heard the "How up!" of the shepherd's voice. "What +beautiful calls!" she exclaimed, and leaned out from the window. At +the same moment the shepherd boy looked up. He was bare-headed and +wore his plaids. His head was a shock of curly straw-coloured hair, +his face eager, clear-cut, his eyes golden-brown and bright as the +eyes of a bird. He smiled and the damsel smiled. "How up! how up! +how up!" he sang out joyously to his flock as he moved down to the +fair. The damsel went back to her little picture and sat there for +some time staring at her palette and mixing the wrong colours.</p> + +<p>That evening the Keeper of the Key, as was his custom, escorted +his daughter on his arm, servants before and behind them, through +the town of the Seven Sisters, viewing such sights of the fair as +were agreeable and doing a little shopping. The people, seeing the +great man coming, made way for him on the paths, and bowed and +smiled to him as he passed. He walked with great dignity, and his +daughter's beauty made the bystanders say, "Happy will it be for +the lucky man!" Among those they encountered was the shepherd boy, +and he gazed upon the damsel with rapture in his young eyes. He +followed them about the town at a respectful distance, and back to +their mansion. The shepherd boy did not return to the hilly country +called Sunnach that night, nor the next night, nor for many a long +day and night. He remained in the town of the Seven Sisters, +running on errants, driving carts, doing such odd jobs as came his +way, and all because he wanted to gaze upon the daughter of the +Keeper of the Key. In the evening he would go by the mansion +singing out, "How up! how up! how up!" as if he were driving flocks +past. And in the window he would see the wave of a white hand. He +would go home, then, to his little back room in the lodging-house, +and there stay up very late at night, writing, in the candle-light, +verses to the damsel. One Song of the Shepherd Boy to his Lady has +survived:</p> + +<i>Farewell to the sweet reed I tuned on the hill,<br> +My grief for the rough slopes of Sunnach so still,<br> +The wind in the fir tree and bleat of the ewe<br> +Are lost in the wild cry my heart makes for you.<br> +The brown floors I danced on, the sheds where I lay,<br> +Are gone from my mind like a wing in the bay:<br> +Dear lady, I'd herd the wild swans in the skies<br> +If they knew of lake water as blue as your eyes!</i><br> + + +<p>Well, it was not very long, as you can imagine, until the Keeper +of the Key observed the shepherd boy loitering about the mansion. +When he heard him calling past the house to imaginary flocks a +scowl came upon his face. "Ah-ha!" he said, "another conspiracy! +Last time it was a hunchback tailor. This time they come from the +country. They signal by the cries of shepherds. Well, I shall do +the driving for them!" There and then he had the shepherd boy +apprehended, bound, and put in a cell. In due course he was accused +and sentenced, like the famous goldsmiths, to banishment from +Eirinn. When the daughter of the Keeper heard what had come to pass +she was filled with grief. She appeared before her father for the +first time with tears in her eyes and woe in her face. He was +greatly moved, and seated the girl by his side. She knelt by his +knee and confessed to the whole affair with the shepherd boy. The +Keeper of the Key was a little relieved to learn that his +suspicions of a fresh conspiracy were unfounded, but filled with +indignation that such a person as a shepherd should not alone +aspire to but win the heart of his daughter. "What have we come +to," he said, "when a wild thing from the hills of Sunnach comes +down and dares to lay his hand on the all but perfect water nymphs +on the golden knob of my door! Justice shall be done. The order of +banishment is set aside. Let this wild hare of the hills, this +mountain rover, be taken and seven times publicly dipped in the +well. I guarantee that will cool him! He shall then have until +break of day to clear out of my town. Let him away back to the +swine on the hills." The girl pleaded that the boy might be spared +the frightful indignity of a public dipping in the well of the +Seven Sisters, but her father was implacable. "Have I not spoken?" +he said sternly, and the damsel was led away by her governess in +tears.</p> + +<p>The people flocked to the well as they might to a Feis to see +the dipping of the shepherd boy. Cries of merriment arose among +them when the boy, bound in strips of hide, was lowered by the +servants of the Keeper of the Key into the mouth of the great well. +It was a cold, dark, creepy place down in the shaft of the well, +the walls reeking, covered with slimy green lichen, the waters +roaring. The shepherd boy closed his eyes and gave himself up for +lost. But the Seven Sisters of the well kept moving down as fast as +the servants told out the rope, until at last they could not lower +him any farther. The servants danced the rope up and down seven +times, and the people screamed and clapped their hands, crying out, +"All those who write love verses come to a bad end!" But the poet +was never yet born who had not a friend greater than all his +enemies. At that moment the spirits of the Seven Sisters rose out +of the water and spoke to the shepherd boy.</p> + +<p>"O shepherd boy," they said, "the Keeper of the Key is also our +enemy. We were created for something better than this narrow shaft. +We cry out in bitter pain the long hours of the night."</p> + +<p>"Why do you cry out in bitter pain?" asked the shepherd boy.</p> + +<p>"Because," said the spirits of the Seven Sisters, "we want to +leap out of this cold place to meet our lover, the moon. Every +night he comes calling to us and we dare not respond. We are locked +away under the heavy lid. We can never gather our full strength to +burst our way to liberty. We dream of the pleasant valley. We want +to get out into it, to make merry about the trees, to sport in the +warm places, to lip the edge of the green meadows, to water +pleasant gardens. We want to see the flowers, to flash in the sun, +to dance under the spread of great branches, to make snug, secret +places for the pike and the otter, to pile up the coloured pebbles, +and hear the water-hen splashing in the rushes. And above all, we +want to meet our lover, the moon, to roll about in his beams, to +reach for his kiss in the harvest nights. O shepherd boy, take us +from our prison well!"</p> + +<p>"O Seven Sisters," asked the shepherd boy, "how can I do this +for you?"</p> + +<p>"Secure the secret key," they said. "Open the lid while we are +at our full strength in the night."</p> + +<p>"Alas," said the shepherd boy, "that I cannot do. The Keeper has +made of it a magic thing."</p> + +<p>"We know his great secret," said the spirits of the Seven +Sisters. "Swear to set us free and we shall tell you the secret of +the key."</p> + +<p>"And what reward shall I have?" asked the shepherd boy.</p> + +<p>"You shall have the hand of the daughter of the Keeper of the +Key, the Lady of your Songs," they said. "Take her back to the +hills where you were so happy. We shall spare you when we are +abroad."</p> + +<p>"Then," said the shepherd boy, "I swear to release you."</p> + +<p>"The Keeper of the Key," said the spirits of the Seven Sisters, +"has a devil lurking behind the fine manners of his body. In secret +he laughs at the people. He has the blood of the five goldsmiths on +his hands. It was by his connivance the curragh sprang a leak, and +that they were drowned. They were true artists, of the spirit of +the Gael. But they alone knew his secret, and he made away with +them before they could speak. His great controversy on the water +nymphs was like a spell cast over the minds of the people to cover +his crime."</p> + +<p>"What a demon!" cried the shepherd boy.</p> + +<p>"The key of the well," said the spirits of the Seven Sisters, +"is concealed in the great golden knob of the oaken door, and upon +that has concentrated the greatest public scrutiny which has ever +beaten upon a door-knob in the story of the whole world. Such has +been the craft of the Keeper of the Key! When he comes out in the +morning and evening, and while drawing the door after him, he puts +a finger on the third toe of the fourth water nymph. This he +presses three times, quick as a pulse-beat, and, lo, a hidden +spring is released and shoots the key into the loose sleeve of his +coat. On returning he puts his hand on the golden knob, presses the +second toe of the third water nymph, and the key slides back into +its hidden cavity. This secret was alone known to the goldsmiths. +They went to the bottom of the sea with it. In this way has the +Keeper of the Key held his power and defied his enemies. When the +scholars were making epigrams and the bards warming into great +cadences on the art of the ankle of the water nymph, this Keeper of +the Key would retire to his watch-tower and roll about in secret +merriment."</p> + +<p>"What a fiend!" cried the shepherd boy.</p> + +<p>"He had caused to be painted in his room a scroll surrounded by +illuminated keys and nymphs and tumbling cascades, and bearing the +words, 'Let us praise the art which conceals art; but let us love +the art which conceals power.'"</p> + +<p>"What a monster!" cried the shepherd boy.</p> + +<p>"In this way," said the spirits of the Seven Sisters, "has he +lived. In this way has he been able to keep us from our freedom, +our lover. O shepherd boy—"</p> + +<p>Before another word could be spoken the shepherd boy was drawn +up on the rope. The water rose with him and lapped lightly over his +person so that he might seem as if he had been plunged deeply into +the well.</p> + +<p>When he was drawn up to the side or the well the shepherd boy +lay on the ground, his eyes closed, feigning great distress. The +people again clapped their hands, and some cried out, "Now little +water rat, make us a new verse!" But others murmured in pity, and +an old peasant woman, in a Breedeen cloak, hobbled to his side and +smoothed back his locks. At the touch of her soft hands the +shepherd boy opened his eyes, and he saw it was the daughter of the +Keeper of the Key disguised. With the connivance of her governess, +she had escaped from the mansion as an old peasant woman in a +cloak. The shepherd boy secretly kissed her little palms and +whispered, "I must come to you at midnight. As you value your life +have the guards taken from the outer door, only for two minutes. +Make some pretext. I will give the shepherd's call and then you +must act. Do not fail me."</p> + +<p>Before more could be said the servants roughly bundled the old +peasant woman aside, carried the shepherd boy to his lodgings, and +there threw him on his bed. "Remember," they said, "that you remain +within the walls of the town of the Seven Sisters after break of +day at your peril."</p> + +<p>At midnight the shepherd boy arose and approached the mansion of +the Keeper of the Key. He could see the two grim guards, one each +side of the oaken door. Standing some way off he gave the +shepherd's call, making his voice sound like the hoot of an owl. In +a little time he saw the guards move away from the door; they went +to a side entrance in the courtyard, and presently he could hear +them laughing, as if some entertainment was being provided for +them; then measures were passed through the iron bars of the gate +to them, and these they raised to their lips. At this the shepherd +boy ran swiftly up the steps, approached the door, and pressed +three times, quick as a pulse-beat, the third toe of the fourth +water nymph, and immediately from a secret cavity in the knob a +curious little golden key was shot forth. This the shepherd boy +seized, flew down the steps, and scaled over the town wall. He ran +to the great well and stooped over the lid. He could hear the Seven +Sisters twisting and worming and striving beneath it, little cries +of pain breaking from them. Overhead the moon was shining down on +the well.</p> + +<p>"O Seven Sisters," said the Shepherd boy, "I have come to give +you to your lover."</p> + +<p>He could hear a great cry of joy down in the well. He put the +key in the lock, turned it, and immediately there was the gliding +and slipping of one steel bar after another into an oil bath. The +great lid slowly revolved, moving away from over the well. The +Seven Sisters did the rest. They sprang with a peal of the most +delirious laughter—laughter that was of the underground, the +cavern, the deep secret places of the earth, laughter of elfs and +hidden rivers—to the light of the moon. The shepherd boy +could see seven distinct spiral issues of sparkling water and they +took the shape of nymphs, more exquisite than anything he had ever +seen even in his dreams. Something seemed to happen in the very +heavens above; the moon reached down from the sky, swiftly and +tenderly, and was so dazzling that the shepherd boy had to turn his +face away. He knew that in the blue spaces of the firmament +overhead the moon was embracing the Seven Sisters. Then he ran, ran +like the wind, for already the water was shrieking down the streets +of the town. As he went he could see lights begin to jump in dark +windows and sleepy people in their night attire coming to peer out +into the strange radiance outside.</p> + +<p>As he reached the drawbridge he saw that the men had already +lowered it, and there was a great rustling noise and squealing; and +what he took to be a drift of thick dust driven by the wind was +gushing over it, making from the town. A few more yards and he saw +that it was not thick brown dust, but great squads of rats flying +the place. The trumpets were all blowing loud blasts when he +reached the mansion of the Keeper of the Key, the guards with their +spears pressing out under the arch of the courtyard, and servants +coming out the doors. The great oak door flew open and he saw the +Keeper of the Key, a candle in his quaking hand. A great crying +could now be heard coming up from the population of the town. The +water was bursting open the doors of the houses as if they were +cardboard.</p> + +<p>"O Keeper of the Key," cried the shepherd boy, "the Seven +Sisters are abroad. I am obeying your command and returning to the +swine on the hills. The despised Sunnach will be in the dreams of +many to-night!"</p> + +<p>The candle fell from the hand of the Keeper of the Key, and he +could be seen in the moonlight groping for the door-knob, his hand +on the figures of the group of water nymphs. In a moment he gave a +low moan and, his head hanging over his breast, he staggered down +the marble steps. "Alas," cried the guards, "now is the great man +broken!" He made for the drawbridge crying out, "The lid, the lid. +Slide it back over the well!" The guards and servants pressed after +him, but not one of them ever got into the town again. Across the +bridge was now pouring a wild rush of human panic. Carriages, +carts, cars, horsemen, mules, donkeys, were flying from the Seven +Sisters laden with men and women and whole families. Crowds pressed +forward on foot. Animals, dogs, cats, pigs, sheep, cows, came +pellmell with them. Drivers stood in their seats flaying their +horses as if driven by madness. The animals rolled their eyes, +snorted steam from their nostrils, strained forward with desperate +zeal. Once or twice the struggling mass jammed, and men fought each +other like beasts. The cries of people being trampled to death +broke out in harrowing protest. For a moment the shepherd boy saw +the form of a priest rise up, bearing aloft the stark outline of a +cross, and then he disappeared.</p> + +<p>Over that night of terror was the unnatural brilliance of the +swoollen moon. All this the shepherd boy saw in a few eternal +moments. Then he cried out, "How up! how up! how up!" and +immediately the damsel tripped down the broad staircase of the +mansion, dressed in white robes, her hair loose about her +shoulders. Never had she looked so frail and beautiful, the lily of +the valley! The shepherd boy told her what had come to pass. She +cried out for her father. "I am the daughter of the Keeper of the +Key," she said. "I shall stand by his side at the well in this +great hour."</p> + +<p>"I am now the master of the town of the Seven Sisters," said the +shepherd boy. "I am the Keeper of the Key." And he held up the +secret key.</p> + +<p>The damsel, seeing this, and catching sight of what was taking +place at the drawbridge, fell back in a swoon on the carpet of the +hall. The shepherd boy raised her in his arms and fled for the +hills. Along the road was the wild stampede of the people, all +straining for the hills, pouring in a mad rush from the valley and +the town. Behind them were the still madder, swifter, more terrible +waters, coming in sudden thuds, in furious drives, eddying and +sculping and rearing in an orgy or remorseless and heartrending +destruction. Down before that roaring avalanche went walls and +trees and buildings. The shepherd boy saw men give up the struggle +for escape, cowering by the roadside, and women, turning from the +race to the hills, rushed back to meet the oncoming waters with +arms outspread and insanity in their wild eyes.</p> + +<p>Not a human creature escaped that night of wroth except the +shepherd boy and the damsel he carried in his arms. Every time the +waters reached his heels they reared up like great white horses and +fell back, thus sparing him. Three times did he look back at +happenings in the town of the Seven Sisters. The first time he +looked back the water was up to the last windows of houses that +were three storeys high. All the belongings of the householders +were floating about, and people were sinking through the water, +their lives going out as swiftly as twinkling bubbles. In an attic +window he saw a young girl loosen her hair, she was singing a song, +preparing to meet death as if she were making ready for a lover. A +man at the top of a ladder was gulping whiskey from a bottle, and +when the water sprang at his throat he went down with a mad defiant +cry. A child ran out an open window, golden locks dancing about its +pretty head, as if it were running into a garden. There was another +little bubble in the moonlight.... The second time the shepherd boy +looked back the swallows were flying from their nests under the +eaves of the houses, for the water was now lapping them. An old +woman was hobbling across a roof on crutches. Men were drawing +their bodies out of the chimney-pots. A raft on which the Keeper's +guard had put out slowly, like a live thing lazily yawning and +turning over on its side, sent them all into the common doom. A man +with a bag of gold clutched in his hand, stood dizzily on the high +gable of a bank, then, with a scream, tottered and fell.... The +third time the shepherd boy looked back nothing was to be seen +above the face of the water except the pinnacle of the watch tower +of the mansion, and standing upon it was the Keeper of the Key, his +arms outspread, his face upturned to the moon, and the seven water +nymphs leaping about him in a silver dance.</p> + +<p>After that the shepherd boy drew up on the hills with the +damsel. He was quite exhausted, and he noticed that the activity of +the waters gradually calmed down as daybreak approached, like +things spent after a night of wild passion. When at last the day +quivered into life on the eastern sky he called the damsel to his +side, and standing there together they looked out over the spread +of water. The town of the Seven Sisters was no more.</p> + +<p>"Look," cried the shepherd boy, "at Loch Riabhach!" And drawing +back he cast out into the far water the secret key. There it still +lies under a rock, somewhere in the lake over which our boat is now +drifting. And the shepherd boy and the damsel there and then +founded a new town beside the lake, and all who are of the old +families of Baile Loch Riabhach, like myself, are their +descendants. That, concluded Eamonn, is the story of the Gray +Lake.</p> + +<hr style='width: 65%;'> +<a name='THE_BUILDING'></a> +<h2>THE BUILDING</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<br> + + +<p>Martin Cosgrave walked up steadily to his holding after Ellen +Miscal had read to him the American letter. He had spoken no word +to the woman. It was not every day that he had to battle with a +whirl of thoughts. A quiet man of the fields, he only felt +conscious of a strong impulse to get back to his holding up on the +hill. He had no clear idea of what he would do or what he would +think when he got back to his holding. But the fields seemed to cry +out to him, to call him back to their companionship, while all the +wonders of the resurrection were breaking in fresh upon his +life.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave walked his fields and put his flock of sheep +scurrying out of a gap with a whistle. His holding and the things +of his holding were never so precious to his sight. He walked his +fields with his hands in his pockets and an easy, solid step upon +the sod. He felt a bracing sense of security.</p> + +<p>Then he sat up on the mearing.</p> + +<p>The day was waning. It seemed to close in about his holding with +a new protection. The mood grew upon him as the shadows deepened. A +great peace came over him. The breeze stirring the grass spread out +at his feet seemed to whisper of the strange unexpected thing that +had broken in upon his life. He felt the splendid companionship of +the fields for the master.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Martin Cosgrave looked down at his cabin. Something +snapped as his eyes remained riveted upon it. He leapt from the +mearing and walked out into the field, his hands this time gripping +the lapels of his coat, a cloud settling upon his brow. In the +centre of the field he stood, his eyes still upon the cabin. What a +mean, pokey, ugly little dirty hovel it was! The thatch was getting +scraggy over the gables and sagging at the back. In the front it +was sodden. A rainy brown streak reached down to the little window +looking like the claw of a great bird upon the walls. He had been +letting everything go to the bad. That might not signify in the +past. But now—</p> + +<p>"Rose Dempsey would never stand the like," he said to himself. +"She will be used to grand big houses."</p> + +<p>He turned his back upon the cabin near the boreen and looked up +to the belt of beech trees swaying in the wind on the crest of the +hill. How did he live there most of his life and never see that it +was a place fashioned by the hand of Nature for a house? Was it not +the height of nonsense to have trees there making music all the +long hours of the night without a house beside them and people +sleeping within it? In a few minutes the thought had taken hold of +his mind. Limestone—beautiful limestone—ready at hand +in the quarry not a quarter of a mile down the road. Sand from the +pit at the back of his own cabin. Lime from the kiln beyond the +road. And his own two hands! He ran his fingers along the muscles +of his arms. Then he walked up the hill.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave, as he walked up the hill, felt himself +wondering for the first time in his life if he had really been +foolish to have run away from his father's cabin when he had been +young. Up to this he had always accepted the verdict of the people +about him that he had been a foolish boy "to go wandering in +strange places." He had walked along the roads to many far towns. +Then he had struck his friend, the building contractor. He had been +a useful worker about a building house. At first he had carried +hods of mortar and cement up ladders to the masons. The business of +the masons he had mastered quickly. But he had always had a longing +to hold a chisel in one hand and a mallet in the other at work upon +stone. He had drifted into a quarry, thence to a stone-cutting +yard. After a little while he could not conceal his impatience with +the mere dressing of coping stones or the chiselling out of +tombstones to a pattern. Then he saw the man killed in the quarry. +He was standing quite near to him. The chain of the windlass went +and the poor man had no escape. Martin Cosgrave had heard the +crunch of the skull on the boulder, and some of the blood was +spattered upon his boots. He was a man of tense nerves. The sight +of blood sickened him. He put on his coat, left the quarry, and +went walking along the road.</p> + +<p>It was while he walked along the road that the longing for his +home came upon him. He tramped back to his home above Kilbeg. His +father had been long dead, but by his return he had glorified the +closing days of his mother's life. He took up the little farm and +cut himself off from his wandering life when he had fetched the +tools from his lodgings in the town beside the quarries.</p> + +<p>By the time Martin Cosgrave had reached the top of the hill he +had concluded that he had not, after all, been a foolish boy to +work in far places. "The hand of God was in it," he said reverently +with his eyes on the beech trees that made music on the crest of +the hill.</p> + +<p>He made a rapid survey of the place with his keen eyes. Then he +mapped out the foundation of the building by driving the heel of +his boot into the green sod. He stepped back among the beech trees +and looked out at the outlined site of the building. He saw it all +growing up in his mind's eye, at first a rough block, a mere shell, +a little uncertain and unsatisfactory. Then the uncertainties were +lopped off, the building took shape, touch after touch was added. +Long shadows spread out from the trees and wrapped the fields. +Stars came out in the sky. But Martin Cosgrave never noticed these +things. The building was growing all the time. There was a firm +grasp of the general scheme, a realisation of what the building +would evolve that no other building ever evolved, what it would +proclaim for all time. The passing of the day and the stealth of +the night could not claim attention from a man who was living over +a dream that was fashioning itself in his mind, abandoning himself +to the joy or his creation, dwelling longingly upon the details of +the building, going over and, as it were, feeling it in every +fibre, jealous of the effect of every stone, tracing the trend and +subtlety of every curve, seeing how one touch fitted in and +enhanced the other and how all carried on the meaning of the +whole.</p> + +<p>When he came down from the hill there was a spring in Martin +Cosgrave's step. He swung his arms. The blood was coursing fast +through his veins. His eyes were glowing. He would need to make a +map of the building. It was all burned clearly into his brain.</p> + +<p>From under the bed of his cabin he pulled out the wooden box. It +had not been opened since he had fetched it from the far town. He +held his breath as he threw open the lid. There they lay, the +half-forgotten symbols of his old life. Worn mallets, chisels, the +head of a broken hod with the plaster still caked into it, a short +broad shovel for mixing mortar, a trowel, a spirit level, a plumb, +all wrapped loosely in a worn leather apron. He took the mallets in +his hand and turned them about with the quick little jerks that +came so naturally to him. Strength for the work had come into his +arms. All the old ambitions which he thought had been stifled with +his early manhood sprang to life again.</p> + +<p>As he lay in his bed that night Martin Cosgrave felt himself +turning over and over again the words in the letter which Rose +Dempsey had sent to her aunt, Ellen Miscal, from America. "Tell +Martin Cosgrave," the letter read, "that I will be back home in +Kilbeg by the end of the spring. If he has no wish for any other +girl I am willing to settle down." Beyond the announcement that her +sister Sheela would be with her for a holiday, the letter "brought +no other account." But what an account it had brought to Martin +Cosgrave! The fields understood—the building would +proclaim.</p> + +<p>Early in the morning Martin Cosgrave went down to Ellen Miscal +to tell her what to put in the letter that was going back to Rose +Dempsey in America. Martin Cosgrave walked heavily into the house +and stood with his back against the dresser. He turned the soft +black hat about in his hands nervously and talked like one who was +speaking sacred words.</p> + +<p>"Tell her," he said, "that Martin Cosgrave had no thought for +any other person beyond herself. Tell her to be coming back to +Kilbeg. Tell her not to come until the late harvest."</p> + +<p>Ellen Miscal, who sat over the sheet of writing paper on the +table, looked up quickly as he spoke the words. As she did so she +was conscious of the new animation that vivified the idealistic +face of Martin Cosgrave. But he did not give her time to question +him.</p> + +<p>"I have my own reasons for asking her to wait until the +harvest," he said, with some irritation.</p> + +<p>He stayed at the dresser until Ellen Miscal had written the +letter. He carried it down to the village and posted it with his +own hand, and he went and came as gravely as if he had been taking +part in some solemn ritual.</p> + +<br> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>That day the building was begun. Martin Cosgrave tackled the +donkey and drew a few loads of limestone from the nearby quarry. +Some of the neighbours who came his way found him a changed man, a +silent man with his eager face set, a man in whose eyes a new light +shone, a quiet man of the fields into whose mind a set purpose had +come. He struggled up the road with his donkey-cart, his hand +gripping the shaft to hasten the steps of the slow brute, his limbs +bent to the hill, his head down at the work. By the end of the week +a pile of grey-blue stones was heaped up on the crest of the hill. +The walls of the fields had been broken down to make a carway. Late +into the night when the donkey had been fed and tethered the +neighbours would see Martin Cosgrave moving about the pile of +grey-blue stones, sorting and picking, arranging in little groups +to have ready to his hands. "A house he is going to put up on the +hill," they would say, lost in wonder.</p> + +<p>The spring came, and with it all the strenuous work on the land. +But Martin Cosgrave went on with the building. The neighbours shook +their heads at the sight of neglect that was gathering about his +holding; they said it was flying in the face of Providence when +Martin Cosgrave weaned all the lambs from the ewes one day, long +before their time, and sold them at the fair to the first bidder +that came his way. Martin Cosgrave did so because he wanted money +and was in a hurry to get back to his building.</p> + +<p>"What call has a man to be destroying himself like that?" the +neighbours asked each other.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave knew what the neighbours were saying about him. +But what did he care? What thought had any of them for the heart of +a builder? What did any of them know beyond putting a spade in the +clay and waiting for the seasons to send up growing things from the +seed they scattered by their hands? What did they know about the +feel of the rough stone in the hand and the shaping of it to fit +into the building, the building that day after day you saw rising +up from the ground by the skill of your hand and the art of your +mind? What could they in Kilbeg know of the ship that would plough +the ocean in the harvest bearing Rose Dempsey home to him? For all +their ploughing and their sowing, what sort of a place had any of +them led a woman into? They might talk away. The joy of the builder +was his. The beech trees that made music all day beside the +building he was putting up to the sight of all the world had more +understanding of him than all the people of the parish.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave had no help. He kept to his work from such an +early hour in the morning until such a late hour of the night that +the people marvelled at his endurance. But as the work went on the +people would talk about Martin Cosgrave's building in the fields +and tell strangers of it at the markets. They said that the like of +it had never been seen in the countryside. It was to be "full of +little turrets and the finest of fancy porches and a regular sight +of bulging windows." One day that Martin Cosgrave heard a neighbour +speaking about the "bulging windows" he laughed a half-bitter, +half-mocking laugh.</p> + +<p>"Tell them," he said, "that they are cut-stone tracery windows +to fit in with the carved doors." These cut-stone windows and +carved doors cost Martin Cosgrave such a length of time that they +provoked the patience of the people. Out of big slabs of stone he +had worked them, and sometimes he would ask the neighbours to give +him a hand in the shifting of these slabs. But he was quick to +resent any interference. One day a stone-cutter from the quarry +went up on the scaffold, and when Martin Cosgrave saw him he went +white to the lips and cursed so bitterly that those standing about +walked away.</p> + +<p>When the shell of the building had been finished Martin Cosgrave +hired a carpenter to do all the woodwork. The woodwork cost money. +Martin Cosgrave did not hesitate. He sold some of his sheep, sold +them hurriedly, and as all men who sell their sheep hurriedly, he +sold them badly. When the carpentry had been finished, the roofing +cost more money. One day the neighbours discovered that all the +sheep had been sold. "He's beggared now," they said.</p> + +<p>The farmer who turned the sod a few fields away laboured in the +damp atmosphere of growing things, his mind filled with thoughts of +bursting seeds and teeming barns. He shook his head at sight of +Martin Cosgrave above on the hill bent all day over hard stones; +whenever he looked up he only caught the glint of a trowel, or +heard the harsh grind of a chisel. But Martin Cosgrave took no +stock of the men reddening the soil beneath him. Whenever his eyes +travelled down the hillside he only saw the flock of crows that +hung over the head of the digger. The study of the veins of +limestone that he turned in his hands, the slow moulding of the +crude shapes to their place in the building, the rhythm and swing +of the mallet in his arm, the zest with which he felt the impact of +the chisel on the stone, the ring of forging steel, the +consciousness of mastery over the work that lay to his +hands—these were the things that seemed to him to give life a +purpose and man a destiny. He would whistle a tune as he mixed the +mortar with the broad shovel, for it gave him a feeling of the +knitting of the building with the ages. He pitied the farmer who +looked helplessly upon his corn as it was beaten to the ground by +the first storm that blew from the sea; he was upon a work that +would withstand the storms of centuries. The scent of lime and +mortar greeted his nostrils. When he moved about the splinters +crunched under his feet. Everything around him was hard and +stubborn, but he was the master of it all. In his dreams in the +night he would reach out his hands for the feel of the hard stone, +a burning desire in his breast to put it into shape, to give it +nobility in the scheme of a building.</p> + +<p>It was while Martin Cosgrave walked through the building that +Ellen Miscal came to him with the second letter from America. The +carpenter was hammering at something below. The letter said that +Rose Dempsey and her sister, Sheela, would be home in the late +harvest. "With all I saw since I left Kilbeg," Rose Dempsey wrote, +"I never saw one that I thought as much of as Martin Cosgrave."</p> + +<p>When Ellen Miscal left him, Martin Cosgrave stood very quietly +looking through the cut-stone tracery window. The beech trees were +swaying slowly outside. Their music was in his ears.</p> + +<p>Then he remembered that he was standing in the room where he +would take Rose Dempsey in his arms. It was here he would tell her +of all the bitter things he had locked up in his heart when she had +gone away from him. It was here he would tell her of the day of +resurrection, when all the bitter thoughts had burst into flower at +the few words that told of her return. It was that day of great +tumult within him that thought of the building had come into his +mind.</p> + +<p>When Martin Cosgrave walked out of the room the carpenter and a +neighbour boy were arguing about something at the foot of the +stairs.</p> + +<p>"It's too steep, I'm telling you," the boy was saying.</p> + +<p>"What do you know about it?"</p> + +<p>"I know this much about it, that if a little child came running +down that stairs he'd be apt to fall and break his neck."</p> + +<p>Then the two men went out, still arguing.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave sat down on one of the steps of the stairs. A +child running down the steps! His child! A child bearing his name! +He would be prattling about the building. He would run across that +landing, swaying and tottering. His little voice would fill the +building. Arms would be reaching out to him. They would be the soft +white arms of Rose Dempsey, or maybe, they would be the arms that +raised up the building—his own strong arms. Or it might be +that he would be carrying down the child and handing him over the +rails there into the outspread arms of Rose Dempsey. She would be +reaching out for the child with the newly-kindled light of +motherhood in her eyes, the passion of a young mother in her +welcoming voice. A child with his very name—a child that +would grow up to be a man and hand down the name to another, and so +on during the generations. And with the name would go down the +building, the building that would endure, that would live, that was +immortal. Did it all come to him as a sudden revelation, springing +from the idle talk of a neighbour boy brought up to work from one +season to another? Or was it the same thing that was behind the +forces that had fired him while he had worked at the building? Had +it not all come into his life the evening he stood among his fields +with his eyes on the crest of the hill?</p> + +<p>Ah, there had been a great building surely, a building standing +up on the hill, a great, a splendid building raised up to the sight +of all the world, and with it a greater building, a building raised +up from the sight of all men, the building of a name, the moulding +of hearts that would beat while Time was, a building of immortal +souls, a building into which God would breathe His breath, a +building which would be heard of in Heaven, among the angels, +through all the eternities, a building living on when all the light +was gone out of the sun, when oceans were as if they had never +been, a name, a building, living when the story of all the worlds +and all the generations would be held written upon a scroll in the +lap of God.... The face of the dreamer as he abandoned himself to +his thoughts was pallid with a half-fanatical emotion.</p> + +<p>The neighbours were more awed than shocked at the change they +saw increasing in Martin Cosgrave. He had grown paler and thinner, +but his eyes were more tense, had in them, some of the neighbours +said, the colour of the limestone. He was more and more removed +from the old life. He walked his fields without seeing the things +that made up the old companionship. His whole attitude was one of +detachment from everything that did not savour of the crunch of +stone, the ring of steel on the walls of a building. He only talked +rationally when the neighbours spoke to him of the building. They +had heard that he had gone to the money-lender, and mortgaged every +perch of his land. "It was easy to know how work of the like would +end," they said.</p> + +<p>One day a stranger was driving by on his car, and when he saw +the building he got down, walked up the hill, and made a long study +of it. On his way down he met Martin Cosgrave.</p> + +<p>"Who built the house on the hill?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"A simple man in the neighbourhood," Martin Cosgrave made +answer, after a little pause.</p> + +<p>"A simple man!" the stranger exclaimed, looking at Martin +Cosgrave with some disapproval. "Well, he has attempted something +anyway. He may not have, succeeded, but the artist is in him +somewhere. He has created a sort of—well, lyric—in +stone on that hill. Extraordinary!"</p> + +<p>The stranger hesitated before he hit on the word lyric. He got +up on his car and drove away muttering something under his +breath.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave could have run up the hill and shouted. He could +have called all the neighbours together and told them of the +strange man who had praised the building.</p> + +<p>But he did none of these things. He had work waiting to his +hand. A hunger was upon him to feel his pulse beating to the throb +of steel on stone. From the road he made a sweep of a drive up to +the building. The neighbours looked open-mouthed at the work for +the days it went on. "Well, that finishes Martin Cosgrave anyway," +they said.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave rushed the making of the drive; he took all the +help he could get. The boys would come up after their day's work +and give him a hand. While they worked he was busy with his chisel +upon the boulders of limestone which he had set up on either side +of the entrance gate. Once more he felt the glamour of +life—the impact of forging steel on stone was thrilling +through his arms, the stone was being moulded to the direction of +his exulting mind.</p> + +<p>When he had finished with the boulders at the entrance gate the +people marvelled. The gate had a glory of its own, and yet it was +connected with the scheme of the building on the hill palpably +enough for even their minds to grasp it. When the people looked +upon it they forgot to make complaint of the good land that was +given to ruin. One of them had expressed the general vague +sentiment when he said, "Well, the kite has got its tail."</p> + +<p>In the late harvest Martin Cosgrave carried up all the little +sticks of furniture from his cabin and put it in the building. Then +he sent for Ellen Miscal. When the woman came she looked about the +place in amazement.</p> + +<p>"Well, of all the sights in the world!" she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave was irritated at the woman's attitude.</p> + +<p>"We'll have to make the best of it," he said, looking at the +furniture. "I will be marrying Rose Dempsey in the town some days +after she lands."</p> + +<p>"Rose would never like the suddenness of that," her aunt +protested. "She can be staying with me and marrying from my +house.</p> + +<p>"I saw the priest about it," Martin Cosgrave said impatiently. +"I will have my way, Ellen Miscal. Rose Dempsey will come up to +Kilbeg my wife. We will come in the gate together, we will walk in +to the building together. I will have my way."</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave spoke of having his way in the impassioned voice +of the fanatic, of his home-coming with his bride in the +half-dreamy voice of the visionary.</p> + +<p>"Have your way, Martin, have your way," the woman said. "And," +she added, rising, "I will be bringing up a few things to put into +your house."</p> + +<br> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave spent three days in the town waiting the arrival +of Rose Dempsey. The boat was late. He haunted the railway station, +with hungry eyes scanned the passengers as each train steamed in. +His blood was on fire in his veins for those three days. What peace +could a man have who was waiting to get back to his building and to +have Rose Dempsey going back with him, his wife?</p> + +<p>Sometimes he would sit down on the railway bench on the +platform, staring down at the ground, smiling to himself. What a +surprise he had in store for Rose! What would he say to her first? +Would he say anything of the building? No, he would say nothing at +all of the building until they drove across the bridge and right up +to the gate! "Rose," he would then say, "do you remember the +hill—the place under the beech trees?" She was sure to +remember that place. It was there they had spent so much time, +there he had first found her lips, there they had quarrelled! And +Rose would look up to that old place and see the building! What +would she think? Would she feel about it as he felt himself? She +would, she would! What sort of look would come into her face? And +what would he be able to tell her about it at all?... He would say +nothing at all about it; that would be the best way! They would say +nothing to each other, but walk in the gate and up the drive across +the hill, the hill they often ran across in the old days! They +would be quite silent, and walk into the house silently. The +building, too, would be silent, and he would take her from one room +to another in silence, and when she had seen everything he would +look into her eyes and say, "Well?" It would be all so like a +wonderful story, a day of magic!... Martin Cosgrave sprang from the +bench and went to the edge of the platform, staring down the long +level road, with its two rails tapering almost together in the +distance. Not a sign of a train. Would it never come in? Had +anything happened the boat? He walked up and down with energy, +holding the lapel of his coat, saying to himself, "I must not be +thinking of things like this. It is foolishness. Whatever is to +happen will happen, and that's all about it. I am quite at ease, +quite cool!"</p> + +<p>At last it came, steaming and blowing. Windows were lowered, +carriage doors flew open, people ran up and down. Martin Cosgrave +stood a little away, tense, drawn, his eyes sweeping down the +people. Suddenly something shot through him; an old sensation, an +old thrill, made his whole being tingle, his mind exult, and then +there was the most exquisite relaxation. How long it was since he +felt like this before! His eyes were burning upon a familiar figure +that had come from a carriage, the figure of a girl in a navy blue +coat and skirt, her back turned, struggling with parcels, helped by +the hands of invisible people from within the carriage. Martin +Cosgrave strode down the platform, eagerness, joy, sense of +proprietorship, already in his stride.</p> + +<p>"Rose!" he exclaimed while the girl's back was still turned to +him.</p> + +<p>His voice shook in spite of him. The woman turned about +sharply.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave gave a little start back. It was not Rose +Dempsey, but her sister, Sheela. How like Rose she had grown!</p> + +<p>"Martin!" she exclaimed, putting out her hand. He gave it a +hurried shake and then searched the railway carriage with burning +eyes. The people he saw there were all strangers, tired-looking +travellers. When he turned from the railway carriage Sheela Dempsey +was rushing with her parcels into a waiting-room. He strode after +her. He looked at the girl. How unlike Rose she was after all! +Nobody—nobody—could ever be like Rose Dempsey!</p> + +<p>"Where is Rose?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Sheela Dempsey looked up into the face of Martin Cosgrave and +saw there what she had half-dreaded to see.</p> + +<p>"Martin," she said, "Rose is not coming home."</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave gripped the door of the waiting-room. The train +whistled outside and glided from the station. He heard a woman's +cheerful voice cry out a conventional "good-bye, good-bye," and +through the window he saw the flutter of a dainty handkerchief. A +truck was wheeled past the waiting-room. There was the crack of a +whip and some cars rattled away over the road. Then there was +silence.</p> + +<p>Sheela Dempsey walked over to him and laid a hand upon his +shoulder. When she spoke her voice was full of an understanding +womanly sympathy.</p> + +<p>"Don't be troubling over it, Martin," she said, "Rose is not +worth it." She spoke her sister's name with some bitterness.</p> + +<p>Vaguely Martin Cosgrave looked into the girl's eyes. He read +there in a dim way what the girl could not say of her sister.</p> + +<p>It was all so strange! The waiting-room was so bare, so cold, so +grey, so like a sepulchre. What could Sheela Dempsey with all her +womanly understanding, with all her quick intuition, know of the +things that happened beside her? How could she have ears for the +crashing down of the pillars of the building that Martin Cosgrave +had raised up in his soul? How could she have eyes for the wreck of +the structure that was to go on through all the generations? What +thought had she of the wiping out of a name that would have lived +in the nation and continued for all time in the eternities, a +tangible thing in Heaven among the Immortals when the stars had all +been burned out in the sky?</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave drove home from the railway station with Sheela +Dempsey. He sat without a word, not really conscious of his +surroundings as they covered the miles. The girl reached across the +side-car, touching him lightly on the shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Look!" she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave looked up. The building stood in the moonlight +on the crest of the hill. He bade the driver pull up, and then got +down from the car.</p> + +<p>"Who owns the house?" Sheela Dempsey asked.</p> + +<p>"I do. I put it up on the hill for Rose."</p> + +<p>There was silence for some time.</p> + +<p>"How did you get it built, Martin?" Sheela Dempsey asked, awe in +her tone.</p> + +<p>"I built it myself," he answered. "I wonder has Rose as good a +place? What sort of a building is she in to-night?"</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave did not notice the sudden quiver in the girl's +body as he put the question. But she made no reply, and the car +drove on, leaving Martin Cosgrave standing alone at the gate of the +building.</p> + +<p>The faint sweep of the drive lay before him. It led his eyes up +to the crest of the hill. There it was standing shadowy against the +sky, every delicate outline clear to his vision. The beech trees +were swaying beside it, reaching out like great shapeless arms in +the night, blurred and beckoning and ghostly. A little vein of +their music sounded in his ears. How often had he listened to that +music and the things it had sung to him! It made him conscious of +all the emotion he had felt while he had put up the building on the +hill.</p> + +<p>The joy of the builder swept over him like a wave. He was within +the rising walls again, his hands among the grey-blue shapes, the +measured stroke of the mallet swinging for the shifting chisel, the +throb of steel going through his arms, the grind of stone was under +his hands, the stone dust dry upon his lips, his eyes quick and +keen, his arms bared, the shirt at his breast open, his whole body +tense, tuned, to the desire of the conscious builder.... Once more +he moved about the carpet of splinters, the grateful crunch beneath +his feet, his world a world of stubborn things, rejoicing in his +power of direction and mastery over it all. And always at the back +of his mind and blending itself with the work was the thought of a +ship forging through the water at the harvest, a ship with white +sails spread to the winds. Had not thought for the building come +into his mind when dead things sprang to life in the resurrection +of his hopes?</p> + +<p>Martin Cosgrave turned away from the gate. He walked down where +the shadow of the mearing was faint upon the road. He turned up the +boreen closed in by the still hedges. He stumbled over the ruts. He +stood at the cabin door and looked up at the sky with soulless +eyes. The animation, the inspiration, that had vivified his face +since the building had been begun had died. The face no longer +expressed the idealist, the visionary. His eyes swept the sky for a +purpose. It was the look of the man of the fields, the man who had +thought for his crops, who was near to the soil.</p> + +<p>He had not looked a final and anxious, a peasant look, at the +sky from his cabin-door in the night since he had embarked upon the +building. He was conscious of that fact after a little. He wondered +if it was a vague stirring in his heart that made him do it, a +vague craving for the old companionship of the fields this night of +bitterness. They were the fields, the sod, the territory of his +forefathers, the inheritance of his blood. Who was he that he +should put up a great building on the hill? What if he had risen +for a little on his wings above the common flock?</p> + +<p>The night air was heavy with the scent of the late dry harvest +and all that the late dry harvest meant to the man nurtured on the +side of a wet hill. The sheaves of corn were stooked in his +neighbour's fields. Yesterday he had sacrificed the land to the +building; to-morrow he would sacrifice the building to the land. +Martin Cosgrave knew, the stars seemed to know, that a message, a +voice, a command, would come like a wave through the generations of +his blood sweeping him back to a common tradition. The cry for +service on the land was beginning to stir somewhere. It would come +to him in a word, a word sanctified upon the land by the memory of +a thousand sacrifices and a thousand struggles, the only word that +held magic for his race, the one word—Redemption! He looked +up at the building, made a vague motion of his hand that was like +an act of renunciation, and laughed a laugh of terrible +bitterness.</p> + +<p>"Look," he cried, "at the building Martin Cosgrave put up on the +hill!"</p> + +<p>He moved to the cabin-door, his feet heavy upon the uneven +ground as the feet of any of the generations of men who had ever +gone that way before. He pressed the cabin-door with his fist. With +a groan it went back shakily over the worn stone threshold, +sticking when it was only a little way open. All was quiet, black, +damp, terrible as chaos, inside. Martin Cosgrave hitched forward +his left shoulder, went in sideways, and closed the crazy door +against the pale world of moonlight outside.</p> +<br> +<br> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13472 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |