Part 38 (1/2)
”Better get the parson, Mr. Flannagan.”
”Oh, but Shane--” she protested.
”Go below, Granya, and get those wet things off.... And get into women's clothes.... Granya!”
”Yes, Shane.... Very well, Shane....”
PART SEVEN
THE KINGDOM AND THE POWER AND THE GLORY
-- 1
He felt a little ashamed, a little shy, what with his gray hairs, his paternity, that there should still be a thrill in his heart, a sense of flight in him. At fifty-eight to feel like a schoolboy going home, it seemed--well, not indecent, indecorous. This thing of returning to Antrim had been a matter of pure reason, and then suddenly his heart had spread forgotten wings.
Without, the sound of Broadway had changed subtly, with the coming of the September dusk. The quick-pacing people had given way to the _clop-clop-clop_ of hansom-cabs, and the tram-cars with their tired horses came less frequently now. One felt that a giant had been at work all day, and was now stretching himself, not lazily, but a little relaxingly. Soon the great lamps would flare, and the crowds would be going to the playhouses: to Tony Pastor's to see the new play, ”Dreams,”
or to Harrigan & Hart's to see ”Investigation,” or to Mr. Bartley Campbell's latest, ”Separation,” at the Grand Opera-house. He would miss all this in Antrim, but Antrim called him.... Antrim, our mother....
And three months ago he had never thought this possible. He had drilled himself into a mature philosophy, saying: ”It doesn't matter that I never see Ireland again. I am happy here with Granya and young Alan and Robin Beg, little Robin. All the folks are kindly and the country is a great country, and when my time comes to die there are sweet little places on Long Island where they can lay me within sound of the sea, and the gentle snow will come and cover me in winter and in summer somewhere about me the dogwood will blow, and the very green gra.s.s come. And perhaps some young children will come and play around my grave, and I shall hear their little gurgling laughter, sweet as the voices of pigeons.... And one day Granya will come.... Nothing is more certain than that, that Granya will come....”
But all the philosophy in the world could not shut from his ears the little piping of Antrim. He would say: ”'Tis little thought I gave to Antrim and I a young man! And what is a town or so to me, who have seen all great cities?” And again he said: ”Didn't you give up Antrim gladly when you got Granya? Wasn't she worth a hundred Antrims?” And his heart and mind answered: ”Yes, a thousand Antrims!” But, a very queer thing, the little haunting melody of the glens would not be stilled.
And it came to him thus: I am no longer a young man. For all I look forty-five, as they tell me, yet I am fifty-eight. The life of the body is over now. That had pa.s.sed, as a mood pa.s.ses. And the mind is fixed.
In what remains of life to me, I must think, divine, weigh. One prepares.... And thoughts must not be disturbed. To grow old in a city that is ever young, that is in its twenties itself as it were--it makes an old man cold and afraid. Old buildings he has known to go down, old streets are obliterated. It is a very terrible thing to be lonely when old, and to feel everything pa.s.ses, dies.... All I have loved is thrown away, is of no use.... Everything old is in the way, and I am old....
The hawk-eyed commercial men go about so that the streets are filled with them.... And all the sweet things that were said in Galilee seem only a casual all-but-forgotten melody, and no revelation.... And then comes a horrible memory of stark Ecclesiastes: ”The dead know not anything, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. Also their love, and their hatred, and their envy, is now perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the sun.” And old men remember the sorrowful things of their life, and how little happiness measured up to the misery and toil of life, and they had hoped.... But there were the words of the preacher: ”Neither have they any more a reward”.... And secretly and quietly old men weep....
But to grow old with the mountains and the eternal sea, and to watch the delicate bells of the heather, to know the quiet companions.h.i.+p of dogs--there is a revelation in it. No, nothing dies. And the moon rises and the mountains nod: Yes, I remember you when you were a schoolboy, running to be on time. And the green waves make a pleasant laughter: We are here. When you arise in the morning you may be certain we are here.
The friends of one's young days die, scatter, are lost. But the mountains and the water are friends forever. One can speak to them. One can speak to ancient trees. And the leaves rustle....
And Granya had sensed it.... He might have known she would. Conceal it as he might try, a mysterious telepathy was between them.... She knew....
It was she who had gone to the British emba.s.sy in Was.h.i.+ngton, telling Shane nothing. He had heard of it afterward. She hadn't pleaded or given any promises. She had just flared in to the startled envoy.
”I wish to go back to Ireland.”
”Unfortunately, the privy council had the matter of Miss O'Malley--”
”I am not Miss O'Malley. I am Shane Campbell's wife.”
”But you are a dangerous enemy to the empire!”
”Am I? I had forgotten completely about the empire.”
”There was a little matter of a s.h.i.+pload of rifles--”
”And now it is a matter of a husband and two children.”
”Sure, Miss O'Malley?”
”I am not Miss O'Malley. I am Shane Campbell's wife. And I'm absolutely sure.”