Glenanaar

Front matter

By the same Author : My New Curate The Blindness of Dr. Orav Luke Delmegb etc GLENANAAR Canon P. A. Sheehan THE TALBOT PRESS LIMITED EIGHTY-NINE TALBOT STREET, DUBLIN FIRST LIBRARY EDITION IN IRELAND Printed 1950 Made m the Republic of Ireland at the Talbot Press, Dublin CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGB I. The Yank 1 II. Confidences . . 11 III. Threads of Destiny 21 IV. Astraea and Her Temple .... 31 V. A Night Ride 46 VI. Ave Liberator! 56 VII. Astraea Redux 69 VIII. Waifs 78 IX Nodlag 88 X. The Midnight Oath 103 XI. Foreshadowings 118 XII. The Great Snow 129 XIII. A Wedding and a Warning .... 140 XIV. A Midnight Synod 152 XV. The Old Order Changeth . . . . 164 XVI. What of the Fates? 173 XVII. An Old Man's Dream 185 XVIII. A Life for a Life 194 Xl\. A Flight and a Return CONTENTS VI chapter page XX.

Hagar and Ishmael 22 1 XXI. The Inevitable 235 XXII. Revelations 244 XXIII. Parted 253 XXIV. The Phantom Again 263 XXV. After Many Years 274 XXVI. An Ancient Rebel 286 XXVII. Rejected 300 XXVIII. Accepted 313 XXIX. From Lake Shoshone Before going to Press, we received the following letter, which may serve as an introduction, an apology and an explanation: — Glenanaar, La. Shoshone, Wy. Rev, dear Father Yes ! You have my full permission. You may tell my story from every housetop in Ireland. I have the best and dearest little wife from Florida to Vancouver ; and I snap my fingers in the face of the world. Hence I sign myself, Yours faithfully and gratefully, The Son of Nodlag. GLENANAAR

Chapter I

"THE YANK" T TE suddenly appeared in our v illage street, gorgeous, and caparisoned from head to heel in all kinds of sartorial splendour. He took away our breath with his grandeur; and people looked at him sideways, partly because of his dazzling equipment, and partly because he had a curious habit of looking one straight in the face, which is sometimes dis concerting. We did not like him at all, at all. By " we " I mean the villagers and myself. They did not like him, because he was stiff and standoffish; and they heard that he was critical and censorious about our ancient and amiable customs; and he steadily declined all advances toward that friendly familiarity which we like so dearly. He was also an impenetrable mystery to a very inquisitive people; and what greater crime could there be?

They had gallantly attempted to get at the secret of his life. It was an interesting, and even exciting pastime to a people who, having no particular business of their own to mind, are charitably GLENANAAR 2 desirous to mind that of every one else. But no! He declined all familiarity. He would walk with one of those amateur detectives for an hour; speak on all possible subjects but one; and leave the poor man as much as ever in the dark as to his own personality and antecedents. Nay, he was such a "naygur," he would not ask the companion who had lent him his society for the hour, " whether he had a mout' on him." So he was decidedly un popular. It was given out, after a long search, and many kindly insinuations, that his name was " Fijaral " (our local interpretation of "Fitz gerald "), but that was soon discarded as apocryphal and untenable.

And so, at last, he came to be known as " The Yank." Once he was seen haunt ing an ancient moss-grown field, in which were two Danish barrows or forts; and the report immediately went abroad that he had dreamt three times running that a crock of gold was buried there; and he had come home to dig for the treasure. And more than once he was seen, some miles from the village, leaning sadly against an old, withered, leafless and gnarled whitethorn, or smoking leisurely and con templating the little square of grass-grown, nettle covered field where were faintly outlined the last traces of what was once a human habitation. I cannot say that I liked him much more than the villagers. He answered my salutation, "A fine day," rather gruffly, and once when I ventured a little further, and said cheerily : "Coming back to settle down in the old land, I hope?" he looked me all over, and said, deep down in his chest, and without any attempt to disguise his irritation: "Great Scott!"

Besides, it was not conducive to the peace of mind of our young villagers to see him, in languid ease, standing at the door of the hotel, morning, noon, and night. He was there at earlv dawn, when the millhands went to work. He was there at noon, when they returned to dinner. He was there when the six-o'clock bell tolled out for cessation of work in the evening, and the convent and church bells rang out melodiously the Angelus. And I knew well, that when the old men, with reverent, uncovered heads, as they repeated the prayer of the Incar nation, passed by that hotel door, and saw " the Yank," so well dressed, with such heavy gold chains and seals, and such shining square-top boots, they said sorrowfully to themselves: "Ah, if I had only crossed the wather whin I was a boy!" And I knew that the young men, seeing the same never-to-be-envied-enough spectacle, made frantic resolutions, that as soon as they " gethered " the passage money, they, too, would seek the El Dorado of the West.

So in a little while I ceased to notice him, and set him down as a conceited, purse-proud fellow, who had little love left for his faith and motherland. It was not the only occasion when I was GLENANAAR 4 mistaken in judging appearances; and in not seeing that there is a human heart beating in every breast, even though we cannot witness or count its pulsations. It was a Sunday afternoon in the late summer. There was a tournament in the Park. In past times it used to be called a hurling-match, but we are going ahead in Ireland, and we call things now by their proper names. It was a big affair — the culmination and critical finish of all the many local trials of strength that had taken place in the past year. It was the final "try" for the County cham pionship between the Cork "Shandons," and our own brave "Skirmishers."

There was a mighty crowd assembled. Sidecars, waggonettes, traps of every shape and hue and form, from the farmer's cart with the heavy quilt to the smart buggy of the merchant, brought in all the afternoon a great con course of people, who were anxious to put down the Sunday evening in the best possible manner by witnessing this great joust of Irish athletes. We are no Sabbatarians in Ireland. Neither are we quite depleted yet. It would surprise any one familiar with all the modern, doleful jeremiads about the depopulation of Ireland to see such a smartly dressed, bright, intelligent crowd in a country village. And if he had any misgivings or doubts about the physique and pluck of " the fighting race," he had only to stand still, when the athletes stripped for the contest, and see in those clean-cut, well-built figures the nerve and muscle that go to build up an energetic and pushing race.

The sun was shaded under banks of great clouds, and shed a pale, clear light on the landscape, with out the inconvenience of much heat. The great belt of trees to the west was just being dappled from its russet green by the first tints of approaching autumn. A light warm wind stirred their leaves. The cattle browsed calmly away upon the forest slopes. And there was a deep hush of ex pectancy over all these assembled thousands. It was to be a great trial of strength between two nearly matched clubs, in which grit, and wind, and pluck, and muscle, and science were to be put to their final test. At three o'clock the teams were called to their places by their respective captains. There was a brief consultation with the referee, a coin was flung into the air, sides were taken, the winners turning their backs to the wind, and in a moment, one could only see that ball tossed hither and thither in the struggle, and a confused mass of men and camans, as they fought fiercely for victory and the tide of the battle rolled uncertain here and there across the field.

And the combatants were curiously silent. This, too, is a modern characteristic, and a wholesome one. Instead of the whoops and yells of olden times, the words of fierce encouragement or expostulation, the cry of victory, and the curse of defeat, one only saw the set faces and the flying GLENANAAR figures, the victory snatched out of the hands of one, the defeat of the other retrieved, and the swift, tumultuous passion that swayed these young athletes as they strained every nerve in the all important struggle for victory. Not a word broke from that whirling mass, as the heavy ball leaped hither and thither, tossed by the camans from hand to hand, or rolled swiftly over the level grass, as some young athlete, with the fleetness of a deer, tapped it on before him, until he brought it within reach of the coveted goal.

You heard only the patter of the feet, the light or heavy tap-tap-tap on the ball, the crack of the camans as they crossed in the air above or on the grass beneath; and now and again the screams of women and girls, who stampeded wildly when the ball was driven into their midst, and the fierce flying combatants, with heaving breasts and starting eyes, forgot their chivalry and carried the tumult of battle right in amongst their excited sisters. Indeed, the whole excitement seemed to be limited to the spectators, who cheered and lamented, encouraged or rebuked the silent athletes on whom the honour of the flag depended. One alone amidst the din and tumult of the field main tained a stoical composure, and that was "the Yank." He stood apart and watched the strife, as impassive as an Indian chief, apparently regardless as to which side victory swayed; and altogether taking but an academic and far-off interest in the entire affair.

At half-past four the teams were almost on a tie, the "Skirmishers" having two goals to their credit, and the "Shandons" one goal and some points. The final tussle was just about to come off, when it was announced that the local captain had been taken suddenly ill, and had been ordered off the field. There was consternation in the ranks of the "Skir mishers." Just on the point of victory, their hopes were dashed to the ground. They held a long and eager consultation; and finally decided to enlist one or other of the spectators, who had been mem bers of the Club, but not picked men. These shook their heads. The issue was too important. They would not take the responsibility. Five o'clock was near; and the referee was about to give his final decision in favour of the strangers, when, to the astonishment of everyone, "the Yank," throwing away a half-burned cigar, and calmly divesting himself of coat and waistcoat, which he carefully rolled up and placed in the hands of a spectator, came forward, took up a caman, tested it, as if it were a Toledo blade, by leaning all his weight upon it, and said in an accent of cool indifference : "Let me take a hand: I guess I can manage it.

There was a general laugh. The "Shandons" were delighted. They noticed the grey hairs in his head and beard. The "Skirmishers" demurred; GLENANAAR 8 but one wise fellow, who had been studying the splendid build of "the Yank," winked and said: "Yes, we'll take him. Put him right inside the goal." The excitement rose rapidly with this new event. The disabled Captain heard of it, and insisted upon being taken back to see the issue. No matter if he died on the field of battle! "Where can man die better?" etc., etc. The ball was once more tossed high, the victory swayed from one side to the other; the cheers rose wildly and voluminously from the adherents of both teams; until, at last, the "Shandons," pressing home for victory, drove the ball right under "the Yank's" legs. The fore most champion, rushing forward to get it through the goal, found himself, he knew not how, about twenty feet away from the ball; and then it seemed as if a cyclone had struck the field.

At least, a straight path was cut through the swaying, con fused mass of the combatants, who in some mysterious way yielded right and left. Disregarding all modern rules and regulations, "the Yank" had struck straight before him; and with his powerful arms and shoulders had cut his way clean as a swathe of ripe corn is levelled by the teeth of a mowing-machine in the early harvest time. He swept along quite close to where I was standing, and once I heard him panting: Th'anam 'on diabhal. Then I knew he was Irish; and my heart went out to him. A few cries of "A foul ! " a foul ! " were raised; but drey were hushed into ignominious silence by the plaudits of the crowd, whose feelings of respectful aversion were suddenly converted into a paroxysm of unstinted admiration. "Go it. Yank!" "Cheers for the 'Stars and Stripes'!"

"Give them 'Hail Columbia,' old fellow! " echoed on every side, until the whole mad tumult cul minated in a wild Irish cheer, as the ball flew swiftly over the heads of the rival combatants, and, despite the frantic efforts of the goal-keeper on the "Shandons' " side, passed out gaily through the gates of the goal. Just as the "Yank" struck the ball the blow that gained the victory, there was a wild, mad rush toward him; and under its weight he was flung down, whilst the whole human mass squirmed over him. There was a wild shout of indignation from the field, for he had suddenly be come their hero; and it seemed like revenge for defeat. When they were raised, one by one, "the Yank" was unable to lift himself. A hundred will ing hands offered to help him; and there were some angry threats towards those who had felled him.

A few distinctively Gaelic questions were also put: "You're not dead, are you?" "Wal, no," he said, leisurely, but with a gesture of pain, "but I guess there are broken bones some where, anyhow." He was gently raised on a stretcher, and carried in triumph from the field. As the bearers were GLENANAAR 10 passing out the front gate, the captain of the local team came forward and proffered his thanks for the assistance given. He looked wretchedly ill, but he thought he had this duty to perform. "Wal," said the Yank, in his own cool way, "I guess we did lick them. But, young man, you go home, and liquor up as fast as you can." Half-way down the street, an old man, looking sideways at the hero, said aloud : "Begobs, there was nothin' seen like it since Casey the Hurler's time." The Yank raised himself with difficulty, and fixing his eyes on the old man, he said: "Say that agin, Mister!"

"I say," repeated the old man, somewhat em barrassed now, "that there was nothin' seen like that since Terence Casey single-handed bate the parishes of Ardpatrick and Glenroe." "That was a long time ago, I guess," said the Yank, leaning back helplessly again

Chapter II Confidences

If for no other reason but because he had so gallantly saved the honour of our parish, I was bound to call on him. That little expression, too, Th'anam 'on diabhal, that escaped from him in the heat of the contest, was eloquent of much. It showed that there was a deep, volcanic fire of Irish feeling under that cold crust of his American manner. Nature will break out and show itself in spite of every kind of artificial envelopment. But I felt, too, that there was something in the man above the common average. I have a decided par tiality for those silent fellows, who never talk, but somehow cut in at decidedly critical moments, and by quick, emphatic action, solve difficulties and end suspense, or compel that fickle dame, Fortune, to change her mind, and that, too, without delay. I called at the hotel.

He was in bed, badly bruised, but he looked as calm and imperturbable as ever. He received me with his usual coldness, answered in brief interjections my solicitous in quiries, chilled me, in fact, to the very marrow of my bones, until I was glad of the chance of getting away with the consciousness that I had done my duty. Then, just as I was turning away, he said: GLENANAAR 12 "I'm much obliged for your visit, Father. I do hope you will soon come again! " That upset all my calculations. What a country America must be, I thought, when a poor fellow has to wear such a coat of mail of cold polished steel around him to cover his natural warmth and sin cerity ! I came again and again. We became fast friends. Now, I had become much fascinated by what that old man had said, on the day of our great triumph, about Casey the Hurler, because amongst my reminiscences of a thrice beloved curacy two refrains of popular ballads were continually recur ring to lip and memory.

The one was the chorus of a famous election ballad in those days when we had borough elections in Ireland; and when fun fighting and whiskey were the order of the day. The other was a more recent Homeric effusion, chanted outside my windows in later years when I had a more appreciative sense of the value of ballad literature as enshrining the local history of the country. It was generally sung in strophes, and by two voices, male and female alternately, both combining in the fourth and final line. It ran thus: Then here's to bould young Casey, Like a lion did he chase ye, From the Galtees to the Funcheon, From the Funcheon to the say ; Sure nayther Mars nor Hccthor Would ever prove the viclhor, When bould young Casey's hurley, It went dancing through the fray. CONFIDENCES 13 "Bould young Casey" became a dim demigod in my imagination, because, being somewhat enthusiastic about Gaelic pastimes, I felt that this athlete was great, excelling, unrivalled in his own depart ment, and that he was, in fact, a hero.

It was with no vulgar sense of a prurient and unchastened curiosity, therefore, that I introduced the subject to the invalid in one of our numerous friendly conferences by his bedside. I think that the man that picks secrets is a hundred times worse than the fellow who picks pockets; and indeed, it was with a certain kind of alarm I ascertained that "the Yank" w*as none other than the redoubtable Casey himself. I had a certain awe of him, as you feel before a great personage who has hitherto been to you but a name; and I had also a dim presenti ment that there was a story, perhaps a tragedy, behind this incognito. The secret leaked out in this wise. He was complaining of the attendance at the hotel — that it was not all a sick man had a right to expect, etc. "Well," I said, "the waiter is a good fellow, except when he takes ' liminade,' which does not agree with him, because he says he has a 'wake' stomach; and the doctor told him to avoid any thing sweet.

But it seems to me, if you will pardon the suggestion, that you need a woman's hand around you here, to tidy up things a little, to get vour drinks, etc." GLENANAAR 14 "Wal, I was thinking so, too, myself," he said. "But you see I don't like to offend those good people" (which showed that he was a gentleman in heart and feeling); "they have been very kind in their own way. And then, well, your people, my good Father, are not quite — shall I say, methodical enough — ' ' I guessed what he meant; and I flared up a little. "As for that," I said, "I can get you as neat handed and as tidy a little woman as you'd get in Chicago or Boston. She is a poor little widow with two of the sweetest children you'd see in a day's walk; and I guarantee that you'll like her." "Widows are dangerous, Father," he said, smiling.

"We've old Tony Weller's authority for that. But where is she from? From this parish?" "No," I said, "not from here. I think she has come down from the hills over there near Glen-an-aar " I thought he looked frightened, because his eyes widened, and he got quite white beneath them. He said nothing for a whole, but only shook his head. Then : — "Let it drop, Father! It wouldn't do, nohow." Now, I marvelled much at this. I knew that Glenanaar was the Valley of Slaughter, and that a terrific battle had been fought there several cen turies before the Christian era between the Tuatha-de-Danaans and, I think, the Firbolgs. Is not the mountain stream, amber, or wine-coloured, CONFIDENCES 15 or tawny, called the Own-an-aar, the River of Slaughter, to this day? But what could that have to do with a returned American in the very last decade of the nineteenth century?

But I let it drop. He wished it so; and there was an end of the matter. But we did manage to tidy things up somehow, even without the help of the artistic waiter. One day when he was nearly convalescent, I said to him: "You'll be prepared for an ovation, my dear sir, when you are setting out for America. The people are so enthusiastic about your great feat that they will insist on inflicting on you some kind of popular demonstration to show their gratitude." "I hope not," he replied. "I came over just to see things for myself and to remain quiet, and to return safe." "That won't do, my dear fellow," I replied. "They're already chanting your praises by reviving an ancient ballad, styled The Life and Adventures of Terence Casey, the famous Hurler." Again he was much disturbed, and looked in a pleading way at me.

Then, he got suddenly angry: "Why the d — 1," he cried, "cannot they leave a fellow alone when he comes amongst them? I suppose now, some inquisitive fellow has been search ing and raking up all my past; and it will be flung in my face again." GLENANAAR I marvelled much at this sudden explosion of fury from such a tranquil fellow. I marvelled much more at the allusion. He saw my perplexity, and dissolved it. "Look here, Father," he said. 'Tis your business to keep secrets, is it not?" 'Yes," I said, "some." "All," he cried passionately. "If I thought a priest could blab about anything, I'd not trust him even in confession." '"Tis quite true," I replied. "Whatever you en trust to us as a secret will be inviolably preserved a secret, wherever it is spoken." "So I thought," he replied. "Now, I want none of these folks to know who I am, or what I came here for.

They have been ferreting around here the last couple of months to find out who I am. I can't see what the d — 1 it is to them. They have bribed even the unfortunate waiter to tell them the name on my trunk and linen." "That's going rather far," I replied. "I always gave them credit for drawing the line at a man's letters and his own revelations. Inside that, of course, curiosity is almost a virtue. It really springs from benevolence." "I can't understand that, nohow," he replied. "It seems to me that you folks would do better, if you would try mind your own business." "Now, that's all your American prejudice," I replied. "Or rather your Anglo-Saxon tradition; CONFIDENCES 17 for you Americans, unknown to yourselves, are Anglo-Saxons. Why, I'm told that over there a man might be your next-door neighbour for twenty years, and you mightn't know his name, or what he has for breakfast.

Now, I call that downright selfish ness. You must be awfully afraid of each other, when you lock up every secret in that way. Now, look at us! If my mare casts a shoe, or develops a splint, every man, woman, and child in the parish knows it in twenty-four hours. If I go up to Cork, everyone is asking where I am gone, and how long I shall remain away. And if I confess the least ignorance of what is going on in the parish, from Glenanaar to Twopothouse, they won't scruple to tell me I am a hermit; and that I ought to be a Trappist monk. So. too, if a baby is born, we all want to know whether it is a boy or a girl, whether it is like the father or mother, when it will be baptized, what will be its name. And when a man dies, we all go to his funeral, and while away the time between our prayers by asking how much he left behind him, and who was to get it.

Before he is settled in his coffin, every old woman in the parish must have a look at him, and a pull at his habit to see is the hood straight; and when the coffin is lowered to its last resting-place, there is generally a hot dispute as to whether it is geo metrically arranged. Then all take a last look at the breastplate to see how old he is; some shake their heads, as if even in his grave he was not quite can- GLENANAAR 18 did about his age; then with a final valediction, 'He was an hones' man; God rest him! ' all depart satisfied with their own benevolence. Now, I call that Christian charity and kindliness, not like your pagan exclusiveness." "Wal," he said, lifting up his hands wearily after this homily, "I can't make it out. You are queer folks over here." "Maybe we are," I said, a little nettled, for nothing angers me so much as this affectation of superiority on the part of people whom we could teach for the next thousand years.

"But I tell you, you have a lot to learn from us yet." "Wal, to cut matters short," he said, "I'm Terence Casey \ " "Casey, the Hurler?" I cried, amazed at this sudden impersonation of my ideal hero. "Yes," he replied, "but you mustn't mention it even after I'm gone." "Certainly," I replied, "your secret will be religiously respected. But would you allow me to touch your hand?" "For what?" he said, starting back. "Only to satisfy my hero-worship," I said. "You must know, my dear fellow, that for over twenty years you have been associated in my mind with the gods of Grecian fable, with Ajax and Achilles, not to speak of the Mars or Hector of the ballad. Why, if it were known that you were Casey, I don't know what honours would be heaped on you. The CONFIDENCES 19 band would be out every night to serenade you; you'd have had deputations from every Gaelic club in the country; and I'm quite sure you'd be pre sented with an illuminated address on your return to the 'Stars and Stripes.' " He laughed.

"It's a good escape," he said. "But, Father, I bind you to your promise of secrecy. No one must know who I am, and why I am here." "As to the first part," I said, " 'tis all right. No one knows who you are, or ever shall know, so far as I am concerned. As to the second clause of the secret, every man, woman, and child in the village knows what you came for! " "No?" he interrogated with alarm. "What is it?" "W7hy, what could it be," I said, "but to take back an Irish wife to the States? Why, every little colleen in the parish thinks that she will be your choice." "The Irish are the devils painted," he said, sinking into the pillows. "That's a matter of opinion," I said. "My own impression is, that they're angels without the paint. At any rate, I can guarantee you a score of young colleens here, any one of whom would do credit to the finest brownstone mansion on the banks of the Hudson or Mississippi.

I'll go farther and declare that you might pick out one or two who au GLENANAAR would grace the parqueted floor of the White House itself." "I've heard you saying these things, or some thing like them, off the altar, since I came home," he said. "But, of course, you exaggerate. You good Irish priests think Ireland the 'hub' of the universe. But these good people have guessed rightly, but not in the way they think. I came to Ireland not to lose my heart, but to get rid of an image that's there these twenty years." "The only way," I replied, "to manage that, is to paint another over it." He shook his head. "Many and many a fair picture has been painted over it," he said, "but 'tis of no use. That face will come up through all. 'Twill haunt me to my dying day. Unless " He stopped. "Unless I can see it again, but that's not likely.