The Garden

by L. A. G. Strong

  He turned, and looked ahead. From the ship’s bow a great creaming wave, sparkling, thick, rich in the sunlight, rolled away outwards, solid as the sheets turned back from a bed. A vent in the ship’s side was shooting out ashes, which only faintly discoloured the hissing, dancing glory of broken water. Yes: he was going away speedily from Ireland, to a new world, to new experience. He felt cheered, and strength rose in his heart. Ireland was lovely, but he must go now, and earn his next visit there. He looked back again, and could just make out, very faint and dim, the shape of Killiney Hill on the horizon.

  Epilogue

  Ten Years Afterwards

  The front door of Delgany swung open, making its well-remembered, indescribable noise, and a girl, stepping across the mat, softly thanked the maid who had let her in. It was dusk in the hall, but the girl’s voice had not changed: and one who had not seen her since the events last told would have recognised her, with surprise, but little difficulty.

  “Am I late? ” she asked.

  “No, Miss Eithne. It wants a quarter of an hour yet.”

  Eithne made a grimace.

  “I must run,” she said.

  The maid smiled, and withdrew, her feet clattering on the uncarpeted stairs. Eithne hurried up to her room, to change for dinner. She turned left at the top of the landing, and left again. A breath of air from the sea met her as she opened the door, and she looked out upon the familiar perfect sight of the Bay. The Autumn evening was closing in. From the little town under the far headland a few small lights were beginning to twinkle resentfully. Eithne looked at it for an instant, and began to move with the purpose and directness of an efficient young woman who is in danger of being late for dinner.

  Seven minutes afterwards, the danger past, she brushed her hair, frowning at herself in the mirror. She was thinner, and older: there were lines at the corners of her eyes: but the greatest change which had come over her was just that air of decision and purpose. She had a neatness, an efficiency, which told that, instead of following her mother’s road, she had hardened in a quicker, noisier school: a school in which poise and grace were dearly bought. The girl who now critically scanned her face in the mirror would be severe with herself, and with others. Yet here, in this house, and in this room, she might relax. Turning from the glass, her eyes came to the mantelpiece. There, in all their remembered disarray, stood the rows of cards and calendars, the invitations and the dance programmes. It gave her a shock to find how clearly she remembered them after ten years. A few weeks only might have passed since she last looked at the ogling children, the dog with the tam o’ shanter, and the other tokens from Con’s little girl friends. There, smiling happily at her, was a snapshot of herself, sitting on the bike, dressed in Con’s overalls, in the pinewood on the Lough Bray road. She moved along. “Lady O’Shea requests the pleasure of Mr. Con McManus’ company at a dance … August 27th, 1912.” Nineteen-twelve. She shivered suddenly, turned off the light, and went downstairs. These things, all there together, in fixed, gleeful refusal to admit all that had happened—they were uncanny. She could well understand Aunt Patricia’s keeping them. She could not herself have moved a single one: but, somehow, she was glad to know that they would not stay there much longer. They refused to age, like an old woman who has gone silly, and thinks she is still a girl.

  Eithne had looked forward almost with terror to the time when she should first return, see the View again, and hear the front door swing. She thought she would die of memory and feeling. But when, yesterday, it had all opened effortlessly once more to her gaze, she had felt no emotion. Her eyes had been expressionless. There it was, all as before, the remembered wonder that was always more wonderful than memory. The door scraped open, and Aunt Patricia met her in the hall.

  “Ah, Eithne child, welcome,” she said, holding open her arms. “Though it’s to a sad, dull house now ; not like it was.”

  Even that did not pierce the cold self-possession which had so unexpectedly encased her heart. She hugged Aunt Patricia and said :

  “We’re going to have a lovely time together.”

  And, strangely enough, they were. Aunt Patricia had laughed more, Eileen said, than she had for years.

  The great gong banged, but without that exacerbating last crash which Con loved to beat from it, and the three women went in to dinner. They said little at first. A watcher would have felt that there was some subject which they were hesitating to approach. The table, shorn of a leaf, was lit by candles. They left the rest of the big room in shadow: but above the mantelpiece could be distinguished something new: a large frame with a portrait, and, inlet beneath it, a little inscribed panel.

  “Well,” said Eileen at last, “so you went to look over the old spot? ”

  Eithne looked up, grateful that the subject was delayed no longer.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Aah,” said Aunt Patricia. “I never went round. I hadn’t the heart. Sure, the front of it was enough for me.”

  “Yes. It has rather gone down, hasn’t it? But I wanted to see if there was anything left of the garden.”

  Eithne’s voice was quite steady. She took a sip from her glass.

  “I went up the lane, at the side: you know, the one that passed the big tarred gate looking out by the manure heap. The gate was gone, and it was hard to see where the hedge used to be. The orchard is there all right——”

  “That was all they left of the garden, when they let the house to the next tenant.”

  “—I know.”

  “They were going to build on it.”

  “Well,” said Eithne shortly, “they haven’t done so. It’s all allotments. I went among them. There are the two trees still, on the left-hand side: the one at the top, and the big one where the seat used to be, opposite the summer-house. But the rest might never have been there at all.”

  There was a short silence.

  “It’s a funny feeling,” said Eithne, in the same level voice, “to realise that a place has utterly ceased to exist: a place that was like a small world to the people who knew it. ”

  “Like the country hedges that are swallowed up to make a town,” said Eileen, making a warning face in the direction of her mother.

  “Just like that,” said Eithne gratefully, interpreting the glance. She pulled herself together. “I called in on Bessie, but she was out. So I left a message to say I’d be in tomorrow.”

  “She was terribly excited, to hear you were coming,” said Eileen. “She comes up here once a week, to do some cleaning for us.”

  “Then I went and saw old Paddy.”

  Aunt Patricia looked up. There were tears in her eyes, but she ignored them.

  “Is it the lame fella, that used to go about with Dermot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, a faithful poor fella. How is he? ”

  Eithne cleared her throat.

  “Remarkably well. He has regular work at the schools. He lives with his sister, and they seem quite happy.” She smiled. “We were very shy of one another at first, till I reminded him of one or two incidents. Then he sparked up splendidly. ”

  A fresh course came, and they did not speak for a couple of minutes.

  “It’s a snug little place they have,” said Eithne again.

  “He thought the world of Dermot, did poor Paddy.”

  “They have a photograph of him, in uniform, on the best table.”

  “Dermot in uniform,” said Aunt Patricia, musing. “D’ye know, I can never picture him like that. I never saw him in uniform. I can’t imagine it suiting him.”

  “He changed very much,” said Eithne. “But I know what you mean. He never looked quite at home in it.”

  “He was such a dreamy, thoughtful sort of a boy.”

  “Do you know, Aunt Patricia, this photo of him is just like that. It was the last he had taken. He looks just as I’ve often seen him look. As … as he looked the last time I saw him.”

  It was out. With a feeling almost of relief, the three
women relaxed. Hitherto, they had not trusted themselves. Eithne and Eileen had talked together, sitting up late the night before, after Aunt Patricia had gone to bed: but they had been afraid to speak in front of her. Even now, by silent agreement, they did not talk at the meal. They waited till they were sitting round the fire at one end of the big drawing-room. Shadows leaped on the walls. The telescope, mysteriously shrouded, sent a fantastic broken bar leaping across the ceiling. A stray flicker, shooting under a chair, gleamed derisively on the nose of the wooden pig. Dimly guarding its secrets stood the glass cupboard which held the shark’s jaws and the centipede. There were three people in the room. Eithne was too practical to fill empty chairs. She looked round seeing, not the room she knew, but a shell of it: useful to check one’s memories.

  She turned, and found Aunt Patricia looking at her across the hearth.

  “Tell me about Dermot,” said Aunt Patricia simply. “About the last time you saw him.”

  “Well… We went out as you know…. They didn’t realise at first how bad he was. He had lost one leg, but seemed to be going on well. He thought so. We had a most cheerful letter from him: very characteristic, full of his sort of jokes. Dictated to a nurse, of course: but he had signed it, quite firmly. Then we were sent for, at short notice.”

  She sat back into the chair.

  “We had two days with him. Most of the time, he was very sleepy and tired: but it made him happy to have us there.”

  “Did he know about—Con? ”

  “No, thank goodness. We kept that from him.”

  “You poor thing,” cried Eileen suddenly. “You had a hard time.”

  “It wasn’t very easy. I had one long happy talk with Dermot, the afternoon before he died. He talked a lot about here, and about Walmer Villa. About the garden. He remembered it in such detail.”

  “Did he seem unhappy … to know that it wasn’t there any longer? ”

  “No. Quite serene and happy. He kept dozing for a few minutes, and then going on with the conversation. I didn’t think he quite knew where he was: and then he’d say something, ‘ Are you still there?’ or something like that, showing he knew just what was happening. He was perfectly happy.”

  “That’s a blessing, anyway.” Aunt Patricia paused. “You saw him again? ”

  “The next morning, with Mummy, for a few minutes only. They were going to operate at two o’clock. We left him at one. He was terribly tired. I turned round in the door, and saw him put his hand up to his forehead, very wearily ; just the way he used to, when he was sleepy.”

  “He had no pain? ”

  “Very little. And he was gone before they could start operating. ”

  No one spoke. Eithne sat back into the shadow of the deep chair, and blew her nose.

  “One strange thing happened that afternoon. At about four, a letter came for Dermot from Con.”

  “Aah, Eithne, you don’t say it.”

  Aunt Patricia started, and leaned forward.

  “Yes. I can’t tell you what I felt, when I saw his handwriting. I hesitated for some time, and at last I opened it. It was written the evening before Con was killed. He had just heard about Dermot, and was writing to buck him up.” Her voice shook. “It—it was all about the rides in the mountains they’d have, when Dermot was well, and the War was over. It ended, ’ We’ll have great diversion.’ ”

  Eileen drew in her breath. She was watching Eithne in a kind of wonder.

  “For a while I felt absolutely torn inside, and then, suddenly, it seemed all right. The letter put it all right. I felt as if I could see them, together already, laughing at me for minding. For not understanding. And I determined not to mind. For their sakes, if they were anywhere where they could know about us, I determined to try and carry on…. It was extraordinary. I can’t tell you how, but calmness and peace seemed to flow into me. I was quite composed. I went up to call for Mummy. I even let her take me to see Dermot.”

  “Did——”

  “He looked just as I’ve seen him when he was a boy. Absolutely still and peaceful…. Well. There it was. They were gone. The two people I was most bound up in, gone together. Life was going to be different for us all, but perhaps even more different for me than for the others. I saw to everything, and took Mummy home. The rest you know.”

  There was a silence, and then Eileen began speaking, half in a dream.

  “It was easier for us than for many people, because of what we believe. Neither you, nor Mother here, will misunderstand me when I say that the day I die will be the happiest day of my life. I have a very happy life: but I look forward more than anything to that lovely day on which I shall join my dear ones.”

  “In anyone else I’d think that morbid,” said Eithne quietly, “but I know, with you, it’s different.”

  “I’m that way, too, Eithne,” said Aunt Patricia placidly. “I don’t care how soon the Lord calls me after my darling Ben and my two darling boys. But I’m quite contented, awaiting His word.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t quite as easy as that, for me. Don’t think I’m making light of the difficulty of holding on to such a faith as yours: or of leading the lives you do. It is just that—well, as a family, you see, we hadn’t that faith. Daddy believes nothing: Mummy’s not sure what she believes. Dermot and I learned all we know about your kind of faith here, in your house. We admired it, we wished we could imitate it.”

  “Why couldn’t you imitate it, Eithne? That’s what I never could understand. It’s so simple. Just trust in God’s providence, and leave all to Him.”

  “Yes. I know. It sounds simple, put like that. I can’t explain, to you, Aunt Patricia, I’m afraid: nor to Eileen.”

  “I can see,” said Eileen, “that Dermot might have met more obstacles to faith than we did. Though, I must say, in all humility, faith—the faith itself—seems easy enough to me. It’s living by it that’s hard.”

  Eithne said nothing. She knew only too well the impossibility of showing them where, for such as her and Dermot, the difficulty lay. They must reason, they must scrutinise. For them must be a faith which extended all their faculties, or no faith at all. Dermot had believed, hopefully, vaguely: the rush of events had given him no time to adjust his faith to his experience: but she knew that, had he lived, the faith of Delgany would have grown harder and harder for him.

  After a silence, the three women went on talking, reviewing the happenings of the violent years. Walmer Villa had barely outlived the Grays’ last visit. Three weeks after Dermot and Eithne had said their last farewell to him at the garden gate, Grandpapa had a seizure. For four days he lay, semi-conscious, singing to himself, in his husky ghost of a voice: praying loud and fervently: and reciting, hour after hour, without hesitation or fault, his favourite passages from Dickens. There, in that little room, in the mid-October of 1914, the last feeble spark of Victorian Ireland flared up and died. When the old man leaned back his head and uttered his last sigh, the long era of the eighteen-sixties passed for ever, and the bleak wind of a new Ireland blew down the street. Alfred Conroy had gone, and taken his world with him.

  It was only fitting that Granny should soon follow. She had not been well, and took his death with composure—knowing, perhaps, how short the separation was to be. Dermot’s mother was still with her. In spite of the doctor’s assurances, she preferred to stay. Granny got better, and took to coming down for a few hours every day. Miss O’Killikelly called one morning, and was informed by Bessie that the mistress would soon be down. She came back in half an hour, and was met by a Bessie distraught, crying and wringing her hands.

  “Oh, Miss O’Killikelly, Miss O’Killikelly, the mistress is dying.”

  Katie came out from the back regions somewhere, kneeled down in the hall, and began keening. Bessie turned and shook her.

  “Will you whisht,” she cried, almost fiercely.

  Upstairs, Granny, an expression of surprise on her face, a half-smile at the suddenness of the trick played upon her, lay staring at the window t
hat slowly blurred and darkened. Ten minutes later, Miss O’Killikelly, shaking her head from side to side, the tears streaming down her face, took home the lemon pudding that would not now be needed. When they heard the news, many wept with her: for the old lady was as near being universally beloved as it is possible to be. All, of every sect, called with their condolences: and Margaret met them all composedly. She and Aunt Patricia between them put the old house to sleep. Despite all it had meant to her, Margaret said afterwards that she did it without bitterness or sorrow. It belonged to a world that had passed away. Six weeks after Granny died, the house was empty, and the garden wild with weeds.

  Those two had gone in their fullness, for they were both over eighty years of age: but the decade had taken others whom it might well have spared. Uncle Ben was gone, from one winter’s bathe too many. Pneumonia set in, and burned up the great strong man like a handful of shavings.

  “It was better for him,” wrote Eileen at the time. “He’d never have put up with the need to take care of himself. He’d just have gone on and killed himself the moment he was well again. He hadn’t the temperament for being an invalid.”

  But Ben was seventy, and so to be counted lucky in having kept his strength of body so long. More cruel was the fate of Brian, struck suddenly with appendicitis, and operated on too late. Here, indeed, the will of God was hard to read, for there were a great many good human reasons for leaving Brian alive: but the few heads left at Delgany bowed in unshaken trust. Anne was well, that was one comfort. She and Tope were happy and prosperous. They came over once a year to stay with Aunt Patricia, and she always felt the better for their visit. They always asked her over to stay with them, too: in fact, did all they could to take the places of those she had lost.

  One other death the three had to speak of at the fire, but a death so splendidly in character that none of them could regret it. During the War, the O’Dowda, cursing, proferred unostentatious but valuable service to his King. As soon as it was over, he went back to his beloved Vienna, and spent four happy years there. The tall magnificent figure, erect as ever, with its cloak, its broad-brimmed hat, its half-humorous air of hauteur, became one of the best known figures in that impoverished city. A connoisseur of guitar-playing, he attended every small recital, private, semi-private, and public, and to win his severe applause became a mark at which the virtuosi aimed. One night, in a café, it was noticed that when the player finished, the tall figure seated by himself gave no sign, but remained leaning forward, his head upon his hands. The waiter tip-toed up, and at last, greatly daring, touched his arm. Cornelius Conlon O’Dowda had died to music.