THE GARDEN
By JAMES HANLEY
THE two boys had got half-way down the lane when they both stopped dead. One swung his satchel in the air, the other laid his on the low stone wall. The tall one, whose name was Lanty, exclaimed : " Ah ! Well I suppose you must stop now and stare at those old fogies there, but what the divil you see there I don't know."
The other, whose • name was Terence Mahon, replied : "- I always do and I often wonder what they do be thinking about, that blessed trinity over there." He leaned on the wall, rested his chin in his cupped hands.
" Well, I'm goin'," said the other. " You can have all your lookin'."
The smaller boy made no reply, and the other went on his way, kicking stones as he- ran. Terence opened the neck of his shirt, as the day was very hot. It was a quarter past four. At ht.lf past he must be home. Every morning as he passed up the lane to school he looked up the long garden where the great White House stood, and each afternoon he stood to lean on the wall and stare at the old people in their chairs. There was something he liked about the place, but as yet he did not know what it was. Maybe it was the house itself; or it might be the quietness with which those old people sat, but he had a faint idea that it was the garden itself that made him stop to It was such a long garden.
For some time he had stopped now, looking at this scene, yet it was only yesterday that he had learned the name of the old man. Francis Aloysius. He thought it a most beautiful name. How hot the sun was today. How green the grass, soft as silk to the touch, and the three chairs, and the great trees standing behind, and whilst he looked there came to his ears the murmurs of the waters. He knew they were blue, cool and inviting, that today the surface would have a kind of sheen upon it.
The house of Mangan. Now he had heard of that name before, but it was coupled to a different tale, a sad tale, and his mother had told him how Francis Aloysius Mangan had been an. officer under Wellington. One day he had passed and discovered that only.the old man lay in the chair, the two old sisters were in the hou-e. And curiosity had made him climb the wall and steal up the long garden to look at-the old man•as he slept. And nothing excited him more than that Mr. Mangan had gold ear-rings in his ears. He remembered how excited he was, how he had run home to tell his mother of his discovery, and she had scolded him for trespassing.
Ever since he had been content to stand by the low wall and just look. Something made him stop dead in his tracks and stare. He wondered sometimes if they had seen him. But he rather doubted it, for they always seemed to be fast asleep, at least Mr. Mangan was, and the two old sisters not sleeping were too busy to notice anything. Francis reclined in the middle chair, a bright red kerchief on his head, its ends- draping his neck, whilst on either side of him sat the sisters. There was nearly always a work-basket at their feet, and had he but looked at their hands alone he would hardly have expected to find them white-haired, but they were, and he had even given them a nickname. He called them the " Two White Mice," the way they curled up in their chairs, the way their nimble fingers spun and patterned and weaved with silks and cottons, and he knew at once that they were making the vestments and altar cloths for the Cathedral of Saint Michael's.
But Francis seemed never to move, always seemed to be sleeping. " Perhaps he is dreaming," thought the boy, and he would get excited at the mere thought of the wonderful dreams such an aged man might have, especially one who had served under Wellington. Experience was in the garden and innocence- leaned upon the wall, and he looked in upon them, but he was certain they never looked his way.
Still, when he tired of looking at them, of thinking of Francis Aloysius's dreams, there was always the garden. His eyes were no longer fixed upon the trinity, but lather upon certain great shadows, and certain small ones. Above his head he heard cries and knew that high up the gulls were wheeling, the great gulls, the black and white, the cormorant, and once a big hawk. How hot the sun. He looked up again. Such sweeping of wings, such wheeling and twisting and turning, such soaring, such sweeping dives. Now he looked at the great sweep of green grass and upon it he saw the shadows of the birds, fleeting, darting, criss- crossing.
Was it this that made him stop so often ? Just to watch all these fleeting shadows ? Yes, it was that. It must be. He might look up and see the rare command of air, the grace and rhythm . of their movements, patterning the air with ecstasy of living. No. It was not that, not the physical but the shadows thrown by their bodies. To watch the long garden deluged with fantastic movement. Always the sun shone, always he stopped by the wall, 'looked at the peaceful three, admired the tall house, the big elms and sycamores, the sun streaming fanwise down the walls, hearing the low murmur of the water at its foot, and watching_ the birds, and it was the movements of the birds that he loved best to watch. Wild and aimless movement, delicious and delirious movement, something their shadows spun upon the grass.
Once he heard one of the old ladies calling to Bridget the housekeeper, whiteheaded like themselves, and the voice was like that of a distant pipe. Yes, and once he had heard Francis Aloysius call, and his voice was wizened down to a squeak. He thought that once on a time it must have been like bronze. Once indeed they all met, face to face. He was passing down the lane one afternoon when he saw them walking down the garden, so that as he came in front of the house they were but three feet from the stone wall itself, and the old man had looked at him, he at the old man, and one had sung his high song of youth long ago, and for hint past and future were built on treacherous sand.
But the other looked and there was wonder upon his face, and perhaps for him the far-off roar was the future sweeping up. He had looked at the sisters, too. Their faces were small and round, a nut brown in colour. He knew their names. Alanna and Josephine. And they could no longer be called White Mice. So he called them the " Two Silk Worms," for always they were spinning and weaving, whilst Francis slept, or maybe just dreamed those wonderful dreams of his, his brain choked with history, weighed down with memories of olden times.
Each day the same whilst the summer was with the island, and each afternoon the same wild spurt from the school-yard, Lanty at his side, and always he Terence stopped, whilst Lanty with great disgust exclaimed, " Begob, you'll be at your crazy lookin' today I know," and swinging his satchel in the air he would dash off down the lane kicking stones as he ran, whilst Terence took up his position at the wall, and maybe the blessed trinity saw him and maybe they did not.
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