Liam O'Flaherty - Land

Fenton turned in the saddle and saluted as he rode away. Daikness descended on his soul, as he caught a hurried glimpse of Barbara, standing on the bottom step beside the groom.

Night had long since fallen. Yet birds warbled diowsily, seduced from sleep by the first voluptuous heat of summer. The moon was full. Its ghostly radiance made a shimmering white lane across the smooth surface of the ocean, to the far horizon, like a road from earth to heaven. There was a feeling of intense rapture in the air.

Julia McNamara was indifferent to the night’s tender beauty, as she waited for Michael O’Dwyer in the grassy lane that ran across the base of the peninsula, south of Raoul St. George’s land. She walked back and forth like a caged animal, between the high stone fences that bounded the lane. Her fists were pressed hard against her sides. The skirt of her orange dress swayed rhythmically to and fro, sweeping the grass like a broom. A black shawl was thrown loosely about her arms and shoulders. A Spanish comb glistened in the moonlight above the coil of her jet black hair.

Now in her twenty-third year, she had the reputation of being the most beautiful woman in the district. She certainly had a magnificent carriage. The movement of her tall and slender body was like a subtle dance. The shining darkness of her hair, her flashing blue eyes, the immaculate whiteness of her arched neck and the passionate music of her voice all had the quality of beauty. Yet her loveliness was marred to a certain extent by the almost lunatic intensity of her expression. At one time she had entered a convent with the intention of becoming a nun. She was sent home after a few months, owing to an illness brought on by mystical exaltation. She used to faint in chapel after receiving the Blessed Eucharist. She was the daughter of Bartly McNamara, the shopkeeper that spat at the District Inspector on the day of the ambush.

She halted now and again to look over the top of the fence towards Manister Lodge, which stood out clear against the eastern horizon in the brilliant moonlight. It was about five hundred yards from where she stood, within a ring of trees, beyond the upward-sloping flat fields. The moonlight lent elegance to its shabby granite walls and to the storm-battered trees that surrounded it. In this light, it assumed the dignity of a steepled church, with its tall chimneys rising from steep, converging roofs and the uneven tree-tops crowding to its eaves like a misty cloud of incense.

Julia hated the house, just as if it were a living creature armed with occult power. She felt that it was in some way responsible for removing the man she loved from conversation with her. He was within its walls at this moment. Through the trees, she could see the light from the study in which he sat with Raoul. For almost a month now, he had been a daily visitor at Manister Lodge. She had been unable to speak to him in private during all that time. Even though Annie Fitzpatrick assured her that it was Raoul he came to visit, the poor girl was tormented by frantic jealousy. She was jealous of Lettice, “the red-haired French girl” of whose charm the whole village was talking.

Julia had come to this lane nearly every night during the past month, to wait until he emerged from the Lodge and came hurrying down the sloping flat fields, on his way to Mag Jordan’s cottage. She was always taken by a violent fit of shame when she saw him. When he approached her position in the lane, she always took to her heels. She would run all the way home, go to her bedroom, lock her door, throw herself face downwards on her bed and spend the night in wakeful agony. Sometimes she was able to cry and feel sorry for herself. Mostly, however, she just lay on her bed without tears, contemplating the anguish of her soul.

To-night she stood her ground when she saw him come towards her across the fields. A letter that she had been asked to give him lay within the bosom of her dress. Even though shame made her cheeks look on fire, the presence of the letter within her dress gave her courage to stand fast.

He did not see her until he was climbing across the stile into the lane. He halted halfway across and looked at her in angry surprise.

“What are you doing here?” he said curtly.

Julia did not reply. He jumped down, took her by the arms and drew her to a crouching position against the fence.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep away from me?” he whispered.

“I was given a letter for you,” Julia said, with her eyes on the ground.

“Why didn’t you send it over to Mag Jordan’s house?” Michael said. “Why did you come here with it?”

“I went over to Mag Jordan’s,” Julia said. “Mag told me you had gone to the Lodge. I rushed over to Mag’s house with it, as soon as I came home from Clash. I ran with it at once, because the man told me it was so important.”

“Why didn’t you leave it with Mag?” Michael said.

“I promised the man not to part with it except to yourself,” said Julia.

“What man?” Michael cried angrily. “What man are you talking about?”

Julia looked up at him suddenly, trembling and with tears in her eyes.

“What has come between us, Michael?” she cried in a tremulous voice. “Why did you suddenly turn cruel? Why do you keep away from me? What have I done to make you change like this all of a sudden. Is it something you heard about me?”

Michael stared at her in silence for a few moments. Then he gripped her arm.

“I told you that I didn’t want you to come near me,” he said harshly.

“You want other people to come near you, though,” Julia cried hysterically. “You want that red-haired French girl to come near you, all right.”

“Shut up,” Michael said, “if you know what is good for you. Give me that letter.”

Julia shuddered. Instead of giving him the letter, she covered her face with her hands.

“So that’s it?” Michael said. “All this talk about having a letter was just an excuse to come here and annoy me.”

Julia sobbed, took the letter from her bosom and gave it to him. He held the envelope close to his eyes and peered at the inscription.

“Where did you get this?” he said.

“A man gave it to me in the streets of Clash,” she said bitterly.

She had now recovered from her fit of shame. She hated him intensely. Her voice had turned harsh.

“Who was the man?” Michael said, turning the envelope round and round between his fingers suspiciously.

“I don’t know who he was,” Julia said. “I was going down Shop Street when he spoke to me. ‘Are you Julia McNamara?’ he said. ‘I am,’ said I. Then he gave me the letter. ‘Give this to Michael O’Dwyer,’ he said. ‘There’s information in it that may save his life. It’s a matter of life and death for him to get this information at once. Hurry to him with it.’ Then he made me promise, on my soul, several times, not to give the letter to anybody but yourself. After I promised, he tipped his hat and made off down Simon’s Lane. So I hurried back home and went to Mag Jordan’s to find you. For all the thanks I got, I needn’t have been in such a hurry.”

“What kind of man was he?” Michael said.

“He had only one eye,” Julia said, “and there was a yellow muffler twisted round his neck. He was thin and he wore a blue suit. That’s all I remember about him.”

Michael put the envelope into his pocket and said:

“Why should a stranger give you a message for me?”

“And who would be more entitled to get a message for you?” Julia cried.

“Are you trying to make out that you have a claim on me?” Michael said.

She shuddered and remained silent.

“Be on your way, Julia,” he said in a menacing tone. “I’m in no humour for your foolishness.”