THE DEAD
LILY, the caretaker's daughter, was literally
run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one
gentleman into the little pantry behind the
office on the ground floor and helped him
off with his overcoat than the wheezy hall-door
bell clanged again and she had to scamper
along the bare hallway to let in another guest.
It was well for her she had not to attend
to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss
Julia had thought of that and had converted
the bathroom upstairs into a ladies' dressing-room.
Miss Kate and Miss Julia were there, gossiping
and laughing and fussing, walking after each
other to the head of the stairs, peering down
over the banisters and calling down to Lily
to ask her who had come.
It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's
annual dance. Everybody who knew them came
to it, members of the family, old friends
of the family, the members of Julia's choir,
any of Kate's pupils that were grown up enough,
and even some of Mary Jane's pupils too. Never
once had it fallen flat. For years and years
it had gone off in splendid style, as long
as anyone could remember; ever since Kate
and Julia, after the death of their brother
Pat, had left the house in Stoney Batter and
taken Mary Jane, their only niece, to live
with them in the dark, gaunt house on Usher's
Island, the upper part of which they had rented
from Mr. Fulham, the corn-factor on the ground
floor. That was a good thirty years ago if
it was a day. Mary Jane, who was then a little
girl in short clothes, was now the main prop
of the household, for she had the organ in
Haddington Road. She had been through the
Academy and gave a pupils' concert every year
in the upper room of the Antient Concert Rooms.
Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class
families on the Kingstown and Dalkey line.
Old as they were, her aunts also did their
share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was
still the leading soprano in Adam and Eve's,
and Kate, being too feeble to go about much,
gave music lessons to beginners on the old
square piano in the back room. Lily, the caretaker's
daughter, did housemaid's work for them. Though
their life was modest, they believed in eating
well; the best of everything: diamond-bone
sirloins, three-shilling tea and the best
bottled stout. But Lily seldom made a mistake
in the orders, so that she got on well with
her three mistresses. They were fussy, that
was all. But the only thing they would not
stand was back answers.
Of course, they had good reason to be fussy
on such a night. And then it was long after
ten o'clock and yet there was no sign of Gabriel
and his wife. Besides they were dreadfully
afraid that Freddy Malins might turn up screwed.
They would not wish for worlds that any of
Mary Jane's pupils should see him under the
influence; and when he was like that it was
sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy
Malins always came late, but they wondered
what could be keeping Gabriel: and that was
what brought them every two minutes to the
banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel or Freddy
come.
"O, Mr. Conroy," said Lily to Gabriel when
she opened the door for him, "Miss Kate and
Miss Julia thought you were never coming.
Good-night, Mrs. Conroy."
"I'll engage they did," said Gabriel, "but
they forget that my wife here takes three
mortal hours to dress herself."
He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from
his goloshes, while Lily led his wife to the
foot of the stairs and called out:
"Miss Kate, here's Mrs. Conroy."
Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark
stairs at once. Both of them kissed Gabriel's
wife, said she must be perished alive, and
asked was Gabriel with her.
"Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate!
Go on up. I'll follow," called out Gabriel
from the dark.
He continued scraping his feet vigorously
while the three women went upstairs, laughing,
to the ladies' dressing-room. A light fringe
of snow lay like a cape on the shoulders of
his overcoat and like toecaps on the toes
of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of his
overcoat slipped with a squeaking noise through
the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold, fragrant
air from out-of-doors escaped from crevices
and folds.
"Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?" asked Lily.
She had preceded him into the pantry to help
him off with his overcoat. Gabriel smiled
at the three syllables she had given his surname
and glanced at her. She was a slim, growing
girl, pale in complexion and with hay-coloured
hair. The gas in the pantry made her look
still paler. Gabriel had known her when she
was a child and used to sit on the lowest
step nursing a rag doll.
"Yes, Lily," he answered, "and I think we're
in for a night of it."
He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which
was shaking with the stamping and shuffling
of feet on the floor above, listened for a
moment to the piano and then glanced at the
girl, who was folding his overcoat carefully
at the end of a shelf.
"Tell me. Lily," he said in a friendly tone,
"do you still go to school?"
"O no, sir," she answered. "I'm done schooling
this year and more."
"O, then," said Gabriel gaily, "I suppose
we'll be going to your wedding one of these
fine days with your young man, eh?"
The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder
and said with great bitterness:
"The men that is now is only all palaver and
what they can get out of you."
Gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made
a mistake and, without looking at her, kicked
off his goloshes and flicked actively with
his muffler at his patent-leather shoes.
He was a stout, tallish young man. The high
colour of his cheeks pushed upwards even to
his forehead, where it scattered itself in
a few formless patches of pale red; and on
his hairless face there scintillated restlessly
the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims
of the glasses which screened his delicate
and restless eyes. His glossy black hair was
parted in the middle and brushed in a long
curve behind his ears where it curled slightly
beneath the groove left by his hat.
When he had flicked lustre into his shoes
he stood up and pulled his waistcoat down
more tightly on his plump body. Then he took
a coin rapidly from his pocket.
"O Lily," he said, thrusting it into her hands,
"it's Christmastime, isn't it? Just... here's
a little...."
He walked rapidly towards the door.
"O no, sir!" cried the girl, following him.
"Really, sir, I wouldn't take it."
"Christmas-time! Christmas-time!" said Gabriel,
almost trotting to the stairs and waving his
hand to her in deprecation.
The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs,
called out after him:
"Well, thank you, sir."
He waited outside the drawing-room door until
the waltz should finish, listening to the
skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling
of feet. He was still discomposed by the girl's
bitter and sudden retort. It had cast a gloom
over him which he tried to dispel by arranging
his cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then
took from his waistcoat pocket a little paper
and glanced at the headings he had made for
his speech. He was undecided about the lines
from Robert Browning, for he feared they would
be above the heads of his hearers. Some quotation
that they would recognise from Shakespeare
or from the Melodies would be better. The
indelicate clacking of the men's heels and
the shuffling of their soles reminded him
that their grade of culture differed from
his. He would only make himself ridiculous
by quoting poetry to them which they could
not understand. They would think that he was
airing his superior education. He would fail
with them just as he had failed with the girl
in the pantry. He had taken up a wrong tone.
His whole speech was a mistake from first
to last, an utter failure.
Just then his aunts and his wife came out
of the ladies' dressing-room. His aunts were
two small, plainly dressed old women. Aunt
Julia was an inch or so the taller. Her hair,
drawn low over the tops of her ears, was grey;
and grey also, with darker shadows, was her
large flaccid face. Though she was stout in
build and stood erect, her slow eyes and parted
lips gave her the appearance of a woman who
did not know where she was or where she was
going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face,
healthier than her sister's, was all puckers
and creases, like a shrivelled red apple,
and her hair, braided in the same old-fashioned
way, had not lost its ripe nut colour.
They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their
favourite nephew, the son of their dead elder
sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy
of the Port and Docks.
"Gretta tells me you're not going to take
a cab back to Monkstown tonight, Gabriel,"
said Aunt Kate.
"No," said Gabriel, turning to his wife, "we
had quite enough of that last year, hadn't
we? Don't you remember, Aunt Kate, what a
cold Gretta got out of it? Cab windows rattling
all the way, and the east wind blowing in
after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was.
Gretta caught a dreadful cold."
Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her
head at every word.
"Quite right, Gabriel, quite right," she said.
"You can't be too careful."
"But as for Gretta there," said Gabriel, "she'd
walk home in the snow if she were let."
Mrs. Conroy laughed.
"Don't mind him, Aunt Kate," she said. "He's
really an awful bother, what with green shades
for Tom's eyes at night and making him do
the dumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the
stirabout. The poor child! And she simply
hates the sight of it!... O, but you'll never
guess what he makes me wear now!"
She broke out into a peal of laughter and
glanced at her husband, whose admiring and
happy eyes had been wandering from her dress
to her face and hair. The two aunts laughed
heartily, too, for Gabriel's solicitude was
a standing joke with them.
"Goloshes!" said Mrs. Conroy. "That's the
latest. Whenever it's wet underfoot I must
put on my galoshes. Tonight even, he wanted
me to put them on, but I wouldn't. The next
thing he'll buy me will be a diving suit."
Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie
reassuringly, while Aunt Kate nearly doubled
herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke.
The smile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face
and her mirthless eyes were directed towards
her nephew's face. After a pause she asked:
"And what are goloshes, Gabriel?"
"Goloshes, Julia!" exclaimed her sister "Goodness
me, don't you know what goloshes are? You
wear them over your... over your boots, Gretta,
isn't it?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Conroy. "Guttapercha things.
We both have a pair now. Gabriel says everyone
wears them on the Continent."
"O, on the Continent," murmured Aunt Julia,
nodding her head slowly.
Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if
he were slightly angered:
"It's nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks
it very funny because she says the word reminds
her of Christy Minstrels."
"But tell me, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, with
brisk tact. "Of course, you've seen about
the room. Gretta was saying..."
"O, the room is all right," replied Gabriel.
"I've taken one in the Gresham."
"To be sure," said Aunt Kate, "by far the
best thing to do. And the children, Gretta,
you're not anxious about them?"
"O, for one night," said Mrs. Conroy. "Besides,
Bessie will look after them."
"To be sure," said Aunt Kate again. "What
a comfort it is to have a girl like that,
one you can depend on! There's that Lily,
I'm sure I don't know what has come over her
lately. She's not the girl she was at all."
Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions
on this point, but she broke off suddenly
to gaze after her sister, who had wandered
down the stairs and was craning her neck over
the banisters.
"Now, I ask you," she said almost testily,
"where is Julia going? Julia! Julia! Where
are you going?"
Julia, who had gone half way down one flight,
came back and announced blandly:
"Here's Freddy."
At the same moment a clapping of hands and
a final flourish of the pianist told that
the waltz had ended. The drawing-room door
was opened from within and some couples came
out. Aunt Kate drew Gabriel aside hurriedly
and whispered into his ear:
"Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and
see if he's all right, and don't let him up
if he's screwed. I'm sure he's screwed. I'm
sure he is."
Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over
the banisters. He could hear two persons talking
in the pantry. Then he recognised Freddy Malins'
laugh. He went down the stairs noisily.
"It's such a relief," said Aunt Kate to Mrs.
Conroy, "that Gabriel is here. I always feel
easier in my mind when he's here.... Julia,
there's Miss Daly and Miss Power will take
some refreshment. Thanks for your beautiful
waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time."
A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled
moustache and swarthy skin, who was passing
out with his partner, said:
"And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss
Morkan?"
"Julia," said Aunt Kate summarily, "and here's
Mr. Browne and Miss Furlong. Take them in,
Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss Power."
"I'm the man for the ladies," said Mr. Browne,
pursing his lips until his moustache bristled
and smiling in all his wrinkles. "You know,
Miss Morkan, the reason they are so fond of
me is——"
He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing
that Aunt Kate was out of earshot, at once
led the three young ladies into the back room.
The middle of the room was occupied by two
square tables placed end to end, and on these
Aunt Julia and the caretaker were straightening
and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard
were arrayed dishes and plates, and glasses
and bundles of knives and forks and spoons.
The top of the closed square piano served
also as a sideboard for viands and sweets.
At a smaller sideboard in one corner two young
men were standing, drinking hop-bitters.
Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited
them all, in jest, to some ladies' punch,
hot, strong and sweet. As they said they never
took anything strong, he opened three bottles
of lemonade for them. Then he asked one of
the young men to move aside, and, taking hold
of the decanter, filled out for himself a
goodly measure of whisky. The young men eyed
him respectfully while he took a trial sip.
"God help me," he said, smiling, "it's the
doctor's orders."
His wizened face broke into a broader smile,
and the three young ladies laughed in musical
echo to his pleasantry, swaying their bodies
to and fro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders.
The boldest said:
"O, now, Mr. Browne, I'm sure the doctor never
ordered anything of the kind."
Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky
and said, with sidling mimicry:
"Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy,
who is reported to have said: 'Now, Mary Grimes,
if I don't take it, make me take it, for I
feel I want it.'"
His hot face had leaned forward a little too
confidentially and he had assumed a very low
Dublin accent so that the young ladies, with
one instinct, received his speech in silence.
Miss Furlong, who was one of Mary Jane's pupils,
asked Miss Daly what was the name of the pretty
waltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeing
that he was ignored, turned promptly to the
two young men who were more appreciative.
A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy,
came into the room, excitedly clapping her
hands and crying:
"Quadrilles! Quadrilles!"
Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:
"Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!"
"O, here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan," said
Mary Jane. "Mr. Kerrigan, will you take Miss
Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner,
Mr. Bergin. O, that'll just do now."
"Three ladies, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.
The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if
they might have the pleasure, and Mary Jane
turned to Miss Daly.
"O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good,
after playing for the last two dances, but
really we're so short of ladies tonight."
"I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan."
"But I've a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy, the tenor. I'll get him to sing later
on. All Dublin is raving about him."
"Lovely voice, lovely voice!" said Aunt Kate.
As the piano had twice begun the prelude to
the first figure Mary Jane led her recruits
quickly from the room. They had hardly gone
when Aunt Julia wandered slowly into the room,
looking behind her at something.
"What is the matter, Julia?" asked Aunt Kate
anxiously. "Who is it?"
Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins,
turned to her sister and said, simply, as
if the question had surprised her:
"It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with
him."
In fact right behind her Gabriel could be
seen piloting Freddy Malins across the landing.
The latter, a young man of about forty, was
of Gabriel's size and build, with very round
shoulders. His face was fleshy and pallid,
touched with colour only at the thick hanging
lobes of his ears and at the wide wings of
his nose. He had coarse features, a blunt
nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid and
protruded lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and
the disorder of his scanty hair made him look
sleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high
key at a story which he had been telling Gabriel
on the stairs and at the same time rubbing
the knuckles of his left fist backwards and
forwards into his left eye.
"Good-evening, Freddy," said Aunt Julia.
Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening
in what seemed an offhand fashion by reason
of the habitual catch in his voice and then,
seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him
from the sideboard, crossed the room on rather
shaky legs and began to repeat in an undertone
the story he had just told to Gabriel.
"He's not so bad, is he?" said Aunt Kate to
Gabriel.
Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them
quickly and answered:
"O, no, hardly noticeable."
"Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!" she said.
"And his poor mother made him take the pledge
on New Year's Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into
the drawing-room."
Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled
to Mr. Browne by frowning and shaking her
forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr. Browne
nodded in answer and, when she had gone, said
to Freddy Malins:
"Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out
a good glass of lemonade just to buck you
up."
Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax
of his story, waved the offer aside impatiently
but Mr. Browne, having first called Freddy
Malins' attention to a disarray in his dress,
filled out and handed him a full glass of
lemonade. Freddy Malins' left hand accepted
the glass mechanically, his right hand being
engaged in the mechanical readjustment of
his dress. Mr. Browne, whose face was once
more wrinkling with mirth, poured out for
himself a glass of whisky while Freddy Malins
exploded, before he had well reached the climax
of his story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic
laughter and, setting down his untasted and
overflowing glass, began to rub the knuckles
of his left fist backwards and forwards into
his left eye, repeating words of his last
phrase as well as his fit of laughter would
allow him.
Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was
playing her Academy piece, full of runs and
difficult passages, to the hushed drawing-room.
He liked music but the piece she was playing
had no melody for him and he doubted whether
it had any melody for the other listeners,
though they had begged Mary Jane to play something.
Four young men, who had come from the refreshment-room
to stand in the doorway at the sound of the
piano, had gone away quietly in couples after
a few minutes. The only persons who seemed
to follow the music were Mary Jane herself,
her hands racing along the key-board or lifted
from it at the pauses like those of a priestess
in momentary imprecation, and Aunt Kate standing
at her elbow to turn the page.
Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which
glittered with beeswax under the heavy chandelier,
wandered to the wall above the piano. A picture
of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet hung
there and beside it was a picture of the two
murdered princes in the Tower which Aunt Julia
had worked in red, blue and brown wools when
she was a girl. Probably in the school they
had gone to as girls that kind of work had
been taught for one year. His mother had worked
for him as a birthday present a waistcoat
of purple tabinet, with little foxes' heads
upon it, lined with brown satin and having
round mulberry buttons. It was strange that
his mother had had no musical talent though
Aunt Kate used to call her the brains carrier
of the Morkan family. Both she and Julia had
always seemed a little proud of their serious
and matronly sister. Her photograph stood
before the pierglass. She held an open book
on her knees and was pointing out something
in it to Constantine who, dressed in a man-o-war
suit, lay at her feet. It was she who had
chosen the name of her sons for she was very
sensible of the dignity of family life. Thanks
to her, Constantine was now senior curate
in Balbrigan and, thanks to her, Gabriel himself
had taken his degree in the Royal University.
A shadow passed over his face as he remembered
her sullen opposition to his marriage. Some
slighting phrases she had used still rankled
in his memory; she had once spoken of Gretta
as being country cute and that was not true
of Gretta at all. It was Gretta who had nursed
her during all her last long illness in their
house at Monkstown.
He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end
of her piece for she was playing again the
opening melody with runs of scales after every
bar and while he waited for the end the resentment
died down in his heart. The piece ended with
a trill of octaves in the treble and a final
deep octave in the bass. Great applause greeted
Mary Jane as, blushing and rolling up her
music nervously, she escaped from the room.
The most vigorous clapping came from the four
young men in the doorway who had gone away
to the refreshment-room at the beginning of
the piece but had come back when the piano
had stopped.
Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself
partnered with Miss Ivors. She was a frank-mannered
talkative young lady, with a freckled face
and prominent brown eyes. She did not wear
a low-cut bodice and the large brooch which
was fixed in the front of her collar bore
on it an Irish device and motto.
When they had taken their places she said
abruptly:
"I have a crow to pluck with you."
"With me?" said Gabriel.
She nodded her head gravely.
"What is it?" asked Gabriel, smiling at her
solemn manner.
"Who is G. C.?" answered Miss Ivors, turning
her eyes upon him.
Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his
brows, as if he did not understand, when she
said bluntly:
"O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you
write for The Daily Express. Now, aren't you
ashamed of yourself?"
"Why should I be ashamed of myself?" asked
Gabriel, blinking his eyes and trying to smile.
"Well, I'm ashamed of you," said Miss Ivors
frankly. "To say you'd write for a paper like
that. I didn't think you were a West Briton."
A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's
face. It was true that he wrote a literary
column every Wednesday in The Daily Express,
for which he was paid fifteen shillings. But
that did not make him a West Briton surely.
The books he received for review were almost
more welcome than the paltry cheque. He loved
to feel the covers and turn over the pages
of newly printed books. Nearly every day when
his teaching in the college was ended he used
to wander down the quays to the second-hand
booksellers, to Hickey's on Bachelor's Walk,
to Web's or Massey's on Aston's Quay, or to
O'Clohissey's in the by-street. He did not
know how to meet her charge. He wanted to
say that literature was above politics. But
they were friends of many years' standing
and their careers had been parallel, first
at the University and then as teachers: he
could not risk a grandiose phrase with her.
He continued blinking his eyes and trying
to smile and murmured lamely that he saw nothing
political in writing reviews of books.
When their turn to cross had come he was still
perplexed and inattentive. Miss Ivors promptly
took his hand in a warm grasp and said in
a soft friendly tone:
"Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross
now."
When they were together again she spoke of
the University question and Gabriel felt more
at ease. A friend of hers had shown her his
review of Browning's poems. That was how she
had found out the secret: but she liked the
review immensely. Then she said suddenly:
"O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion
to the Aran Isles this summer? We're going
to stay there a whole month. It will be splendid
out in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr.
Clancy is coming, and Mr. Kilkelly and Kathleen
Kearney. It would be splendid for Gretta too
if she'd come. She's from Connacht, isn't
she?"
"Her people are," said Gabriel shortly.
"But you will come, won't you?" said Miss
Ivors, laying her warm hand eagerly on his
arm.
"The fact is," said Gabriel, "I have just
arranged to go——"
"Go where?" asked Miss Ivors.
"Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling
tour with some fellows and so——"
"But where?" asked Miss Ivors.
"Well, we usually go to France or Belgium
or perhaps Germany," said Gabriel awkwardly.
"And why do you go to France and Belgium,"
said Miss Ivors, "instead of visiting your
own land?"
"Well," said Gabriel, "it's partly to keep
in touch with the languages and partly for
a change."
"And haven't you your own language to keep
in touch with—Irish?" asked Miss Ivors.
"Well," said Gabriel, "if it comes to that,
you know, Irish is not my language."
Their neighbours had turned to listen to the
cross-examination. Gabriel glanced right and
left nervously and tried to keep his good
humour under the ordeal which was making a
blush invade his forehead.
"And haven't you your own land to visit,"
continued Miss Ivors, "that you know nothing
of, your own people, and your own country?"
"O, to tell you the truth," retorted Gabriel
suddenly, "I'm sick of my own country, sick
of it!"
"Why?" asked Miss Ivors.
Gabriel did not answer for his retort had
heated him.
"Why?" repeated Miss Ivors.
They had to go visiting together and, as he
had not answered her, Miss Ivors said warmly:
"Of course, you've no answer."
Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking
part in the dance with great energy. He avoided
her eyes for he had seen a sour expression
on her face. But when they met in the long
chain he was surprised to feel his hand firmly
pressed. She looked at him from under her
brows for a moment quizzically until he smiled.
Then, just as the chain was about to start
again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into
his ear:
"West Briton!"
When the lancers were over Gabriel went away
to a remote corner of the room where Freddy
Malins' mother was sitting. She was a stout
feeble old woman with white hair. Her voice
had a catch in it like her son's and she stuttered
slightly. She had been told that Freddy had
come and that he was nearly all right. Gabriel
asked her whether she had had a good crossing.
She lived with her married daughter in Glasgow
and came to Dublin on a visit once a year.
She answered placidly that she had had a beautiful
crossing and that the captain had been most
attentive to her. She spoke also of the beautiful
house her daughter kept in Glasgow, and of
all the friends they had there. While her
tongue rambled on Gabriel tried to banish
from his mind all memory of the unpleasant
incident with Miss Ivors. Of course the girl
or woman, or whatever she was, was an enthusiast
but there was a time for all things. Perhaps
he ought not to have answered her like that.
But she had no right to call him a West Briton
before people, even in joke. She had tried
to make him ridiculous before people, heckling
him and staring at him with her rabbit's eyes.
He saw his wife making her way towards him
through the waltzing couples. When she reached
him she said into his ear:
"Gabriel, Aunt Kate wants to know won't you
carve the goose as usual. Miss Daly will carve
the ham and I'll do the pudding."
"All right," said Gabriel.
"She's sending in the younger ones first as
soon as this waltz is over so that we'll have
the table to ourselves."
"Were you dancing?" asked Gabriel.
"Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What
row had you with Molly Ivors?"
"No row. Why? Did she say so?"
"Something like that. I'm trying to get that
Mr. D'Arcy to sing. He's full of conceit,
I think."
"There was no row," said Gabriel moodily,
"only she wanted me to go for a trip to the
west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't."
His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave
a little jump.
"O, do go, Gabriel," she cried. "I'd love
to see Galway again."
"You can go if you like," said Gabriel coldly.
She looked at him for a moment, then turned
to Mrs. Malins and said:
"There's a nice husband for you, Mrs. Malins."
While she was threading her way back across
the room Mrs. Malins, without adverting to
the interruption, went on to tell Gabriel
what beautiful places there were in Scotland
and beautiful scenery. Her son-in-law brought
them every year to the lakes and they used
to go fishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid
fisher. One day he caught a beautiful big
fish and the man in the hotel cooked it for
their dinner.
Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that
supper was coming near he began to think again
about his speech and about the quotation.
When he saw Freddy Malins coming across the
room to visit his mother Gabriel left the
chair free for him and retired into the embrasure
of the window. The room had already cleared
and from the back room came the clatter of
plates and knives. Those who still remained
in the drawing-room seemed tired of dancing
and were conversing quietly in little groups.
Gabriel's warm trembling fingers tapped the
cold pane of the window. How cool it must
be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk
out alone, first along by the river and then
through the park! The snow would be lying
on the branches of the trees and forming a
bright cap on the top of the Wellington Monument.
How much more pleasant it would be there than
at the supper-table!
He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish
hospitality, sad memories, the Three Graces,
Paris, the quotation from Browning. He repeated
to himself a phrase he had written in his
review: "One feels that one is listening to
a thought-tormented music." Miss Ivors had
praised the review. Was she sincere? Had she
really any life of her own behind all her
propagandism? There had never been any ill-feeling
between them until that night. It unnerved
him to think that she would be at the supper-table,
looking up at him while he spoke with her
critical quizzing eyes. Perhaps she would
not be sorry to see him fail in his speech.
An idea came into his mind and gave him courage.
He would say, alluding to Aunt Kate and Aunt
Julia: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the generation
which is now on the wane among us may have
had its faults but for my part I think it
had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour,
of humanity, which the new and very serious
and hypereducated generation that is growing
up around us seems to me to lack." Very good:
that was one for Miss Ivors. What did he care
that his aunts were only two ignorant old
women?
A murmur in the room attracted his attention.
Mr. Browne was advancing from the door, gallantly
escorting Aunt Julia, who leaned upon his
arm, smiling and hanging her head. An irregular
musketry of applause escorted her also as
far as the piano and then, as Mary Jane seated
herself on the stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer
smiling, half turned so as to pitch her voice
fairly into the room, gradually ceased. Gabriel
recognised the prelude. It was that of an
old song of Aunt Julia's—Arrayed for the
Bridal. Her voice, strong and clear in tone,
attacked with great spirit the runs which
embellish the air and though she sang very
rapidly she did not miss even the smallest
of the grace notes. To follow the voice, without
looking at the singer's face, was to feel
and share the excitement of swift and secure
flight. Gabriel applauded loudly with all
the others at the close of the song and loud
applause was borne in from the invisible supper-table.
It sounded so genuine that a little colour
struggled into Aunt Julia's face as she bent
to replace in the music-stand the old leather-bound
songbook that had her initials on the cover.
Freddy Malins, who had listened with his head
perched sideways to hear her better, was still
applauding when everyone else had ceased and
talking animatedly to his mother who nodded
her head gravely and slowly in acquiescence.
At last, when he could clap no more, he stood
up suddenly and hurried across the room to
Aunt Julia whose hand he seized and held in
both his hands, shaking it when words failed
him or the catch in his voice proved too much
for him.
"I was just telling my mother," he said, "I
never heard you sing so well, never. No, I
never heard your voice so good as it is tonight.
Now! Would you believe that now? That's the
truth. Upon my word and honour that's the
truth. I never heard your voice sound so fresh
and so... so clear and fresh, never."
Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something
about compliments as she released her hand
from his grasp. Mr. Browne extended his open
hand towards her and said to those who were
near him in the manner of a showman introducing
a prodigy to an audience:
"Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!"
He was laughing very heartily at this himself
when Freddy Malins turned to him and said:
"Well, Browne, if you're serious you might
make a worse discovery. All I can say is I
never heard her sing half so well as long
as I am coming here. And that's the honest
truth."
"Neither did I," said Mr. Browne. "I think
her voice has greatly improved."
Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said
with meek pride:
"Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as
voices go."
"I often told Julia," said Aunt Kate emphatically,
"that she was simply thrown away in that choir.
But she never would be said by me."
She turned as if to appeal to the good sense
of the others against a refractory child while
Aunt Julia gazed in front of her, a vague
smile of reminiscence playing on her face.
"No," continued Aunt Kate, "she wouldn't be
said or led by anyone, slaving there in that
choir night and day, night and day. Six o'clock
on Christmas morning! And all for what?"
"Well, isn't it for the honour of God, Aunt
Kate?" asked Mary Jane, twisting round on
the piano-stool and smiling.
Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and
said:
"I know all about the honour of God, Mary
Jane, but I think it's not at all honourable
for the pope to turn out the women out of
the choirs that have slaved there all their
lives and put little whipper-snappers of boys
over their heads. I suppose it is for the
good of the Church if the pope does it. But
it's not just, Mary Jane, and it's not right."
She had worked herself into a passion and
would have continued in defence of her sister
for it was a sore subject with her but Mary
Jane, seeing that all the dancers had come
back, intervened pacifically:
"Now, Aunt Kate, you're giving scandal to
Mr. Browne who is of the other persuasion."
Aunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning
at this allusion to his religion, and said
hastily:
"O, I don't question the pope's being right.
I'm only a stupid old woman and I wouldn't
presume to do such a thing. But there's such
a thing as common everyday politeness and
gratitude. And if I were in Julia's place
I'd tell that Father Healey straight up to
his face..."
"And besides, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane,
"we really are all hungry and when we are
hungry we are all very quarrelsome."
"And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome,"
added Mr. Browne.
"So that we had better go to supper," said
Mary Jane, "and finish the discussion afterwards."
On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel
found his wife and Mary Jane trying to persuade
Miss Ivors to stay for supper. But Miss Ivors,
who had put on her hat and was buttoning her
cloak, would not stay. She did not feel in
the least hungry and she had already overstayed
her time.
"But only for ten minutes, Molly," said Mrs.
Conroy. "That won't delay you."
"To take a pick itself," said Mary Jane, "after
all your dancing."
"I really couldn't," said Miss Ivors.
"I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at
all," said Mary Jane hopelessly.
"Ever so much, I assure you," said Miss Ivors,
"but you really must let me run off now."
"But how can you get home?" asked Mrs. Conroy.
"O, it's only two steps up the quay."
Gabriel hesitated a moment and said:
"If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I'll see
you home if you are really obliged to go."
But Miss Ivors broke away from them.
"I won't hear of it," she cried. "For goodness'
sake go in to your suppers and don't mind
me. I'm quite well able to take care of myself."
"Well, you're the comical girl, Molly," said
Mrs. Conroy frankly.
"Beannacht libh," cried Miss Ivors, with a
laugh, as she ran down the staircase.
Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled
expression on her face, while Mrs. Conroy
leaned over the banisters to listen for the
hall-door. Gabriel asked himself was he the
cause of her abrupt departure. But she did
not seem to be in ill humour: she had gone
away laughing. He stared blankly down the
staircase.
At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out
of the supper-room, almost wringing her hands
in despair.
"Where is Gabriel?" she cried. "Where on earth
is Gabriel? There's everyone waiting in there,
stage to let, and nobody to carve the goose!"
"Here I am, Aunt Kate!" cried Gabriel, with
sudden animation, "ready to carve a flock
of geese, if necessary."
A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table
and at the other end, on a bed of creased
paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a
great ham, stripped of its outer skin and
peppered over with crust crumbs, a neat paper
frill round its shin and beside this was a
round of spiced beef. Between these rival
ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes: two
little minsters of jelly, red and yellow;
a shallow dish full of blocks of blancmange
and red jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish
with a stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches
of purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion
dish on which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna
figs, a dish of custard topped with grated
nutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates and
sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers and
a glass vase in which stood some tall celery
stalks. In the centre of the table there stood,
as sentries to a fruit-stand which upheld
a pyramid of oranges and American apples,
two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass,
one containing port and the other dark sherry.
On the closed square piano a pudding in a
huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind
it were three squads of bottles of stout and
ale and minerals, drawn up according to the
colours of their uniforms, the first two black,
with brown and red labels, the third and smallest
squad white, with transverse green sashes.
Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of
the table and, having looked to the edge of
the carver, plunged his fork firmly into the
goose. He felt quite at ease now for he was
an expert carver and liked nothing better
than to find himself at the head of a well-laden
table.
"Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?" he
asked. "A wing or a slice of the breast?"
"Just a small slice of the breast."
"Miss Higgins, what for you?"
"O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy."
While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates
of goose and plates of ham and spiced beef
Lily went from guest to guest with a dish
of hot floury potatoes wrapped in a white
napkin. This was Mary Jane's idea and she
had also suggested apple sauce for the goose
but Aunt Kate had said that plain roast goose
without any apple sauce had always been good
enough for her and she hoped she might never
eat worse. Mary Jane waited on her pupils
and saw that they got the best slices and
Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia opened and carried
across from the piano bottles of stout and
ale for the gentlemen and bottles of minerals
for the ladies. There was a great deal of
confusion and laughter and noise, the noise
of orders and counter-orders, of knives and
forks, of corks and glass-stoppers. Gabriel
began to carve second helpings as soon as
he had finished the first round without serving
himself. Everyone protested loudly so that
he compromised by taking a long draught of
stout for he had found the carving hot work.
Mary Jane settled down quietly to her supper
but Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia were still toddling
round the table, walking on each other's heels,
getting in each other's way and giving each
other unheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged of
them to sit down and eat their suppers and
so did Gabriel but they said there was time
enough, so that, at last, Freddy Malins stood
up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her down
on her chair amid general laughter.
When everyone had been well served Gabriel
said, smiling:
"Now, if anyone wants a little more of what
vulgar people call stuffing let him or her
speak."
A chorus of voices invited him to begin his
own supper and Lily came forward with three
potatoes which she had reserved for him.
"Very well," said Gabriel amiably, as he took
another preparatory draught, "kindly forget
my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a
few minutes."
He set to his supper and took no part in the
conversation with which the table covered
Lily's removal of the plates. The subject
of talk was the opera company which was then
at the Theatre Royal. Mr. Bartell D'Arcy,
the tenor, a dark-complexioned young man with
a smart moustache, praised very highly the
leading contralto of the company but Miss
Furlong thought she had a rather vulgar style
of production. Freddy Malins said there was
a Negro chieftain singing in the second part
of the Gaiety pantomime who had one of the
finest tenor voices he had ever heard.
"Have you heard him?" he asked Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy across the table.
"No," answered Mr. Bartell D'Arcy carelessly.
"Because," Freddy Malins explained, "now I'd
be curious to hear your opinion of him. I
think he has a grand voice."
"It takes Teddy to find out the really good
things," said Mr. Browne familiarly to the
table.
"And why couldn't he have a voice too?" asked
Freddy Malins sharply. "Is it because he's
only a black?"
Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane
led the table back to the legitimate opera.
One of her pupils had given her a pass for
Mignon. Of course it was very fine, she said,
but it made her think of poor Georgina Burns.
Mr. Browne could go back farther still, to
the old Italian companies that used to come
to Dublin—Tietjens, Ilma de Murzka, Campanini,
the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli, Aramburo.
Those were the days, he said, when there was
something like singing to be heard in Dublin.
He told too of how the top gallery of the
old Royal used to be packed night after night,
of how one night an Italian tenor had sung
five encores to Let me like a Soldier fall,
introducing a high C every time, and of how
the gallery boys would sometimes in their
enthusiasm unyoke the horses from the carriage
of some great prima donna and pull her themselves
through the streets to her hotel. Why did
they never play the grand old operas now,
he asked, Dinorah, Lucrezia Borgia? Because
they could not get the voices to sing them:
that was why.
"Oh, well," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, "I presume
there are as good singers today as there were
then."
"Where are they?" asked Mr. Browne defiantly.
"In London, Paris, Milan," said Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy warmly. "I suppose Caruso, for example,
is quite as good, if not better than any of
the men you have mentioned."
"Maybe so," said Mr. Browne. "But I may tell
you I doubt it strongly."
"O, I'd give anything to hear Caruso sing,"
said Mary Jane.
"For me," said Aunt Kate, who had been picking
a bone, "there was only one tenor. To please
me, I mean. But I suppose none of you ever
heard of him."
"Who was he, Miss Morkan?" asked Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy politely.
"His name," said Aunt Kate, "was Parkinson.
I heard him when he was in his prime and I
think he had then the purest tenor voice that
was ever put into a man's throat."
"Strange," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. "I never
even heard of him."
"Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right," said Mr.
Browne. "I remember hearing of old Parkinson
but he's too far back for me."
"A beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow English
tenor," said Aunt Kate with enthusiasm.
Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding
was transferred to the table. The clatter
of forks and spoons began again. Gabriel's
wife served out spoonfuls of the pudding and
passed the plates down the table. Midway down
they were held up by Mary Jane, who replenished
them with raspberry or orange jelly or with
blancmange and jam. The pudding was of Aunt
Julia's making and she received praises for
it from all quarters. She herself said that
it was not quite brown enough.
"Well, I hope, Miss Morkan," said Mr. Browne,
"that I'm brown enough for you because, you
know, I'm all brown."
All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some
of the pudding out of compliment to Aunt Julia.
As Gabriel never ate sweets the celery had
been left for him. Freddy Malins also took
a stalk of celery and ate it with his pudding.
He had been told that celery was a capital
thing for the blood and he was just then under
doctor's care. Mrs. Malins, who had been silent
all through the supper, said that her son
was going down to Mount Melleray in a week
or so. The table then spoke of Mount Melleray,
how bracing the air was down there, how hospitable
the monks were and how they never asked for
a penny-piece from their guests.
"And do you mean to say," asked Mr. Browne
incredulously, "that a chap can go down there
and put up there as if it were a hotel and
live on the fat of the land and then come
away without paying anything?"
"O, most people give some donation to the
monastery when they leave." said Mary Jane.
"I wish we had an institution like that in
our Church," said Mr. Browne candidly.
He was astonished to hear that the monks never
spoke, got up at two in the morning and slept
in their coffins. He asked what they did it
for.
"That's the rule of the order," said Aunt
Kate firmly.
"Yes, but why?" asked Mr. Browne.
Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that
was all. Mr. Browne still seemed not to understand.
Freddy Malins explained to him, as best he
could, that the monks were trying to make
up for the sins committed by all the sinners
in the outside world. The explanation was
not very clear for Mr. Browne grinned and
said:
"I like that idea very much but wouldn't a
comfortable spring bed do them as well as
a coffin?"
"The coffin," said Mary Jane, "is to remind
them of their last end."
As the subject had grown lugubrious it was
buried in a silence of the table during which
Mrs. Malins could be heard saying to her neighbour
in an indistinct undertone:
"They are very good men, the monks, very pious
men."
The raisins and almonds and figs and apples
and oranges and chocolates and sweets were
now passed about the table and Aunt Julia
invited all the guests to have either port
or sherry. At first Mr. Bartell D'Arcy refused
to take either but one of his neighbours nudged
him and whispered something to him upon which
he allowed his glass to be filled. Gradually
as the last glasses were being filled the
conversation ceased. A pause followed, broken
only by the noise of the wine and by unsettlings
of chairs. The Misses Morkan, all three, looked
down at the tablecloth. Someone coughed once
or twice and then a few gentlemen patted the
table gently as a signal for silence. The
silence came and Gabriel pushed back his chair.
The patting at once grew louder in encouragement
and then ceased altogether. Gabriel leaned
his ten trembling fingers on the tablecloth
and smiled nervously at the company. Meeting
a row of upturned faces he raised his eyes
to the chandelier. The piano was playing a
waltz tune and he could hear the skirts sweeping
against the drawing-room door. People, perhaps,
were standing in the snow on the quay outside,
gazing up at the lighted windows and listening
to the waltz music. The air was pure there.
In the distance lay the park where the trees
were weighted with snow. The Wellington Monument
wore a gleaming cap of snow that flashed westward
over the white field of Fifteen Acres.
He began:
"Ladies and Gentlemen,
"It has fallen to my lot this evening, as
in years past, to perform a very pleasing
task but a task for which I am afraid my poor
powers as a speaker are all too inadequate."
"No, no!" said Mr. Browne.
"But, however that may be, I can only ask
you tonight to take the will for the deed
and to lend me your attention for a few moments
while I endeavour to express to you in words
what my feelings are on this occasion.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first
time that we have gathered together under
this hospitable roof, around this hospitable
board. It is not the first time that we have
been the recipients—or perhaps, I had better
say, the victims—of the hospitality of certain
good ladies."
He made a circle in the air with his arm and
paused. Everyone laughed or smiled at Aunt
Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary Jane who all
turned crimson with pleasure. Gabriel went
on more boldly:
"I feel more strongly with every recurring
year that our country has no tradition which
does it so much honour and which it should
guard so jealously as that of its hospitality.
It is a tradition that is unique as far as
my experience goes (and I have visited not
a few places abroad) among the modern nations.
Some would say, perhaps, that with us it is
rather a failing than anything to be boasted
of. But granted even that, it is, to my mind,
a princely failing, and one that I trust will
long be cultivated among us. Of one thing,
at least, I am sure. As long as this one roof
shelters the good ladies aforesaid—and I
wish from my heart it may do so for many and
many a long year to come—the tradition of
genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality,
which our forefathers have handed down to
us and which we in turn must hand down to
our descendants, is still alive among us."
A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table.
It shot through Gabriel's mind that Miss Ivors
was not there and that she had gone away discourteously:
and he said with confidence in himself:
"Ladies and Gentlemen,
"A new generation is growing up in our midst,
a generation actuated by new ideas and new
principles. It is serious and enthusiastic
for these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even
when it is misdirected, is, I believe, in
the main sincere. But we are living in a sceptical
and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented
age: and sometimes I fear that this new generation,
educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack
those qualities of humanity, of hospitality,
of kindly humour which belonged to an older
day. Listening tonight to the names of all
those great singers of the past it seemed
to me, I must confess, that we were living
in a less spacious age. Those days might,
without exaggeration, be called spacious days:
and if they are gone beyond recall let us
hope, at least, that in gatherings such as
this we shall still speak of them with pride
and affection, still cherish in our hearts
the memory of those dead and gone great ones
whose fame the world will not willingly let
die."
"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Browne loudly.
"But yet," continued Gabriel, his voice falling
into a softer inflection, "there are always
in gatherings such as this sadder thoughts
that will recur to our minds: thoughts of
the past, of youth, of changes, of absent
faces that we miss here tonight. Our path
through life is strewn with many such sad
memories: and were we to brood upon them always
we could not find the heart to go on bravely
with our work among the living. We have all
of us living duties and living affections
which claim, and rightly claim, our strenuous
endeavours.
"Therefore, I will not linger on the past.
I will not let any gloomy moralising intrude
upon us here tonight. Here we are gathered
together for a brief moment from the bustle
and rush of our everyday routine. We are met
here as friends, in the spirit of good-fellowship,
as colleagues, also to a certain extent, in
the true spirit of camaraderie, and as the
guests of—what shall I call them?—the
Three Graces of the Dublin musical world."
The table burst into applause and laughter
at this allusion. Aunt Julia vainly asked
each of her neighbours in turn to tell her
what Gabriel had said.
"He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia,"
said Mary Jane.
Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked
up, smiling, at Gabriel, who continued in
the same vein:
"Ladies and Gentlemen,
"I will not attempt to play tonight the part
that Paris played on another occasion. I will
not attempt to choose between them. The task
would be an invidious one and one beyond my
poor powers. For when I view them in turn,
whether it be our chief hostess herself, whose
good heart, whose too good heart, has become
a byword with all who know her, or her sister,
who seems to be gifted with perennial youth
and whose singing must have been a surprise
and a revelation to us all tonight, or, last
but not least, when I consider our youngest
hostess, talented, cheerful, hard-working
and the best of nieces, I confess, Ladies
and Gentlemen, that I do not know to which
of them I should award the prize."
Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing
the large smile on Aunt Julia's face and the
tears which had risen to Aunt Kate's eyes,
hastened to his close. He raised his glass
of port gallantly, while every member of the
company fingered a glass expectantly, and
said loudly:
"Let us toast them all three together. Let
us drink to their health, wealth, long life,
happiness and prosperity and may they long
continue to hold the proud and self-won position
which they hold in their profession and the
position of honour and affection which they
hold in our hearts."
All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and
turning towards the three seated ladies, sang
in unison, with Mr. Browne as leader:
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
Which nobody can deny.
Aunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief
and even Aunt Julia seemed moved. Freddy Malins
beat time with his pudding-fork and the singers
turned towards one another, as if in melodious
conference, while they sang with emphasis:
Unless he tells a lie,
Unless he tells a lie.
Then, turning once more towards their hostesses,
they sang:
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
For they are jolly gay fellows,
Which nobody can deny.
The acclamation which followed was taken up
beyond the door of the supper-room by many
of the other guests and renewed time after
time, Freddy Malins acting as officer with
his fork on high.
The piercing morning air came into the hall
where they were standing so that Aunt Kate
said:
"Close the door, somebody. Mrs. Malins will
get her death of cold."
"Browne is out there, Aunt Kate," said Mary
Jane.
"Browne is everywhere," said Aunt Kate, lowering
her voice.
Mary Jane laughed at her tone.
"Really," she said archly, "he is very attentive."
"He has been laid on here like the gas," said
Aunt Kate in the same tone, "all during the
Christmas."
She laughed herself this time good-humouredly
and then added quickly:
"But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close
the door. I hope to goodness he didn't hear
me."
At that moment the hall-door was opened and
Mr. Browne came in from the doorstep, laughing
as if his heart would break. He was dressed
in a long green overcoat with mock astrakhan
cuffs and collar and wore on his head an oval
fur cap. He pointed down the snow-covered
quay from where the sound of shrill prolonged
whistling was borne in.
"Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out,"
he said.
Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind
the office, struggling into his overcoat and,
looking round the hall, said:
"Gretta not down yet?"
"She's getting on her things, Gabriel," said
Aunt Kate.
"Who's playing up there?" asked Gabriel.
"Nobody. They're all gone."
"O no, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane. "Bartell
D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan aren't gone yet."
"Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow,"
said Gabriel.
Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr. Browne
and said with a shiver:
"It makes me feel cold to look at you two
gentlemen muffled up like that. I wouldn't
like to face your journey home at this hour."
"I'd like nothing better this minute," said
Mr. Browne stoutly, "than a rattling fine
walk in the country or a fast drive with a
good spanking goer between the shafts."
"We used to have a very good horse and trap
at home," said Aunt Julia sadly.
"The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny," said Mary
Jane, laughing.
Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too.
"Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?" asked
Mr. Browne.
"The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather,
that is," explained Gabriel, "commonly known
in his later years as the old gentleman, was
a glue-boiler."
"O, now, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, laughing,
"he had a starch mill."
"Well, glue or starch," said Gabriel, "the
old gentleman had a horse by the name of Johnny.
And Johnny used to work in the old gentleman's
mill, walking round and round in order to
drive the mill. That was all very well; but
now comes the tragic part about Johnny. One
fine day the old gentleman thought he'd like
to drive out with the quality to a military
review in the park."
"The Lord have mercy on his soul," said Aunt
Kate compassionately.
"Amen," said Gabriel. "So the old gentleman,
as I said, harnessed Johnny and put on his
very best tall hat and his very best stock
collar and drove out in grand style from his
ancestral mansion somewhere near Back Lane,
I think."
Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Malins, at Gabriel's
manner and Aunt Kate said:
"O, now, Gabriel, he didn't live in Back Lane,
really. Only the mill was there."
"Out from the mansion of his forefathers,"
continued Gabriel, "he drove with Johnny.
And everything went on beautifully until Johnny
came in sight of King Billy's statue: and
whether he fell in love with the horse King
Billy sits on or whether he thought he was
back again in the mill, anyhow he began to
walk round the statue."
Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in
his goloshes amid the laughter of the others.
"Round and round he went," said Gabriel, "and
the old gentleman, who was a very pompous
old gentleman, was highly indignant. 'Go on,
sir! What do you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny!
Most extraordinary conduct! Can't understand
the horse!'"
The peal of laughter which followed Gabriel's
imitation of the incident was interrupted
by a resounding knock at the hall door. Mary
Jane ran to open it and let in Freddy Malins.
Freddy Malins, with his hat well back on his
head and his shoulders humped with cold, was
puffing and steaming after his exertions.
"I could only get one cab," he said.
"O, we'll find another along the quay," said
Gabriel.
"Yes," said Aunt Kate. "Better not keep Mrs.
Malins standing in the draught."
Mrs. Malins was helped down the front steps
by her son and Mr. Browne and, after many
manoeuvres, hoisted into the cab. Freddy Malins
clambered in after her and spent a long time
settling her on the seat, Mr. Browne helping
him with advice. At last she was settled comfortably
and Freddy Malins invited Mr. Browne into
the cab. There was a good deal of confused
talk, and then Mr. Browne got into the cab.
The cabman settled his rug over his knees,
and bent down for the address. The confusion
grew greater and the cabman was directed differently
by Freddy Malins and Mr. Browne, each of whom
had his head out through a window of the cab.
The difficulty was to know where to drop Mr.
Browne along the route, and Aunt Kate, Aunt
Julia and Mary Jane helped the discussion
from the doorstep with cross-directions and
contradictions and abundance of laughter.
As for Freddy Malins he was speechless with
laughter. He popped his head in and out of
the window every moment to the great danger
of his hat, and told his mother how the discussion
was progressing, till at last Mr. Browne shouted
to the bewildered cabman above the din of
everybody's laughter:
"Do you know Trinity College?"
"Yes, sir," said the cabman.
"Well, drive bang up against Trinity College
gates," said Mr. Browne, "and then we'll tell
you where to go. You understand now?"
"Yes, sir," said the cabman.
"Make like a bird for Trinity College."
"Right, sir," said the cabman.
The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled
off along the quay amid a chorus of laughter
and adieus.
Gabriel had not gone to the door with the
others. He was in a dark part of the hall
gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing
near the top of the first flight, in the shadow
also. He could not see her face but he could
see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels
of her skirt which the shadow made appear
black and white. It was his wife. She was
leaning on the banisters, listening to something.
Gabriel was surprised at her stillness and
strained his ear to listen also. But he could
hear little save the noise of laughter and
dispute on the front steps, a few chords struck
on the piano and a few notes of a man's voice
singing.
He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying
to catch the air that the voice was singing
and gazing up at his wife. There was grace
and mystery in her attitude as if she were
a symbol of something. He asked himself what
is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow,
listening to distant music, a symbol of. If
he were a painter he would paint her in that
attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off
the bronze of her hair against the darkness
and the dark panels of her skirt would show
off the light ones. Distant Music he would
call the picture if he were a painter.
The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt
Julia and Mary Jane came down the hall, still
laughing.
"Well, isn't Freddy terrible?" said Mary Jane.
"He's really terrible."
Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs
towards where his wife was standing. Now that
the hall-door was closed the voice and the
piano could be heard more clearly. Gabriel
held up his hand for them to be silent. The
song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality
and the singer seemed uncertain both of his
words and of his voice. The voice, made plaintive
by distance and by the singer's hoarseness,
faintly illuminated the cadence of the air
with words expressing grief:
O, the rain falls on my heavy locks
And the dew wets my skin,
My babe lies cold...
"O," exclaimed Mary Jane. "It's Bartell D'Arcy
singing and he wouldn't sing all the night.
O, I'll get him to sing a song before he goes."
"O, do, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.
Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran
to the staircase, but before she reached it
the singing stopped and the piano was closed
abruptly.
"O, what a pity!" she cried. "Is he coming
down, Gretta?"
Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw
her come down towards them. A few steps behind
her were Mr. Bartell D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan.
"O, Mr. D'Arcy," cried Mary Jane, "it's downright
mean of you to break off like that when we
were all in raptures listening to you."
"I have been at him all the evening," said
Miss O'Callaghan, "and Mrs. Conroy, too, and
he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn't
sing."
"O, Mr. D'Arcy," said Aunt Kate, "now that
was a great fib to tell."
"Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow?"
said Mr. D'Arcy roughly.
He went into the pantry hastily and put on
his overcoat. The others, taken aback by his
rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt
Kate wrinkled her brows and made signs to
the others to drop the subject. Mr. D'Arcy
stood swathing his neck carefully and frowning.
"It's the weather," said Aunt Julia, after
a pause.
"Yes, everybody has colds," said Aunt Kate
readily, "everybody."
"They say," said Mary Jane, "we haven't had
snow like it for thirty years; and I read
this morning in the newspapers that the snow
is general all over Ireland."
"I love the look of snow," said Aunt Julia
sadly.
"So do I," said Miss O'Callaghan. "I think
Christmas is never really Christmas unless
we have the snow on the ground."
"But poor Mr. D'Arcy doesn't like the snow,"
said Aunt Kate, smiling.
Mr. D'Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed
and buttoned, and in a repentant tone told
them the history of his cold. Everyone gave
him advice and said it was a great pity and
urged him to be very careful of his throat
in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife,
who did not join in the conversation. She
was standing right under the dusty fanlight
and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze
of her hair, which he had seen her drying
at the fire a few days before. She was in
the same attitude and seemed unaware of the
talk about her. At last she turned towards
them and Gabriel saw that there was colour
on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining.
A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his
heart.
"Mr. D'Arcy," she said, "what is the name
of that song you were singing?"
"It's called The Lass of Aughrim," said Mr.
D'Arcy, "but I couldn't remember it properly.
Why? Do you know it?"
"The Lass of Aughrim," she repeated. "I couldn't
think of the name."
"It's a very nice air," said Mary Jane. "I'm
sorry you were not in voice tonight."
"Now, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate, "don't annoy
Mr. D'Arcy. I won't have him annoyed."
Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded
them to the door, where good-night was said:
"Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for
the pleasant evening."
"Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!"
"Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so
much. Goodnight, Aunt Julia."
"O, good-night, Gretta, I didn't see you."
"Good-night, Mr. D'Arcy. Good-night, Miss
O'Callaghan."
"Good-night, Miss Morkan."
"Good-night, again."
"Good-night, all. Safe home."
"Good-night. Good night."
The morning was still dark. A dull, yellow
light brooded over the houses and the river;
and the sky seemed to be descending. It was
slushy underfoot; and only streaks and patches
of snow lay on the roofs, on the parapets
of the quay and on the area railings. The
lamps were still burning redly in the murky
air and, across the river, the palace of the
Four Courts stood out menacingly against the
heavy sky.
She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell
D'Arcy, her shoes in a brown parcel tucked
under one arm and her hands holding her skirt
up from the slush. She had no longer any grace
of attitude, but Gabriel's eyes were still
bright with happiness. The blood went bounding
along his veins; and the thoughts went rioting
through his brain, proud, joyful, tender,
valorous.
She was walking on before him so lightly and
so erect that he longed to run after her noiselessly,
catch her by the shoulders and say something
foolish and affectionate into her ear. She
seemed to him so frail that he longed to defend
her against something and then to be alone
with her. Moments of their secret life together
burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope
envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup
and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds
were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web
of the curtain was shimmering along the floor:
he could not eat for happiness. They were
standing on the crowded platform and he was
placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her
glove. He was standing with her in the cold,
looking in through a grated window at a man
making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was
very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold
air, was quite close to his; and suddenly
he called out to the man at the furnace:
"Is the fire hot, sir?"
But the man could not hear with the noise
of the furnace. It was just as well. He might
have answered rudely.
A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from
his heart and went coursing in warm flood
along his arteries. Like the tender fire of
stars moments of their life together, that
no one knew of or would ever know of, broke
upon and illumined his memory. He longed to
recall to her those moments, to make her forget
the years of their dull existence together
and remember only their moments of ecstasy.
For the years, he felt, had not quenched his
soul or hers. Their children, his writing,
her household cares had not quenched all their
souls' tender fire. In one letter that he
had written to her then he had said: "Why
is it that words like these seem to me so
dull and cold? Is it because there is no word
tender enough to be your name?"
Like distant music these words that he had
written years before were borne towards him
from the past. He longed to be alone with
her. When the others had gone away, when he
and she were in the room in their hotel, then
they would be alone together. He would call
her softly:
"Gretta!"
Perhaps she would not hear at once: she would
be undressing. Then something in his voice
would strike her. She would turn and look
at him....
At the corner of Winetavern Street they met
a cab. He was glad of its rattling noise as
it saved him from conversation. She was looking
out of the window and seemed tired. The others
spoke only a few words, pointing out some
building or street. The horse galloped along
wearily under the murky morning sky, dragging
his old rattling box after his heels, and
Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping
to catch the boat, galloping to their honeymoon.
As the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge Miss
O'Callaghan said:
"They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge
without seeing a white horse."
"I see a white man this time," said Gabriel.
"Where?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy.
Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay
patches of snow. Then he nodded familiarly
to it and waved his hand.
"Good-night, Dan," he said gaily.
When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel
jumped out and, in spite of Mr. Bartell D'Arcy's
protest, paid the driver. He gave the man
a shilling over his fare. The man saluted
and said:
"A prosperous New Year to you, sir."
"The same to you," said Gabriel cordially.
She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting
out of the cab and while standing at the curbstone,
bidding the others good-night. She leaned
lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she
had danced with him a few hours before. He
had felt proud and happy then, happy that
she was his, proud of her grace and wifely
carriage. But now, after the kindling again
of so many memories, the first touch of her
body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent
through him a keen pang of lust. Under cover
of her silence he pressed her arm closely
to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel
door, he felt that they had escaped from their
lives and duties, escaped from home and friends
and run away together with wild and radiant
hearts to a new adventure.
An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair
in the hall. He lit a candle in the office
and went before them to the stairs. They followed
him in silence, their feet falling in soft
thuds on the thickly carpeted stairs. She
mounted the stairs behind the porter, her
head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders
curved as with a burden, her skirt girt tightly
about her. He could have flung his arms about
her hips and held her still, for his arms
were trembling with desire to seize her and
only the stress of his nails against the palms
of his hands held the wild impulse of his
body in check. The porter halted on the stairs
to settle his guttering candle. They halted,
too, on the steps below him. In the silence
Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten
wax into the tray and the thumping of his
own heart against his ribs.
The porter led them along a corridor and opened
a door. Then he set his unstable candle down
on a toilet-table and asked at what hour they
were to be called in the morning.
"Eight," said Gabriel.
The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light
and began a muttered apology, but Gabriel
cut him short.
"We don't want any light. We have light enough
from the street. And I say," he added, pointing
to the candle, "you might remove that handsome
article, like a good man."
The porter took up his candle again, but slowly,
for he was surprised by such a novel idea.
Then he mumbled good-night and went out. Gabriel
shot the lock to.
A ghostly light from the street lamp lay in
a long shaft from one window to the door.
Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch
and crossed the room towards the window. He
looked down into the street in order that
his emotion might calm a little. Then he turned
and leaned against a chest of drawers with
his back to the light. She had taken off her
hat and cloak and was standing before a large
swinging mirror, unhooking her waist. Gabriel
paused for a few moments, watching her, and
then said:
"Gretta!"
She turned away from the mirror slowly and
walked along the shaft of light towards him.
Her face looked so serious and weary that
the words would not pass Gabriel's lips. No,
it was not the moment yet.
"You looked tired," he said.
"I am a little," she answered.
"You don't feel ill or weak?"
"No, tired: that's all."
She went on to the window and stood there,
looking out. Gabriel waited again and then,
fearing that diffidence was about to conquer
him, he said abruptly:
"By the way, Gretta!"
"What is it?"
"You know that poor fellow Malins?" he said
quickly.
"Yes. What about him?"
"Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of
chap, after all," continued Gabriel in a false
voice. "He gave me back that sovereign I lent
him, and I didn't expect it, really. It's
a pity he wouldn't keep away from that Browne,
because he's not a bad fellow, really."
He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did
she seem so abstracted? He did not know how
he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about
something? If she would only turn to him or
come to him of her own accord! To take her
as she was would be brutal. No, he must see
some ardour in her eyes first. He longed to
be master of her strange mood.
"When did you lend him the pound?" she asked,
after a pause.
Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking
out into brutal language about the sottish
Malins and his pound. He longed to cry to
her from his soul, to crush her body against
his, to overmaster her. But he said:
"O, at Christmas, when he opened that little
Christmas-card shop in Henry Street."
He was in such a fever of rage and desire
that he did not hear her come from the window.
She stood before him for an instant, looking
at him strangely. Then, suddenly raising herself
on tiptoe and resting her hands lightly on
his shoulders, she kissed him.
"You are a very generous person, Gabriel,"
she said.
Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden
kiss and at the quaintness of her phrase,
put his hands on her hair and began smoothing
it back, scarcely touching it with his fingers.
The washing had made it fine and brilliant.
His heart was brimming over with happiness.
Just when he was wishing for it she had come
to him of her own accord. Perhaps her thoughts
had been running with his. Perhaps she had
felt the impetuous desire that was in him,
and then the yielding mood had come upon her.
Now that she had fallen to him so easily,
he wondered why he had been so diffident.
He stood, holding her head between his hands.
Then, slipping one arm swiftly about her body
and drawing her towards him, he said softly:
"Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?"
She did not answer nor yield wholly to his
arm. He said again, softly:
"Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know
what is the matter. Do I know?"
She did not answer at once. Then she said
in an outburst of tears:
"O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass
of Aughrim."
She broke loose from him and ran to the bed
and, throwing her arms across the bed-rail,
hid her face. Gabriel stood stock-still for
a moment in astonishment and then followed
her. As he passed in the way of the cheval-glass
he caught sight of himself in full length,
his broad, well-filled shirt-front, the face
whose expression always puzzled him when he
saw it in a mirror, and his glimmering gilt-rimmed
eyeglasses. He halted a few paces from her
and said:
"What about the song? Why does that make you
cry?"
She raised her head from her arms and dried
her eyes with the back of her hand like a
child. A kinder note than he had intended
went into his voice.
"Why, Gretta?" he asked.
"I am thinking about a person long ago who
used to sing that song."
"And who was the person long ago?" asked Gabriel,
smiling.
"It was a person I used to know in Galway
when I was living with my grandmother," she
said.
The smile passed away from Gabriel's face.
A dull anger began to gather again at the
back of his mind and the dull fires of his
lust began to glow angrily in his veins.
"Someone you were in love with?" he asked
ironically.
"It was a young boy I used to know," she answered,
"named Michael Furey. He used to sing that
song, The Lass of Aughrim. He was very delicate."
Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to
think that he was interested in this delicate
boy.
"I can see him so plainly," she said, after
a moment. "Such eyes as he had: big, dark
eyes! And such an expression in them—an
expression!"
"O, then, you are in love with him?" said
Gabriel.
"I used to go out walking with him," she said,
"when I was in Galway."
A thought flew across Gabriel's mind.
"Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to
Galway with that Ivors girl?" he said coldly.
She looked at him and asked in surprise:
"What for?"
Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged
his shoulders and said:
"How do I know? To see him, perhaps."
She looked away from him along the shaft of
light towards the window in silence.
"He is dead," she said at length. "He died
when he was only seventeen. Isn't it a terrible
thing to die so young as that?"
"What was he?" asked Gabriel, still ironically.
"He was in the gasworks," she said.
Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of
his irony and by the evocation of this figure
from the dead, a boy in the gasworks. While
he had been full of memories of their secret
life together, full of tenderness and joy
and desire, she had been comparing him in
her mind with another. A shameful consciousness
of his own person assailed him. He saw himself
as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy
for his aunts, a nervous, well-meaning sentimentalist,
orating to vulgarians and idealising his own
clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow
he had caught a glimpse of in the mirror.
Instinctively he turned his back more to the
light lest she might see the shame that burned
upon his forehead.
He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation,
but his voice when he spoke was humble and
indifferent.
"I suppose you were in love with this Michael
Furey, Gretta," he said.
"I was great with him at that time," she said.
Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling
now how vain it would be to try to lead her
whither he had purposed, caressed one of her
hands and said, also sadly:
"And what did he die of so young, Gretta?
Consumption, was it?"
"I think he died for me," she answered.
A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer,
as if, at that hour when he had hoped to triumph,
some impalpable and vindictive being was coming
against him, gathering forces against him
in its vague world. But he shook himself free
of it with an effort of reason and continued
to caress her hand. He did not question her
again, for he felt that she would tell him
of herself. Her hand was warm and moist: it
did not respond to his touch, but he continued
to caress it just as he had caressed her first
letter to him that spring morning.
"It was in the winter," she said, "about the
beginning of the winter when I was going to
leave my grandmother's and come up here to
the convent. And he was ill at the time in
his lodgings in Galway and wouldn't be let
out, and his people in Oughterard were written
to. He was in decline, they said, or something
like that. I never knew rightly."
She paused for a moment and sighed.
"Poor fellow," she said. "He was very fond
of me and he was such a gentle boy. We used
to go out together, walking, you know, Gabriel,
like the way they do in the country. He was
going to study singing only for his health.
He had a very good voice, poor Michael Furey."
"Well; and then?" asked Gabriel.
"And then when it came to the time for me
to leave Galway and come up to the convent
he was much worse and I wouldn't be let see
him so I wrote him a letter saying I was going
up to Dublin and would be back in the summer,
and hoping he would be better then."
She paused for a moment to get her voice under
control, and then went on:
"Then the night before I left, I was in my
grandmother's house in Nuns' Island, packing
up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the
window. The window was so wet I couldn't see,
so I ran downstairs as I was and slipped out
the back into the garden and there was the
poor fellow at the end of the garden, shivering."
"And did you not tell him to go back?" asked
Gabriel.
"I implored of him to go home at once and
told him he would get his death in the rain.
But he said he did not want to live. I can
see his eyes as well as well! He was standing
at the end of the wall where there was a tree."
"And did he go home?" asked Gabriel.
"Yes, he went home. And when I was only a
week in the convent he died and he was buried
in Oughterard, where his people came from.
O, the day I heard that, that he was dead!"
She stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome
by emotion, flung herself face downward on
the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held
her hand for a moment longer, irresolutely,
and then, shy of intruding on her grief, let
it fall gently and walked quietly to the window.
She was fast asleep.
Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for
a few moments unresentfully on her tangled
hair and half-open mouth, listening to her
deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance
in her life: a man had died for her sake.
It hardly pained him now to think how poor
a part he, her husband, had played in her
life. He watched her while she slept, as though
he and she had never lived together as man
and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon
her face and on her hair: and, as he thought
of what she must have been then, in that time
of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly
pity for her entered his soul. He did not
like to say even to himself that her face
was no longer beautiful, but he knew that
it was no longer the face for which Michael
Furey had braved death.
Perhaps she had not told him all the story.
His eyes moved to the chair over which she
had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat
string dangled to the floor. One boot stood
upright, its limp upper fallen down: the fellow
of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his
riot of emotions of an hour before. From what
had it proceeded? From his aunt's supper,
from his own foolish speech, from the wine
and dancing, the merry-making when saying
good-night in the hall, the pleasure of the
walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt
Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with
the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse.
He had caught that haggard look upon her face
for a moment when she was singing Arrayed
for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be
sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed
in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds
would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be
sitting beside him, crying and blowing her
nose and telling him how Julia had died. He
would cast about in his mind for some words
that might console her, and would find only
lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would
happen very soon.
The air of the room chilled his shoulders.
He stretched himself cautiously along under
the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One
by one, they were all becoming shades. Better
pass boldly into that other world, in the
full glory of some passion, than fade and
wither dismally with age. He thought of how
she who lay beside him had locked in her heart
for so many years that image of her lover's
eyes when he had told her that he did not
wish to live.
Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had
never felt like that himself towards any woman,
but he knew that such a feeling must be love.
The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes
and in the partial darkness he imagined he
saw the form of a young man standing under
a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His
soul had approached that region where dwell
the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious
of, but could not apprehend, their wayward
and flickering existence. His own identity
was fading out into a grey impalpable world:
the solid world itself, which these dead had
one time reared and lived in, was dissolving
and dwindling.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn
to the window. It had begun to snow again.
He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and
dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight.
The time had come for him to set out on his
journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were
right: snow was general all over Ireland.
It was falling on every part of the dark central
plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly
upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward,
softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon
waves. It was falling, too, upon every part
of the lonely churchyard on the hill where
Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted
on the crooked crosses and headstones, on
the spears of the little gate, on the barren
thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard
the snow falling faintly through the universe
and faintly falling, like the descent of their
last end, upon all the living and the dead.
