Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “I’ll say, then,” said Peter, “this is the happiest day of my life, as it should be, indeed; for haven’t I got the girl that I wanted, and hasn’t Pat forgiven me for the blow I struck him? For he knows well I wouldn’t hurt a hair of his head. Weren’t we boys together? But I had a cross drop in me at the time, and that was how it was.”

  Catching sight of Kate’s black hair and rosy cheeks, which were all the world to him, he stopped speaking and stood looking at her, unheedful of everything; and he looked so good and foolish at that time that more than one woman thought it would be a weary thing to live with him.

  “Now, Pat, you must make a speech, too,” said Kate.

  “I haven’t any speech in me,” he said. “I’m glad enough to be here; but I’m sore afraid my mother saw me sitting on the car, and I think I had better be going home and letting you finish this marriage.”

  “What’s that you’re saying?” said Kate. “You won’t go out of this house till you’ve danced a reel with me, and now sit down at the table next to me; and, Peter, you sit on the other side of him, so that he won’t run away to his mother.”

  Her eyes were as bright as coals of fire, and she called to her father, who was at the end of the table, to have another slice of pig’s head, and to the piper, who was having his supper in the window, to have a bit more; and then she turned to Pat, who said never a word, and laughed at him for having nothing to say.

  It seemed to them as if there was no one in the room but Kate; and afterwards they remembered things. Ned remembered that Kate had seemed to put Pat out of her mind. She had stood talking to her husband, and she had said that he must dance with her, though it was no amusement to a girl to dance opposite Peter. And Mary, Ned’s wife, remembered how Kate, though she had danced with Peter in the first reel, had not been able to keep her eyes from the corner where Pat sat sulking, and that, sudden-like, she had grown weary of Peter. Mary remembered she had seen a wild look pass in Kate’s eyes, and that she had gone over to Pat and pulled him out.

  It was a pleasure for a girl to dance opposite to Pat, so cleverly did his feet move to the tune. And everyone was admiring them when Pat cried out: —

  “I’m going home. I bid you all good-night; here finish this wedding as you like.”

  And before anyone could stop him he had run out of the house.

  “Peter, go after him,” Kate said; “bring him back. It would be ill luck on our wedding night for anyone to leave us like that.”

  Peter went out of the door, and was away some time; but he came back without Pat.

  “The night is that dark, I lost him,” he said. Then Kate did not seem to care what she said. Her black hair fell down, and she told Peter he was a fool, and that he should have run faster. Her mother said it was the porter that had been too much for her; but she said it was the priest’s blessing, and this frightened everyone. But, after saying all this, she went to her husband, saying that he was very good to her, and she had no fault to find with him. But no sooner were the words out of her mouth than her mind seemed to wander, and everyone had expected her to run out of the house. But she went into the other room instead, and shut the door behind her. Everyone knew then there would be no more dancing that night; and the piper packed up his pipes. And Peter sat by the fire, and he seemed to be crying. They were all sorry to leave him like this; and, so that he might not remember what had happened, Ned drew a big jug of porter, and put it by him.

  He drank a sup out of it, but seemed to forget everything, and the jug fell out of his hand.

  “Never mind the pieces, Peter,” his mother said.

  “You can’t put them together; and it would be better for you not to drink any more porter. Go to bed. There’s been too much drinking this night.”

  “Mother, I want to know why she said I didn’t run fast enough after Pat. And didn’t she know that if I hit Pat so hard it was because there were knobs on his stick; and didn’t I pick up his stick by mistake of my own.”

  “Sure, Peter, it wasn’t your fault; we all know that and Kate knows it too. Now let there be no more talking or drinking. No, Peter, you’ve had enough porter for to-night.”

  He looked round the kitchen, and seeing that Kate was not there, he said: —

  “She’s in the other room, I think; mother, you’ll be wantin’ to go to bed.”

  And Peter got on his feet and stumbled against the wall, and his mother had to help him towards the door.

  “Is it drunk I am, mother? Will you open the door for me?”

  But Mrs. M’Shane could not open the door, and she said: —

  “I think she’s put a bit of stick in it.”

  “A bit of stick in the door? And didn’t she say that she didn’t want to marry me? Didn’t she say something about the priest’s blessing?”

  And then Peter was sore afraid that he would not get sight of his wife that night, and he said: —

  “Won’t she acquie-esh-sh?”

  And Kate said: —

  “No, I won’t.”

  And then he said: —

  “We were married in church-to-day, you acquie-eshed.”

  And she said: —

  “I’ll not open the door to you. You’re drunk, Peter, and not fit to enter a decent woman’s room.”

  “It isn’t because I’ve a drop too much in me that you should have fastened the door on me; it is because you’re thinking of the blow I’ve gave Pat. But, Kate, it was because I loved you so much that I struck him. Now will you open — the door?”

  “No, I’ll not open the door to-night,” she said. “I’m tired and want to go to sleep.”

  And when he said he would break open the door, she said: —

  “You’re too drunk, Peter, and sorra bit of good it will do you. I’ll be no wife to you to-night, and that’s as true as God’s in heaven.”

  “Peter,” said his mother, “don’t trouble her to-night. There has been too much dancing and drinking.”

  “It’s a hard thing ... shut out of his wife’s room.”

  “Peter, don’t vex her to-night. Don’t hammer her door any more.”

  “Didn’t she acquie-esh? Mother, you have always been agin me. Didn’t she acquie-esh?”

  “Oh, Peter, why do you say I’m agin you?”

  “Did you hear her say that I was drunk. If you tell me I’m drunk I’ll say no more. I’ll acquie-esh.”

  “Peter, you must go to sleep.”

  “Yes, go to sleep. ... I want to go to sleep, but she won’t open the door.”

  “Peter, never mind her.”

  “It isn’t that I mind; I’m getting sleepy, but what I want to know, mother, before I go to bed, is if I’m drunk. Tell me I’m not drunk on my wedding night, and, though Kate — and I’ll acquie-esh in all that may be put upon me.”

  He covered his face with his hands and his mother begged him not to cry. He became helpless, she put a blanket under his head and covered him with another blanket, and went up the ladder and lay down in the hay. She asked herself what had she done to deserve this trouble? and she cried a great deal; and the poor, hapless old woman was asleep in the morning when Peter stumbled to his feet. And, after dipping his head in a pail of water, he remembered that the horses were waiting for him in the farm. He walked off to his work, staggering a little, and as soon as he was gone Kate drew back the bolt of the door and came into the kitchen.

  “I’m going, mother,” she called up to the loft.

  “Wait a minute, Kate,” said Mrs. M’Shane, and she was half way down the ladder when Kate said: —

  “I can’t wait, I’m going.”

  She walked up the road to her mother’s, and she hardly saw the fields or the mountains, though she knew she would never look upon them again. And her mother was sweeping out the house. She had the chairs out in the pathway. She had heard that the rector was coming down that afternoon, and she wanted to show him how beautifully clean she kept the cabin.

  “I’ve come, mother, to give you
this,” and she took the wedding ring off her finger and threw it on the ground. “I don’t want it; I shut the door on him last night, and I’m going to America to-day. You see how well the marriage that you and the priest made up together has turned out.”

  “Going to America,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, and it suddenly occurred to her that Kate might be going to America with Pat Connex, but she did not dare to say it.

  She stood looking at the bushes that grew between their cottage and the next one, and she remembered how she and her brother used to cut the branches of the alder to make pop guns, for the alder branches are full of sap, and when the sap is expelled there is a hole smooth as the barrel of a gun. “I’m going,” she said suddenly, “there’s nothing more to say. Good-bye.”

  She walked away quickly, and her mother said, “She’s going with Pat Connex.” But she had no thought of going to America with him. It was not until she met him a little further on, at the cross roads, that the thought occurred to her that he might like to go to America with her. She called him, and he came to her, and he looked a nice boy, but she thought he was better in Ireland. And the country seemed far away, though she was still in it, and the people too, though she was still among them.

  “I’m going to America, Pat.”

  “You were married yesterday.”

  “Yes, that was the priest’s doing and mother’s and I thought they knew best. But I’m thinking one must go one’s way, and there’s no judging for one’s self here. That’s why I’m going. You’ll find some other girl, Pat.”

  “There’s not another girl like you in the village. We’re a dead and alive lot. You stood up to the priest.”

  “I didn’t stand up to him enough. You’re waiting for someone. Who are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t like to tell you, Kate.”

  She pressed him to answer her, and he told her he was waiting for the priest. His mother had said he must marry, and the priest was coming to make up a marriage for him.

  “Everything’s mother’s.”

  “That’s true, Pat, and you’ll give a message for me. Tell my mother-in-law that I’ve gone.”

  “She’ll be asking me questions and I’ll be sore set for an answer.”

  She looked at him steadily, but she left him without speaking, and he stood thinking.

  He had had good times with her, and all such times were ended for him for ever. He was going to be married and he did not know to whom. Suddenly he remembered he had a message to deliver, and he went down to the M’Shanes’ cabin.

  “Ah, Mrs. M’Shane,” he said, “it was a bad day for me when she married Peter. But this is a worse one, for we’ve both lost her.”

  “My poor boy will feel it sorely.”

  When Peter came in for his dinner his mother said: “Peter, she’s gone, she’s gone to America, and you’re well rid of her.”

  “Don’t say that, mother, I am not well rid of her, for there’s no other woman in the world for me except her that’s gone. Has she gone with Pat Connex?”

  “No, he said nothing about that, and it was he who brought the message.”

  “I’ve no one, mother, to blame but myself. I was drunk last night, and how could she let a drunken fellow like me into her room.”

  He went out to the backyard, and his mother heard him crying till it was time for him to go back to work.

  V

  As he got up to go to work he caught sight of Biddy M’Hale coming up the road; he rushed past her lest she should ask him what he was crying about, and she stood looking after him for a moment, and went into the cabin to inquire what had happened.

  “Sure she wouldn’t let her husband sleep with her last night,” said Mrs. M’Shane, “and you’ll be telling the priest that. It will be well he should know it at once.”

  Biddy would have liked to have heard how the wedding party had met Pat Connex on the road, and what had happened after, but the priest was expecting her, and she did not dare to keep him waiting much longer. But she was not sorry she had been delayed, for the priest only wanted to get her money to mend the walls of the old church, and she thought that her best plan would be to keep him talking about Kate and Peter. He was going to America to-morrow or the day after, and if she could keep her money till then it would be safe.

  His front door was open, he was leaning over the green paling that divided his strip of garden from the road, and he looked very cross indeed.

  She began at once: —

  “Sure, your reverence, there’s terrible work going on in the village, and I had to stop to listen to Mrs M’Shane. Kate Kavanagh, that was, has gone to America, and she shut her door on him last night, saying he was drunk.”

  “What’s this you’re telling me?”

  “If your reverence will listen to me—”

  “I’m always listening to you, Biddy M’Hale. Go on with your story.”

  It was a long time before he fully understood what had happened, but at last all the facts seemed clear, and he said: —

  “I’m expecting Pat Connex.”

  Then his thoughts turned to the poor husband weeping in the backyard, and he said: —

  “I made up this marriage so that she might not go away with Pat Connex.”

  “Well, we’ve been saved that,” said Biddy.

  “Ned Kavanagh’s marriage was bad enough, but this is worse. It is no marriage at all.”

  “Ah, your reverence, you musn’t be taking it to heart. If the marriage did not turn out right it was the drink.”

  “Ah, the drink — the drink,” said the priest, and he declared that the brewer and the distiller were the ruin of Ireland.

  “That’s true for you; at the same time we musn’t forget that they have put up many a fine church.”

  “It would be impossible, I suppose, to prohibit the brewing of ale and the distillation of spirit.” The priest’s brother was a publican and had promised a large subscription. “And now, Biddy, what are you going to give me to make the walls secure. I don’t want you all to be killed while I am away.”

  “There’s no fear of that, your reverence; a church never fell down on anyone.”

  “Even so, if it falls down when nobody’s in it where are the people to hear Mass?”

  “Ah, won’t they be going down to hear Mass at Father Stafford’s?”

  “If you don’t wish to give anything say so.”

  “Your reverence, amn’t I — ?”

  “We don’t want to hear about that window.”

  Biddy began to fear she would have to give him a few pounds to quiet him. But, fortunately, Pat Connex came up the road, and she thought she might escape after all.

  “I hear, Pat Connex, you were dancing with Kate Kavanagh, I should say Kate M’Shane, and she went away to America this morning. Have you heard that?”

  “I have, your reverence. She passed me on the road this morning.”

  “And you weren’t thinking you might stop her?”

  “Stop her,” said Pat. “Who could stop Kate from doing anything she wanted to do?”

  “And now your mother writes to me, Pat Connex, to ask if I will get Lennon’s daughter for you.”

  “I see your reverence has private business with Pat Connex. I’ll be going,” said Biddy, and she was many yards down the road before he could say a word.

  “Now, Biddy M’Hale, don’t you be going.” But Biddy pretended not to hear him.

  “Will I be running after her,” said Pat, “and bringing her back?”

  “No, let her go. If she doesn’t want to help to make the walls safe I’m not going to go on my knees to her. ... You’ll all have to walk to Father Stafford’s to hear Mass. Have you heard your mother say what she’s going to give towards the new church, Pat Connex?”

  “I think she said, your reverence, she was going to send you ten pounds.”

  “That’s very good of her,” and this proof that a public and religious spirit was not yet dead in his parish softened the priest’s temper,
and, thinking to please him and perhaps escape a scolding, Pat began to calculate how much Biddy had saved.

  “She must be worth, I’m thinking, close on one hundred pounds to-day.” As the priest did not answer, he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was worth another fifty.”

  “Hardly as much as that,” said the priest.

  “Hadn’t her aunt the house we’re living in before mother came to Kilmore, and they used to have the house full of lodgers all the summer. It’s true that her aunt didn’t pay her any wages, but when she died she left her a hundred pounds, and she has been making money ever since.”

  This allusion to Biddy’s poultry reminded the priest that he had once asked Biddy what had put the idea of a poultry farm into her head, and she had told him that when she was taking up the lodgers’ meals at her aunt’s she used to have to stop and lean against the banisters, so heavy were the trays.

  “One day I slipped and hurt myself, and I was lying on my back for more than two years, and all the time I could see the fowls pecking in the yard, for my bed was by the window. I thought I would like to keep fowls when I was older.”

  The priest remembered the old woman standing before him telling him of her accident, and while listening he had watched her, undecided whether she could be called a hunchback. Her shoulders were higher than shoulders usually are, she was jerked forward from the waist, and she had the long, thin arms, and the long, thin face, and the pathetic eyes of the hunchback. Perhaps she guessed his thoughts. She said: —

  “In those days we used to go blackberrying with the boys. We used to run all over the hills.”

  He did not think she had said anything else, but she had said the words in such a way that they suggested a great deal — they suggested that she had once been very happy, and that she had suffered very soon the loss of all her woman’s hopes. A few weeks, a few months, between her convalescence and her disappointment had been all her woman’s life. The thought that life is but a little thing passed across the priest’s mind, and then he looked at Pat Connex and wondered what was to be done with him. His conduct at the wedding would have to be inquired into, and the marriage that was being arranged would have to be broken off if Kate’s flight could be attributed to him.