by George Moore
Mrs. Grattan was sorry there was no cake on the table, but there was some buttered toast in the oven; and Ellen reminded her of the paper boats and the alder-trees, and they spoke for a long time about her son James and about people that Ned knew nothing of, until Ned began to feel bored and went to the window. Every now and again he heard a word referring to their marriage, and when the women had done their talk, Ellen said: —
“Father says you are to come back to dinner.”
“Mrs. Grattan,” said Ned, “we caught three trout this afternoon,” and Ellen wondered why Ned should take so much trouble to explain the tale of their fishing, she was intending to talk to them of their honeymoon.
“I was thinking, Ned, that as our love began in a love of Ireland, we might go for a tour round Ireland, and see the places that Ireland loves best.”
She was eager for a change of scene and a few weeks later they began their wanderings. The first place they visited was Tara, and, standing on the Mound of the Hostages, Ellen pointed out the Rath of Crania. All over Ireland there are cromlechs, and the people point to those as the places where the lovers had rested in their flight. Grania became one of Ned’s heroines, and he spoke so much of her that Ellen grew a little jealous. They talked of her under the ruins of Dun Angus and under the arches of Cormac’s Chapel, the last and most beautiful piece of Irish architecture.
“We were getting on very well,” Ned said, “until the English came. This was the last thing we did and after this no more.”
On another occasion he ascribed the failure of the Irish in art and literature to the fact that they had always loved the next world, and that the beautiful world under their feet had been neglected or given over to priests. “I hope, Ned,” said she, “that you will soon be at the head of affairs.”
He took her hand and they wandered on amid the ruins, saying that as soon as their honeymoon was over they were going to live in a pretty house at the foot of the Dublin mountains.
Her father had offered to make her an allowance, but she preferred a lump sum, and this lump sum of many thousands of pounds had been invested in foreign securities, for Ellen wished that Ned should be free to advocate whatever policy he judged best for Ireland.
“My dear, shall we buy this table?”
And while the price and the marquetry were discussed she remembered suddenly that a most experienced electioneering agent was coming to dinner.
“I wish you hadn’t asked him,” said Ned; “I looked forward to spending the evening with you,” and he watched happiness flash into her eyes.
“There are plenty of evenings before us, and I hope you won’t be tired of spending them with me.”
He said he never wished for better company, and they strolled on through the show-rooms.
Turning from some tapestried curtains, he told her he was weary of the life of the camp. One night in Cuba they had crossed a mountain by a bridle-path. At the top of the mountain they had come to a ledge of rock three feet high and had to leap their horses one by one up this ledge, and the enemy might have attacked them at any moment. And this incident was typical of what his life had been for the last few years. It had been a skein of adventure, and now his wife was his adventure. Flowers stood in pretty vases on his table in the summer-time and around the room were his books, and on the table his pens and paper. The dining-room was always a little surprise, so profusely was the table covered with silver. There were beautiful dinner and dessert services to look at; the servants were well trained, they moved about the table quickly — in a word, his home was full of grace and beauty. Lately he had been a great deal from home and had come to look on Ellen as a delicious recompense for the fatigue of a week’s electioneering in the West. The little train journey from Dublin was an extraordinary excitement, the passing of the stations one by one, the discovery of his wife on the platform, and walking home through the bright evening, telling how his speech had been received.
Ellen always took Ned round the garden before they went into dinner, and after dinner he went to the piano; he loved his music as she loved her garden. She would listen to him for a while, pleased to find that she liked music. But she would steal away to her garden in a little while and he would go on playing for a long while before he would notice her absence; then he would follow her.
“There were no late frosts this year, and I have never seen so many caterpillars!” she said one evening when he joined her. “See, they have eaten this flower nearly all away.”
“How bright the moon is, we can find them by the light of the moon.”
Passing behind the hollyhocks she threw the snails to Ned, not liking to tread upon them herself; Ellen was intent on freeing her flowers from gnawing insects and Ned tried to feel interested in them, but he liked the moonlight on the Dublin mountains far better. He could not remember which was Honesty and which was Rockit, and the difference had been pointed out to him many times. He liked Larkspur and Canterbury bells, or was it their names that he loved them for? He sometimes mistook one for the other just as Ellen mistook one sonata for another, but she always liked the same sonatas.
“In another month the poppies will be over everything,” she said, “and my pansies are beautiful — see these beautiful yellow pansies! But you are not looking at my garden.”
They went towards their apple-tree, and Ellen said it was the largest she had ever seen; its boughs were thickest over the seat, and shot out straight, making as it were a little roof. The moon was now brilliant among the boughs, and drawn by the moon they left their seat and passed out of the garden by the wicket, for that night they wished to see the fields with the woods sloping down to the long shores of the sea, and they stood watching, thinking they had never seen the sea so beautiful before. Now on the other side were the hills, and the moon led them up the hillside, up the little path by a ruined church and over a stream that was difficult to cross, for the stepping-stones were placed crookedly. Ellen took Ned’s hand, and a little further on there were ash-trees and not a wind in all the boughs.
“How grey the moonlight is on the mountain,” Ned said, and they went through the furze where the cattle were lying, and the breath of the cattle was odorous in the night like the breath of the earth itself, and Ned said that the cattle were part of the earth; and then they sat on a Druid stone and wondered at the chance that brought them together, and they wondered how they could have lived if chance had not brought them together.
Now, the stone they were sitting upon was a Druid stone, and it was from Ellen’s lips that Ned heard how Brian had conquered the Danes, and how a century later a traitor had brought the English over; and she told the story of Ireland’s betrayal with such ferveur that Ned felt she was the support his character required, the support he had been looking for all his life; her self-restraint and her gravity were the supports his character required, and these being thrown into the scale, life stood at equipoise. The women who had preceded Ellen were strange, fantastic women, counterparts of himself, but he had always aspired to a grave and well-mannered woman who was never ridiculous.
She protested, saying that she wished Ned to express his own ideas. He pleaded that he was learning Ireland from her lips and that his own ideas about Ireland were superficial and false. Every day he was catching up new ideas and every day he was shedding them. He must wait until he had re-knit himself firmly to the tradition, and in talking to her he felt that she was the tradition; he was sure that he could do no better than accept her promptings, at least for the present.
“We shall always think the same. Do you not feel that?” and when they returned to the house he fetched a piece of paper and pencil and begged of her to dictate, and then begged of her to write what she would like him to say. He said that the sight of her handwriting helped him, and he thought his life would crumble to pieces if she were taken from him.
Ellen had always said he would be a success, and he was a success; he had begun to feel success revolving about him; he had begun to feel that he w
as the centre of things: for everyone listened when he spoke; his opinion was sought out, and he could see the people looking towards him for guidance. But there was a little rancour in his heart, as there always is in a man’s heart when he is not speaking his whole heart, for not more than half of himself was engaged in the battle; he knew that he had given over half of himself as hostage — half of himself was in his wife’s keeping — and he often wondered if it would break out of her custody in spite of her vigilance and his vows.
He had told her that though he was no friend of the Church, he was not an active enemy, and believed that he was speaking the truth. The fight for free will would have to be fought in Ireland some day, and this fight was the most vital; but he agreed with her that other fights would have to be fought and won before the great fight could be arranged for. The order of the present day was for lesser battles, and he promised again and again he would not raise the religious question, and every time he promised his wife his life seemed to vanish; the lesser battles were necessary. It was the fight for free will that interested him. But a politician is the man who does the day’s work. And in the autumn he agreed to go to America to speechify and to get money for the lesser battles. It was said he was the man who could get the money — what better man could they send than an Irish-American? An American soldier and a journalist. These obvious remarks were on everyone’s lips, but after speaking everyone paused, for, notwithstanding Ellen’s care, Ned was suspected; the priests had begun to suspect him, but there was no grounds for opposing him.
He himself was despondent, whereas Ellen was enthusiastic. Her knowledge of Irish politics enabled her to see that Ned’s chance had come.
“If you succeed in America, you’ll come back the first man in Ireland.”
“Even so,” said Ned, “it would be more natural for you to be sorry that I am going.”
“I cannot be sorry and glad at the same time.”
“You will be lonely.”
“Very likely; but, Ned, I shall not be looking very well for the next two months.”
“You mean on account of the baby; the next few months will be a trying time for you; I should be with you.”
They continued to walk round and round their apple-tree and Ellen did not answer for a long while.
“I want you to go to America. I don’t care that you should see me losing my figure.”
“We have spent many pleasant hours under this apple-tree.”
“Yes, it has been a dear tree,” she said.
“And in about six years there will be one who will appreciate this tree as we have never appreciated it. I can see the little chap running after the apples.”
“But, Ned, it may be a girl.”
“Then it will be like you, dear.”
She said she would send a telegram and Ned shook the boughs, and their apple-gathering seemed to be portentous. The sound of apples falling in the dusk garden, a new life coming into the world! “Dear me,” Ned said, “men have gathered apples and led their fruitful wives towards the house since the beginning of time.” He said these words as he looked over the waste of water seeing Ireland melting into grey clouds. He turned and looked towards where the vessel was going. A new life was about to begin and he was glad of that. “For the next three months I shall be carried along on the tide of human affairs. In a week, in a week;” and that evening he entered into conversation with some people whom he thought would interest him. “It is a curious change,” he said, three weeks later, as he walked home from a restaurant; and he enjoyed the change so much that he wondered if his love for his wife would be the same when he returned. “Yes, that will be another change.” And for the next three months he was carried like a piece of wreckage from hotel to hotel. “How different this life is from the life in Ireland. Here we live in the actual moment.” And he began to wonder. He had not been thinking five minutes when a knock came to the door, and he was handed a telegram containing two words: “A boy.” He had always felt it was going to be a boy. “Though it does cost a shilling a word they might have let me know how she is,” he thought. And he lay back in his chair thinking of his wife — indulging in sensations of her beauty, seeing her gem-like eyes, her pretty oval face, and her red hair scattered about the pillow. At first he was not certain whether the baby was lying by the side of the mother, but now he saw it, and he thrilled with a sense of wonder. The commonest of all occurrences never ceases to be the most wonderful, and there lay his wife and child in the room he knew so well — the curtains with a fruit pattern upon them, the pale wallpaper with roses climbing up a trellis, and pretty blue ribbons intervening between each line of roses. The room was painted white, and he knew the odour of the room well, and the sensation of the carpet. He could see the twilight, and the bulky nurse passing to and fro; and his thoughts went back to his child, and he began to wonder if it were like him or like its mother. It was probably like both. His eyes went to the clock, and he thought of the meeting he was going to. The notes of his speech were upon the table, but he found great difficulty in rousing himself out of his chair; it was so pleasant to lie there, thinking of his wife, of his home, and of his child. But into this vague wandering sensation of happy and beautiful things there came a sudden vision and a thought. He saw his wife take the baby and put it to her breast, and he could not bear to think that that beautiful breast, so dear to him, should suffer harm. He had often thought of Ellen as a beautiful marble — she was as full of exquisite lines as any marble — and only very rarely had he thought of her as a mother; the thought had never been entertained long, for it was never wholly sympathetic.
Now his thoughts quickened, and it seemed urgent that he must communicate at once with his wife. She must not suckle the baby! Only by telegram could he reach her soon enough, but it was not possible to telegraph such a thing. He must write, but the letter would take six days to reach her, and he stood thinking. The post was going out: if he wrote at once she would get his letter in a week. He was due at the meeting in about twenty minutes; the notes of his speech still lay on the table, and he gathered them up and put them in his pocket, and drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he began a hurried letter. But as soon as he dipped his pen in the ink, he experienced great difficulty in expressing his feelings; they were intense enough, but they were vague, and he must find reasons. He must tell her that he loved her beauty, and that it must suffer no disfigurement from a baby’s lips. No sooner did he put his feelings into words than they shocked him, and he knew how much more they would shock Ellen, and he wondered how he could think such things about his own child. The truth was, there was little time for thinking, and he had to tell Ellen what she must do. It so happened that he had heard only the other day that goat’s milk was the exact equivalent to human, but it was often difficult to procure. “You will find no difficulty,” he said, “at the foot of the Dublin mountains in procuring goat’s milk.” His thoughts rushed on, and he remembered the peasant women. One could easily be found who would put her baby on goat’s milk and come and nurse his child for a few shillings — ten or fifteen shillings a week; Ellen’s beauty was worth a great deal more. The hands of the clock went on, he had to close his letter and post it; and no sooner was it posted than he was beset by qualms of conscience. During the meeting he wondered what Ellen would think of his letter, and he feared it would shock her and trouble her; for, while considering the rights of the child, she would remember his admiration of her.
He passed the following days uneasily, and when the seventh day came he had no difficulty in imagining Ellen reading his letter, and the scene he imagined was very like what really happened. His letter troubled Ellen greatly. She had been thinking only of her baby, she had been suckling it for several days, and it had given her pleasure to suckle it. She had not thought of herself at all, and Ned’s order that she should pass her child on to another, and consider her personal charm for him, troubled her even to tears; and when she told the nurse her husband’s wishes the nurse was sorry that Mr
s. Carmady had been troubled, for she was still very weak. Now the child was crying; Ellen put it to her little cup-like breast, which was, nevertheless, full of milk, and it was for the nurse to tell her that a foster-mother could easily be found in the village; but this did not console her and she cried very bitterly. The doctor called. He did not think there was anything strange in Ned’s letter. He approved of it! He said that Ellen was delicate and had nursed her baby long enough, and it appeared that he had been thinking of recommending a nurse to her, and he spoke of a peasant woman he had just seen. He spoke with so much assurance that Ellen was soothed, but he had not left her very long before she felt that medical opinion would not satisfy her, that she must have theological opinion as well, and she wrote a letter to Father Brennan asking him to come down to see her, mentioning that she had had a baby and could not go to see him. It would be a great relief to her to see him for a few minutes, and if he would come at once she would consider it a great favour. If it were possible for him to come down that very afternoon she would be deeply grateful. She wished to consult him, and on a matter on which she felt very deeply, and nothing, she said, but a priest’s advice could allay her scruples.
The nurse gave her a sheet of paper and a pencil, and she scribbled a letter as best she could in her bed, and lay back fatigued. The nurse said she must not fret, that Father Brennan would be sure to come to her at once if he were at home, and Ellen knew that that was so; and she felt that she was peevish, but she felt that Ned ought not to have written her that letter.
The hours that afternoon were very long and she restless and weary of them, and she asked the nurse many times to go to the window to see if Father Brennan were coming. At last he came, and she told him of the letter she had received, not wishing to show him the letter, for it was somewhat extravagant, and she did not like a priest to read Ned’s praise of her body. She was anxious, however, to give him a true account of the letter, and she would have talked a long while if the priest had not stopped her, saying the matter was one for the doctor to decide. The Church had never expressed any views on the subject: whether a mother was justified in nursing her child or in passing it over to a foster-mother. It was entirely a question for the doctor, and if the doctor advised such a course she would be wrong not to follow it. Ellen felt that she had been misunderstood, and she tried to tell the priest that Ned’s letter had been inspired by his admiration of her, and that this seemed to her selfish. She wondered how a father could consider his wife before the child, but when she said this she did not feel she was speaking quite sincerely, and this troubled her; she was on the verge of tears, and the nurse came in and said she had spoken enough that afternoon, and the priest bade her good-by. The doctor came in soon after; there was some whispering, and Ellen knew that the woman he had brought with him was the foster-mother, and the baby was taken from her, and she saw it fix its gluttonous little lips on the foster-mother’s breast.
