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:
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: Then, turning
once
more
towards
their
hostesses,
they
sang: 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," 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.