SHE
sat
at
the
window
watching the
evening
invade
the avenue. Her
head
was
leaned against the
window
curtains
and
in
her nostrils
was
the
odour
of
dusty cretonne.
She
was
tired.
Few
people
passed. The
man
out
of
the
last
house
passed
on
his
way
home;
she
heard
his
footsteps clacking
along
the
concrete
pavement
and
afterwards crunching
on
the
cinder
path
before the
new
red
houses.
One
time
there used
to
be
a
field
there
in
which
they
used
to
play
every
evening
with
other
people's children.
Then
a
man
from
Belfast bought the
field
and
built houses
in
it—not
like
their
little
brown houses but
bright
brick
houses
with
shining roofs. The children
of
the
avenue
used
to
play
together
in
that
field—the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns,
little
Keogh the cripple,
she
and
her brothers
and
sisters. Ernest, however,
never
played:
he
was
too
grown up. Her father used
often
to
hunt
them
in
out
of
the
field
with
his
blackthorn stick; but usually
little
Keogh used
to
keep
nix
and
call
out
when
he
saw
her father coming.
Still
they
seemed
to
have
been
rather
happy
then. Her father
was
not
so
bad
then;
and
besides, her mother
was
alive.
That
was
a
long
time
ago;
she
and
her brothers
and
sisters
were
all grown up; her mother
was
dead. Tizzie Dunn
was
dead, too,
and
the Waters had gone
back
to
England. Everything changes.
Now
she
was
going
to
go
away
like
the others,
to
leave
her home. Home!
She
looked round the room, reviewing all its
familiar
objects
which
she
had dusted
once
a
week
for
so
many
years, wondering
where
on
earth
all the dust came from.
Perhaps
she
would
never
see
again
those
familiar
objects
from
which
she
had
never
dreamed
of
being divided.
And
yet
during
all
those
years
she
had
never
found
out
the
name
of
the
priest
whose
yellowing photograph
hung
on
the
wall
above
the
broken
harmonium
beside
the coloured
print
of
the promises
made
to
Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque.
He
had been
a
school
friend
of
her father. Whenever
he
showed the photograph
to
a
visitor
her father used
to
pass
it
with
a
casual
word: "He
is
in
Melbourne now."
She
had consented
to
go
away,
to
leave
her home.
Was
that
wise?
She
tried
to
weigh
each
side
of
the question.
In
her
home
anyway
she
had shelter
and
food;
she
had
those
whom
she
had known all her
life
about
her.
Of
course
she
had
to
work
hard, both
in
the
house
and
at
business.
What
would
they
say
of
her
in
the Stores
when
they
found
out
that
she
had
run
away
with
a
fellow?
Say
she
was
a
fool, perhaps;
and
her
place
would
be
filled
up
by
advertisement.
Miss
Gavan would
be
glad.
She
had
always
had an
edge
on
her, especially whenever there
were
people
listening. "Miss Hill, don't
you
see
these
ladies
are
waiting?" "Look lively,
Miss
Hill, please."
She
would not
cry
many
tears
at
leaving the Stores. But
in
her
new
home,
in
a
distant
unknown
country,
it
would not
be
like
that.
Then
she
would
be
married—she, Eveline.
People
would treat her
with
respect
then.
She
would not
be
treated
as
her mother had been.
Even
now, though
she
was
over
nineteen,
she
sometimes felt herself
in
danger
of
her father's violence.
She
knew
it
was
that
that
had
given
her the palpitations.
When
they
were
growing
up
he
had
never
gone
for
her
like
he
used
to
go
for
Harry
and
Ernest,
because
she
was
a
girl; but latterly
he
had begun
to
threaten
her
and
say
what
he
would
do
to
her
only
for
her
dead
mother's sake.
And
now
she
had
nobody
to
protect
her. Ernest
was
dead
and
Harry,
who
was
in
the church decorating business,
was
nearly
always
down
somewhere
in
the country. Besides, the
invariable
squabble
for
money
on
Saturday nights had begun
to
weary
her unspeakably.
She
always
gave her
entire
wages—seven shillings—and
Harry
always
sent
up
what
he
could
but the
trouble
was
to
get
any
money
from
her father.
He
said
she
used
to
squander the money,
that
she
had no head,
that
he
wasn't going
to
give
her
his
hard-earned
money
to
throw
about
the streets,
and
much
more,
for
he
was
usually
fairly
bad
of
a
Saturday night.
In
the
end
he
would
give
her the
money
and
ask
her had
she
any
intention
of
buying Sunday's dinner.
Then
she
had
to
rush
out
as
quickly
as
she
could
and
do
her marketing, holding her
black
leather
purse tightly
in
her
hand
as
she
elbowed her
way
through the crowds
and
returning
home
late
under her load
of
provisions.
She
had
hard
work
to
keep
the
house
together
and
to
see
that
the
two
young
children
who
had been
left
to
her
charge
went
to
school
regularly
and
got
their
meals regularly.
It
was
hard
work—a
hard
life—but
now
that
she
was
about
to
leave
it
she
did
not find
it
a
wholly
undesirable life.
She
was
about
to
explore
another
life
with
Frank. Frank
was
very
kind, manly, open-hearted.
She
was
to
go
away
with
him
by
the night-boat
to
be
his
wife
and
to
live
with
him
in
Buenos Ayres
where
he
had
a
home
waiting
for
her.
How
well
she
remembered the first
time
she
had seen him;
he
was
lodging
in
a
house
on
the
main
road
where
she
used
to
visit.
It
seemed
a
few
weeks ago.
He
was
standing
at
the gate,
his
peaked
cap
pushed
back
on
his
head
and
his
hair
tumbled forward
over
a
face
of
bronze.
Then
they
had
come
to
know
each
other.
He
used
to
meet her outside the Stores
every
evening
and
see
her home.
He
took her
to
see
The
Bohemian
Girl
and
she
felt elated
as
she
sat
in
an unaccustomed
part
of
the
theatre
with
him.
He
was
awfully
fond
of
music
and
sang
a
little.
People
knew
that
they
were
courting and,
when
he
sang
about
the
lass
that
loves
a
sailor,
she
always
felt pleasantly confused.
He
used
to
call
her Poppens
out
of
fun. First
of
all
it
had been an excitement
for
her
to
have
a
fellow
and
then
she
had begun
to
like
him.
He
had tales
of
distant
countries.
He
had started
as
a
deck
boy
at
a
pound
a
month
on
a
ship
of
the Allan Line going
out
to
Canada.
He
told her the names
of
the ships
he
had been
on
and
the names
of
the
different
services.
He
had sailed through the Straits
of
Magellan
and
he
told her stories
of
the
terrible
Patagonians.
He
had fallen
on
his
feet
in
Buenos Ayres,
he
said,
and
had
come
over
to
the
old
country
just
for
a
holiday.
Of
course, her father had found
out
the
affair
and
had forbidden her
to
have
anything
to
say
to
him. "I
know
these
sailor
chaps,"
he
said.
One
day
he
had quarrelled
with
Frank
and
after
that
she
had
to
meet her
lover
secretly. The
evening
deepened
in
the avenue. The
white
of
two
letters
in
her
lap
grew indistinct.
One
was
to
Harry; the
other
was
to
her father. Ernest had been her favourite but
she
liked
Harry
too. Her father
was
becoming
old
lately,
she
noticed;
he
would
miss
her. Sometimes
he
could
be
very
nice. Not
long
before,
when
she
had been laid
up
for
a
day,
he
had read her
out
a
ghost
story
and
made
toast
for
her
at
the fire.
Another
day,
when
their
mother
was
alive,
they
had all gone
for
a
picnic
to
the
Hill
of
Howth.
She
remembered her father putting
on
her mother's
bonnet
to
make
the children laugh. Her
time
was
running
out
but
she
continued
to
sit
by
the window, leaning her
head
against the
window
curtain, inhaling the
odour
of
dusty cretonne.
Down
far
in
the
avenue
she
could
hear
a
street
organ
playing.
She
knew the air.
Strange
that
it
should
come
that
very
night
to
remind her
of
the
promise
to
her mother, her
promise
to
keep
the
home
together
as
long
as
she
could.
She
remembered the
last
night
of
her mother's illness;
she
was
again
in
the close dark
room
at
the
other
side
of
the
hall
and
outside
she
heard
a
melancholy air
of
Italy. The organ-player had been ordered
to
go
away
and
given
sixpence.
She
remembered her father strutting
back
into
the sickroom saying: "Damned Italians! coming
over
here!"
As
she
mused the pitiful
vision
of
her mother's
life
laid its
spell
on
the
very
quick
of
her being—that
life
of
commonplace
sacrifices closing
in
final
craziness.
She
trembled
as
she
heard
again
her mother's voice
saying
constantly
with
foolish
insistence: "Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"
She
stood
up
in
a
sudden
impulse
of
terror. Escape!
She
must
escape! Frank would save her.
He
would
give
her life,
perhaps
love, too. But
she
wanted
to
live.
Why
should
she
be
unhappy?
She
had
a
right
to
happiness. Frank would
take
her
in
his
arms,
fold
her
in
his
arms.
He
would save her.
She
stood
among
the swaying crowd
in
the
station
at
the North Wall.
He
held her
hand
and
she
knew
that
he
was
speaking
to
her,
saying
something
about
the
passage
over
and
over
again. The
station
was
full
of
soldiers
with
brown baggages. Through the
wide
doors
of
the sheds
she
caught
a
glimpse
of
the
black
mass
of
the boat, lying
in
beside
the
quay
wall,
with
illumined portholes.
She
answered nothing.
She
felt her
cheek
pale
and
cold and,
out
of
a
maze
of
distress,
she
prayed
to
God
to
direct
her,
to
show
her
what
was
her duty. The
boat
blew
a
long
mournful
whistle
into
the mist.
If
she
went,
tomorrow
she
would
be
on
the
sea
with
Frank, steaming
towards
Buenos Ayres.
Their
passage
had been booked.
Could
she
still
draw
back
after
all
he
had done
for
her? Her
distress
awoke
a
nausea
in
her
body
and
she
kept moving her lips
in
silent
fervent
prayer.
A
bell clanged
upon
her heart.
She
felt
him
seize
her hand: "Come!" All the seas
of
the
world
tumbled
about
her heart.
He
was
drawing her
into
them:
he
would
drown
her.
She
gripped
with
both hands
at
the iron railing. "Come!" No! No! No!
It
was
impossible. Her hands clutched the iron
in
frenzy.
Amid
the seas
she
sent
a
cry
of
anguish! "Eveline! Evvy!"
He
rushed
beyond
the
barrier
and
called
to
her
to
follow.
He
was
shouted
at
to
go
on
but
he
still
called
to
her.
She
set
her
white
face
to
him, passive,
like
a
helpless
animal. Her eyes gave
him
no
sign
of
love
or
farewell
or
recognition.