MRS. MOONEY
was
a
butcher's daughter.
She
was
a
woman
who
was
quite
able
to
keep
things
to
herself:
a
determined woman.
She
had married her father's
foreman
and
opened
a
butcher's shop
near
Spring
Gardens. But
as
soon
as
his
father-in-law
was
dead
Mr. Mooney began
to
go
to
the devil.
He
drank, plundered the till, ran headlong
into
debt.
It
was
no
use
making
him
take
the pledge:
he
was
sure
to
break
out
again
a
few
days after.
By
fighting
his
wife
in
the
presence
of
customers
and
by
buying
bad
meat
he
ruined
his
business.
One
night
he
went
for
his
wife
with
the cleaver
and
she
had
to
sleep
in
a
neighbour's house.
After
that
they
lived apart.
She
went
to
the
priest
and
got
a
separation
from
him
with
care
of
the children.
She
would
give
him
neither
money
nor
food
nor
house-room;
and
so
he
was
obliged
to
enlist
himself
as
a
sheriff's man.
He
was
a
shabby
stooped
little
drunkard
with
a
white
face
and
a
white
moustache
and
white
eyebrows, pencilled
above
his
little
eyes,
which
were
pink-veined
and
raw;
and
all
day
long
he
sat
in
the bailiff's room, waiting
to
be
put
on
a
job. Mrs. Mooney,
who
had taken
what
remained
of
her
money
out
of
the
butcher
business
and
set
up
a
boarding
house
in
Hardwicke Street,
was
a
big
imposing woman. Her
house
had
a
floating
population
made
up
of
tourists
from
Liverpool
and
the
Isle
of
Man
and, occasionally, artistes
from
the
music
halls. Its
resident
population
was
made
up
of
clerks
from
the city.
She
governed her
house
cunningly
and
firmly, knew
when
to
give
credit,
when
to
be
stern
and
when
to
let
things pass. All the
resident
young
men
spoke
of
her
as
The Madam. Mrs. Mooney's
young
men paid
fifteen
shillings
a
week
for
board
and
lodgings (beer
or
stout
at
dinner
excluded).
They
shared
in
common
tastes
and
occupations
and
for
this
reason
they
were
very
chummy
with
one
another.
They
discussed
with
one
another
the chances
of
favourites
and
outsiders.
Jack
Mooney, the Madam's son,
who
was
clerk
to
a
commission agent
in
Fleet
Street, had the
reputation
of
being
a
hard
case.
He
was
fond
of
using soldiers' obscenities: usually
he
came
home
in
the small hours.
When
he
met
his
friends
he
had
always
a
good
one
to
tell
them
and
he
was
always
sure
to
be
on
to
a
good
thing—that
is
to
say,
a
likely
horse
or
a
likely
artiste.
He
was
also
handy
with
the mits
and
sang
comic
songs.
On
Sunday nights there would
often
be
a
reunion
in
Mrs. Mooney's
front
drawing-room. The music-hall artistes would oblige;
and
Sheridan played waltzes
and
polkas
and
vamped accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would
also
sing.
She
sang: Polly
was
a
slim
girl
of
nineteen;
she
had
light
soft
hair
and
a
small
full
mouth. Her eyes,
which
were
grey
with
a
shade
of
green
through them, had
a
habit
of
glancing upwards
when
she
spoke
with
anyone,
which
made
her
look
like
a
little
perverse
madonna. Mrs. Mooney had first sent her
daughter
to
be
a
typist
in
a
corn-factor's
office
but,
as
a
disreputable sheriff's
man
used
to
come
every
other
day
to
the office, asking
to
be
allowed
to
say
a
word
to
his
daughter,
she
had taken her
daughter
home
again
and
set
her
to
do
housework.
As
Polly
was
very
lively
the
intention
was
to
give
her the
run
of
the
young
men. Besides,
young
men
like
to
feel
that
there
is
a
young
woman
not
very
far
away. Polly,
of
course, flirted
with
the
young
men but Mrs. Mooney,
who
was
a
shrewd judge, knew
that
the
young
men
were
only
passing the
time
away:
none
of
them
meant business. Things went
on
so
for
a
long
time
and
Mrs. Mooney began
to
think
of
sending Polly
back
to
typewriting
when
she
noticed
that
something
was
going
on
between
Polly
and
one
of
the
young
men.
She
watched the pair
and
kept her
own
counsel. Polly knew
that
she
was
being watched, but
still
her mother's
persistent
silence
could
not
be
misunderstood. There had been no
open
complicity
between
mother
and
daughter, no
open
understanding
but, though
people
in
the
house
began
to
talk
of
the affair,
still
Mrs. Mooney
did
not intervene. Polly began
to
grow
a
little
strange
in
her
manner
and
the
young
man
was
evidently perturbed.
At
last,
when
she
judged
it
to
be
the
right
moment, Mrs. Mooney intervened.
She
dealt
with
moral
problems
as
a
cleaver deals
with
meat:
and
in
this
case
she
had
made
up
her mind.
It
was
a
bright
Sunday
morning
of
early
summer, promising heat, but
with
a
fresh
breeze blowing. All the windows
of
the boarding
house
were
open
and
the
lace
curtains ballooned gently
towards
the
street
beneath the raised sashes. The
belfry
of
George's Church sent
out
constant peals
and
worshippers, singly
or
in
groups, traversed the
little
circus
before the church, revealing
their
purpose
by
their
self-contained demeanour no less
than
by
the
little
volumes
in
their
gloved hands.
Breakfast
was
over
in
the boarding
house
and
the table
of
the breakfast-room
was
covered
with
plates
on
which
lay
yellow
streaks
of
eggs
with
morsels
of
bacon-fat
and
bacon-rind. Mrs. Mooney sat
in
the
straw
arm-chair
and
watched the
servant
Mary remove the
breakfast
things.
She
made
Mary
collect
the crusts
and
pieces
of
broken
bread
to
help
to
make
Tuesday's bread-pudding.
When
the table
was
cleared, the
broken
bread collected, the sugar
and
butter
safe
under
lock
and
key,
she
began
to
reconstruct the interview
which
she
had had the
night
before
with
Polly. Things
were
as
she
had suspected:
she
had been frank
in
her questions
and
Polly had been frank
in
her answers. Both had been
somewhat
awkward,
of
course.
She
had been
made
awkward
by
her not wishing
to
receive
the
news
in
too
cavalier
a
fashion
or
to
seem
to
have
connived
and
Polly had been
made
awkward not merely
because
allusions
of
that
kind
always
made
her awkward but
also
because
she
did
not
wish
it
to
be
thought
that
in
her
wise
innocence
she
had divined the
intention
behind
her mother's tolerance. Mrs. Mooney glanced instinctively
at
the
little
gilt
clock
on
the mantelpiece
as
soon
as
she
had
become
aware
through her revery
that
the bells
of
George's Church had stopped ringing.
It
was
seventeen
minutes
past eleven:
she
would
have
lots
of
time
to
have
the
matter
out
with
Mr. Doran
and
then
catch
short
twelve
at
Marlborough Street.
She
was
sure
she
would win.
To
begin
with
she
had all the
weight
of
social
opinion
on
her side:
she
was
an outraged mother.
She
had allowed
him
to
live
beneath her roof, assuming
that
he
was
a
man
of
honour,
and
he
had simply abused her hospitality.
He
was
thirty-four
or
thirty-five years
of
age,
so
that
youth
could
not
be
pleaded
as
his
excuse;
nor
could
ignorance
be
his
excuse
since
he
was
a
man
who
had seen
something
of
the world.
He
had simply taken
advantage
of
Polly's
youth
and
inexperience:
that
was
evident. The
question
was:
What
reparation
would
he
make? There
must
be
reparation
made
in
such
cases.
It
is
all
very
well
for
the man:
he
can
go
his
ways
as
if
nothing
had happened, having had
his
moment
of
pleasure, but the
girl
has
to
bear
the brunt.
Some
mothers would
be
content
to
patch
up
such
an
affair
for
a
sum
of
money;
she
had known cases
of
it. But
she
would not
do
so.
For
her
only
one
reparation
could
make
up
for
the
loss
of
her daughter's honour: marriage.
She
counted all her cards
again
before sending Mary
up
to
Mr. Doran's
room
to
say
that
she
wished
to
speak
with
him.
She
felt
sure
she
would win.
He
was
a
serious
young
man, not
rakish
or
loud-voiced
like
the others.
If
it
had been Mr. Sheridan
or
Mr. Meade
or
Bantam
Lyons her task would
have
been
much
harder.
She
did
not
think
he
would face publicity. All the lodgers
in
the
house
knew
something
of
the affair; details had been invented
by
some. Besides,
he
had been employed
for
thirteen
years
in
a
great
Catholic wine-merchant's
office
and
publicity
would
mean
for
him, perhaps, the
loss
of
his
job. Whereas
if
he
agreed all
might
be
well.
She
knew
he
had
a
good
screw
for
one
thing
and
she
suspected
he
had
a
bit
of
stuff
put
by. Nearly the half-hour!
She
stood
up
and
surveyed herself
in
the pier-glass. The
decisive
expression
of
her
great
florid
face satisfied her
and
she
thought
of
some
mothers
she
knew
who
could
not
get
their
daughters
off
their
hands. Mr. Doran
was
very
anxious
indeed
this
Sunday morning.
He
had
made
two
attempts
to
shave
but
his
hand
had been
so
unsteady
that
he
had been obliged
to
desist.
Three
days' reddish
beard
fringed
his
jaws
and
every
two
or
three
minutes
a
mist
gathered
on
his
glasses
so
that
he
had
to
take
them
off
and
polish
them
with
his
pocket-handkerchief. The
recollection
of
his
confession
of
the
night
before
was
a
cause
of
acute
pain
to
him; the
priest
had drawn
out
every
ridiculous
detail
of
the
affair
and
in
the
end
had
so
magnified
his
sin
that
he
was
almost
thankful
at
being afforded
a
loophole
of
reparation. The
harm
was
done.
What
could
he
do
now
but
marry
her
or
run
away?
He
could
not
brazen
it
out. The
affair
would
be
sure
to
be
talked
of
and
his
employer would
be
certain
to
hear
of
it. Dublin
is
such
a
small city: everyone knows everyone else's business.
He
felt
his
heart
leap
warmly
in
his
throat
as
he
heard
in
his
excited
imagination
old
Mr. Leonard calling
out
in
his
rasping voice: "Send Mr. Doran here, please." All
his
long
years
of
service
gone
for
nothing! All
his
industry
and
diligence
thrown away!
As
a
young
man
he
had sown
his
wild oats,
of
course;
he
had boasted
of
his
free-thinking
and
denied the
existence
of
God
to
his
companions
in
public-houses. But
that
was
all passed
and
done with... nearly.
He
still
bought
a
copy
of
Reynolds's Newspaper
every
week
but
he
attended
to
his
religious
duties
and
for
nine-tenths
of
the
year
lived
a
regular life.
He
had
money
enough
to
settle
down
on;
it
was
not that. But the
family
would
look
down
on
her. First
of
all there
was
her disreputable father
and
then
her mother's boarding
house
was
beginning
to
get
a
certain
fame.
He
had
a
notion
that
he
was
being had.
He
could
imagine
his
friends talking
of
the
affair
and
laughing.
She
was
a
little
vulgar;
some
times
she
said "I seen"
and
"If I had've known." But
what
would
grammar
matter
if
he
really loved her?
He
could
not
make
up
his
mind
whether
to
like
her
or
despise
her
for
what
she
had done.
Of
course
he
had done
it
too.
His
instinct
urged
him
to
remain
free, not
to
marry.
Once
you
are
married
you
are
done for,
it
said.
While
he
was
sitting helplessly
on
the
side
of
the
bed
in
shirt
and
trousers
she
tapped
lightly
at
his
door
and
entered.
She
told
him
all,
that
she
had
made
a
clean
breast
of
it
to
her mother
and
that
her mother would
speak
with
him
that
morning.
She
cried
and
threw her arms round
his
neck, saying: "O Bob! Bob!
What
am
I
to
do?
What
am
I
to
do
at
all?"
She
would
put
an
end
to
herself,
she
said.
He
comforted her feebly, telling her not
to
cry,
that
it
would
be
all right,
never
fear.
He
felt against
his
shirt
the
agitation
of
her bosom.
It
was
not altogether
his
fault
that
it
had happened.
He
remembered well,
with
the
curious
patient
memory
of
the celibate, the first
casual
caresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had
given
him.
Then
late
one
night
as
he
was
undressing
for
bed
she
had tapped
at
his
door, timidly.
She
wanted
to
relight her
candle
at
his
for
hers had been
blown
out
by
a
gust.
It
was
her
bath
night.
She
wore
a
loose
open
combing-jacket
of
printed flannel. Her
white
instep
shone
in
the
opening
of
her furry slippers
and
the blood glowed warmly
behind
her perfumed skin.
From
her hands
and
wrists
too
as
she
lit
and
steadied her
candle
a
faint
perfume
arose.
On
nights
when
he
came
in
very
late
it
was
she
who
warmed
up
his
dinner.
He
scarcely knew
what
he
was
eating, feeling her
beside
him
alone,
at
night,
in
the sleeping house.
And
her thoughtfulness!
If
the
night
was
anyway
cold
or
wet
or
windy
there
was
sure
to
be
a
little
tumbler
of
punch
ready
for
him.
Perhaps
they
could
be
happy
together....
They
used
to
go
upstairs
together
on
tiptoe,
each
with
a
candle,
and
on
the
third
landing
exchange
reluctant
good-nights.
They
used
to
kiss.
He
remembered
well
her eyes, the
touch
of
her
hand
and
his
delirium.... But
delirium
passes.
He
echoed her phrase, applying
it
to
himself: "What
am
I
to
do?" The
instinct
of
the
celibate
warned
him
to
hold
back. But the
sin
was
there;
even
his
sense
of
honour told
him
that
reparation
must
be
made
for
such
a
sin.
While
he
was
sitting
with
her
on
the
side
of
the
bed
Mary came
to
the
door
and
said
that
the missus wanted
to
see
him
in
the parlour.
He
stood
up
to
put
on
his
coat
and
waistcoat,
more
helpless
than
ever.
When
he
was
dressed
he
went
over
to
her
to
comfort
her.
It
would
be
all right,
never
fear.
He
left
her crying
on
the
bed
and
moaning softly: "O my God!" Going
down
the stairs
his
glasses became
so
dimmed
with
moisture
that
he
had
to
take
them
off
and
polish
them.
He
longed
to
ascend
through the
roof
and
fly
away
to
another
country
where
he
would
never
hear
again
of
his
trouble,
and
yet
a
force
pushed
him
downstairs
step
by
step. The
implacable
faces
of
his
employer
and
of
the Madam stared
upon
his
discomfiture.
On
the
last
flight
of
stairs
he
passed
Jack
Mooney
who
was
coming
up
from
the
pantry
nursing
two
bottles
of
Bass.
They
saluted coldly;
and
the lover's eyes rested
for
a
second
or
two
on
a
thick
bulldog face
and
a
pair
of
thick
short
arms.
When
he
reached the
foot
of
the staircase
he
glanced
up
and
saw
Jack
regarding
him
from
the
door
of
the return-room. Suddenly
he
remembered the
night
when
one
of
the music-hall artistes,
a
little
blond Londoner, had
made
a
rather
free
allusion
to
Polly. The
reunion
had been
almost
broken
up
on
account
of
Jack's violence. Everyone tried
to
quiet
him. The music-hall artiste,
a
little
paler
than
usual, kept smiling
and
saying
that
there
was
no
harm
meant: but
Jack
kept shouting
at
him
that
if
any
fellow
tried
that
sort
of
a
game
on
with
his
sister
he'd
bloody
well
put
his
teeth
down
his
throat,
so
he
would. Polly sat
for
a
little
time
on
the
side
of
the bed, crying.
Then
she
dried her eyes
and
went
over
to
the looking-glass.
She
dipped the
end
of
the
towel
in
the water-jug
and
refreshed her eyes
with
the cool water.
She
looked
at
herself
in
profile
and
readjusted
a
hairpin
above
her ear.
Then
she
went
back
to
the
bed
again
and
sat
at
the foot.
She
regarded the pillows
for
a
long
time
and
the sight
of
them
awakened
in
her
mind
secret,
amiable
memories.
She
rested the
nape
of
her
neck
against the cool iron bed-rail
and
fell
into
a
reverie. There
was
no longer
any
perturbation
visible
on
her face.
She
waited
on
patiently,
almost
cheerfully, without alarm, her memories gradually giving
place
to
hopes
and
visions
of
the future. Her hopes
and
visions
were
so
intricate
that
she
no longer
saw
the
white
pillows
on
which
her gaze
was
fixed
or
remembered
that
she
was
waiting
for
anything.
At
last
she
heard her mother calling.
She
started
to
her feet
and
ran
to
the banisters. "Polly! Polly!" "Yes, mamma?" "Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants
to
speak
to
you."
Then
she
remembered
what
she
had been waiting for.