Collected Stories (116 page)

But still she said nothing. Bright day was in the room when he fell asleep, and for a long while she lay, her elbow on the pillow, her hand covering her left breast, while she looked at him. His mouth was wide open, his irregular teeth showed in a faint smile. Their shyness had created a sort of enchantment about them, and she watched over his sleep with something like ecstasy, ecstasy which disappeared when he woke, to find her the same hard quiet woman he knew.

A
FTER THAT
she ceased making his bed in the small room, and he slept with her. Not that it made any difference to their relations. Between them after those few hours of understanding persisted a fierce, unbroken shyness, the shyness of lonely souls. If it rasped the nerves of either, there was no open sign of it, unless a curiously irritable tenderness revealed anything of their thoughts. She was forever finding things done for her; there was no longer any question of his going, and he worked from morning until late night with an energy and intelligence that surprised her. But she knew he felt the lack of company, and one evening she went out to him as he worked in the garden.

“Why don't you go down to the village now?” she asked.

“Ah, what would I be doing there?” But it was clear that it had been on his mind at that very moment.

“You might drop in for a drink and a chat.”

“I might do that,” he agreed.

“And why don't you?”

“Me? I'd be ashamed.”

“Ashamed? Ashamed of what? There's no one will say anything to you. And if they do, what are you, after all, but a working man?”

It was clear that this excuse had not occurred to him, but it would also have been clear to anyone else that she would have thought poorly of such as gave it credit. So he got his coat and went.

It was late when he came in, and she saw he had drunk more than his share. His face was flushed and he laughed too easily. For two days past a bottle of whiskey had been standing on the dresser (what a change for her!) but if he had noticed it he had made no sign. Now he went directly to it and poured himself out a glass.

“You found it,” she said with a hint of bitterness.

“What's that?”

“You found it, I say.”

“Of course I did. Have a drop yourself.”

“No.”

“Do. Just a drop.”

“I don't want it.”

He crossed to her, stood behind her chair for a moment; then he bent over and kissed her. She had been expecting it, but on the instant she revolted.

“Don't do that again,” she said appealingly, wiping her mouth.

“You don't mind me, do you?” he sniggered, still standing behind her.

“I do. I mind it when you're drunk.”

“Well, here's health.”

“Don't drink any more of that.”

“Here's health.”

“Good health.”

“Take a drop yourself, do.”

“No, I tell you,” she answered angrily.

“By God, you must.”

He threw one arm about her neck and deliberately spilt the whiskey between her breasts. She sprang up and threw him away from her. Whatever had been in her mind was now forgotten in her loathing.

“Bad luck to you!” she cried savagely.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean it.” Already he was growing afraid.

“You didn't mean it,” she retorted mockingly. “Who thought you to do it then? Was it Jimmie Dick? What sort of woman do you think I am, you fool? You sit all night in a public-house talking of me, and when you come back you try to make me out as loose and dirty as your talk.”

“Who said I was talking of you?”

“I say it.”

“Then you're wrong.”

“I'm not wrong. Don't I know you, you poor sheep? You sat there, letting them make you out a great fellow, because they thought you were like themselves and thought I was a bitch, and you never as much as opened your mouth to give them the lie. You sat there and gaped and bragged. That's what you are.”

“That's not true.”

“And then you come strutting back, stuffed with drink, and think I'll let you make love to me, so that you can have something to talk about in the public-house.”

Her eyes were bright with tears of rage. She had forgotten that something like this was what she knew would happen when she made him go to the village, so little of our imagination can we bear to see made real. He sank into a chair, and put his head between his hands in sulky dignity. She lit the candle and went off to bed.

She fell asleep and woke to hear him stirring in the kitchen. She rose and flung open the door. He was still sitting where she had seen him last.

“Aren't you going to bed at all tonight?” she asked.

“I'm sorry if I disturbed you,” he replied. The drunkenness had gone, and he did look both sorry and miserable. “I'll go now.”

“You'd better. Do you see the time?”

“Are you still cross? I'm sorry, God knows I am.”

“Never mind.”

“'Twas all true.”

“What was true?” She had already forgotten.

“What you said. They were talking about you, and I listened.”

“Oh, that.”

“Only you were too hard on me.”

“Maybe I was.”

She took a step forward. He wondered if she had understood what he was saying at all.

“I was fond of you all right.”

“Yes,” she said.

“You know I was.”

“Yes.”

She was like a woman in a dream. She had the same empty feeling within her, the same sense of being pushed about like a chessman, as on the first night when she carried him in. He put his arm about her and kissed her. She shivered and clung to him, life suddenly beginning to stir within her.

O
NE DAY
, some weeks later, he told her he was going back home on a visit; there were cousins he wished to see; something or other; she was not surprised. She had seen the restlessness on him for some time past and had no particular belief in the cousins. She set about preparing a parcel of food for him, and in this little attention there was something womanly that touched him.

“I'll be back soon,” he said, and meant it. He could be moved easily enough in this fashion, and she saw through him. It was dull being the lover of a woman like herself; he would be best married to a lively girl of eighteen or so, a girl he could go visiting with and take pride in.

“You're always welcome,” she said. “The house is your own.”

As he went down the boreen he was saying to himself “She'll be lost! She'll be lost!” but he would have spared his pity if he had seen how she took it.

Her mood shifted from busy to idle. At one hour she was working in the garden, singing, at another she sat in the sun, motionless and silent for a long, long time. As weeks went by and the year drifted into a rainy autumn, an astonishing change took place in her, slowly, almost imperceptibly. It seemed a physical rather than a spiritual change. Line by line her features divested themselves of strain, and her body seemed to fall into easier, more graceful curves. It would not be untrue to say she scarcely thought of the man, unless it was with some slight relief to find herself alone again. Her thoughts were all contracted within herself.

O
NE AUTUMN
evening he came back. For days she had been expecting him; quite suddenly she had realized that he would return, that everything was not over between them, and very placidly accepted the fact.

He seemed to have grown older and maturer in his short absence; one felt it less in his words than in his manner. There was decision in it. She saw that he was rapidly growing into a deferred manhood, and was secretly proud of the change. He had a great fund of stories about his wanderings (never a word of the mythical cousins); and while she prepared his supper, she listened to him, smiling faintly, almost as if she were not listening at all. He was as hungry now as the first evening she met him, but everything was easier between them; he was glad to be there and she to have him.

“Are you pleased I came?” he asked.

“You know I'm pleased.”

“Were you thinking I wouldn't come?”

“At first I thought you wouldn't. You hadn't it in your mind to come back. But afterward I knew you would.”

“A man would want to mind what he thinks about a woman like you,” he grumbled good-humoredly. “Are you a witch?”

“How would I be a witch?” Her smile was attractive.

“Are you?” he gripped her playfully by the arm.

“I am not and well you know it.”

“I have me strong doubts of you. Maybe you'll say now you know what happened? Will you? Did you ever hear of a man dreaming three times of a crock of gold? Well, that's what happened me. I dreamt three times of you. What sign is that?”

“A sign you were drinking too much.”

“'Tis not. I know what sign it is.”

He drew his chair up beside her own, and put his arm about her. Then he drew her face round to his and kissed her. At that moment she could feel very clearly the change in him. His hand crept about her neck and down her breast, releasing the warm smell of her body.

“That's enough love-making,” she said. She rose quickly and shook off his arm. A strange happy smile like a newly open flower lingered where he had kissed her. “I'm tired. Your bed is made in there.”

“My bed?”

She nodded.

“You're only joking me. You are, you divil, you're only joking.”

His arms out, he followed her, laughing like a lad of sixteen. He caught at her, but she forced him off again. His face altered suddenly, became sullen and spiteful.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“'Tis a change for you.”

“'Tis.”

“And for why?”

“For no why. Isn't it enough for you to know it?”

“Is it because I wint away?”

“Maybe.”

“Is it?”

“I don't know whether 'tis or no.”

“And didn't I come back as I said I would?”

“You did. When it suited you.”

“The divil is in ye all,” he said crossly.

Later he returned to the attack; he was quieter and more persuasive; there was more of the man in him, but she seemed armed at every point. He experienced an acute sense of frustration. He had felt growing in him this new, lusty manhood, and returned with the intention of dominating her, only to find she too had grown, and still outstripped him. He lay awake for a long time, thinking it out, but when he rose next morning the barrier between them seemed to have disappeared. As ever she was dutiful, unobtrusive; by day at any rate she was all he would have her to be. Even when he kissed her she responded; of his hold on her he had no doubt, but he seemed incapable of taking advantage of it.

That night when he went to bed he began to think again of it, and rage grew in him until it banished all hope of sleep. He rose and went into her room.

“How long is this going to last?” he asked thickly.

“What?”

“This. How long more are you going to keep me out?”

“Maybe always,” she said softly, as if conjuring up the prospect.

“Always?”

“Maybe.”

“Always? And what in hell do you mean by it? You lure me into it, and then throw me away like an old boot.”

“Did I lure you into it?”

“You did. Oh, you fooled me right enough at the time, but I've been thinking about it since. 'Twas no chance brought you on the road the first day I passed.”

“Maybe I did,” she admitted. She was stirred again by the quickness of his growth. “If I did you had nothing to complain of.”

“Haven't I now?”

“Now is different.”

“Why? Because I wint away?”

“Because you didn't think me good enough for you.”

“That's a lie. You said that before, and you know 'tis a lie.”

“Then show it.”

He sat on the bed and put his face close to hers.

“You mean, to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“You know I can't.”

“What hinders you?”

“For a start, I have no money. Neither have you.”

“There's money enough.”

“Where would it come from?”

“Never you mind where 'twould come from. 'Tis there.”

He looked at her hard.

“You planned it well,” he said at last. “They said he was a miser.… Oh, Christ, I can't marry you!”

“The divil send you better meat than mutton,” she retorted coarsely.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his big hand caressing her cheek and bare shoulder.

“Why don't you tell the truth?” she asked. “You have no respect for me.”

“Why do you keep on saying that?”

“Because 'tis true.” In a different voice she added: “Nor I hadn't for myself till you went away. Take me now or leave me.… Stop that, you fool!”

“Listen to me—”

“Stop that then! I'm tame now, but I'm not tame enough for that.”

Even in the darkness she could feel that she had awakened his old dread of her; she put her arms about his head, drew him down to her, and whispered in his ear.

“Now do you understand?” she said.

A
FEW DAYS
later he got out the cart and harnessed the pony. They drove into the town three miles away. As they passed through the village people came to their doors to look after them. They left the cart a little outside the town, and, following country practice, separated to meet again on the priest's doorstep. The priest was at home, and he listened incredulously to the man's story.

“You know I'll have to write to your parish priest first,” he said severely.

“I know,” said the man. “You'll find and see he have nothing against me.”

The priest was shaken.

“And this woman has told you everything?”

“She told me nothing. But I know.”