The Woman Thou Gavest Me; Being the Story of Mary O'Neill. Sir Hall Caine
hands. "They were saying such wonderful things about the young misthress that I wasn't willing to believe them. But, no, no," she said, after a moment, "they didn't tell me the half."
I was still laughing, but it was as much as I could do not to cry, so I said:
"May I come in?"
"My goodness yes, and welcome," she said, and calling to the doctor to wash his hands and follow us, she led the way into the kitchen-parlour, where the kettle was singing from the "slowery" and a porridge-pot was bubbling over the fire.
"Sit down. Take the elbow-chair in the chiollagh [the hearth place]. There! That's nice. Aw, yes, you know the house."
Being by this time unable to speak for a lump in my throat that was hurting me, I looked round the room, so sweet, so homely, so closely linked with tender memories of my childhood, while Martin's mother (herself a little nervous and with a touching softness in her face) went on talking while she stirred the porridge with a porridge-stick.
"Well, well! To think of all the years since you came singing carols to my door! You remember it, don't you? … Of course you do. 'Doctor,' I said, 'don't talk foolish. She'll not forget. I know Mary O'Neill. She may be going to be a great lady, but haven't I nursed her on my knee?'"
"Then you've heard what's to happen?" I asked.
"Aw yes, woman, yes," she answered in a sadder tone, I thought. "Everybody's bound to hear it—what with the bands practising for the procession, and the bullocks roasting for the poor, and the fireworks and the illuminations, and I don't know what."
She was silent for a moment after that, and then in her simple way she said:
"But it's all as one if you love the man, even if he is a lord."
"You think that's necessary, don't you?"
"What, millish?"
"Love. You think it's necessary to love one's husband?"
"Goodness sakes, girl, yes. If you don't have love, what have you? What's to keep the pot boiling when the fire's getting low and the winter's coming on, maybe? The doctor's telling me some of the fine ladies in London are marrying without it—just for money and titles and all to that. But I can't believe it, I really can't! They've got their troubles same as ourselves, poor things, and what's the use of their fine clothes and grand carriages when the dark days come and the night's falling on them?"
It was harder than ever to speak now, so I got up to look at some silver cups that stood on the mantelpiece.
"Martin's," said his mother, to whom they were precious as rubies. "He won them at swimming and running and leaping and climbing and all to that. Aw, yes, yes! He was always grand at games, if he couldn't learn his lessons, poor boy. And now he's gone away from us—looking for South Poles somewheres."
"I know—I saw him in Rome," said I.
She dropped her porridge-stick and looked at me with big eyes.
"Saw him? In Rome, you say? After he sailed, you mean?"
I nodded, and then she cried excitedly to the doctor who was just then coming into the house, after washing his hands under the pump.
"Father, she saw himself in Rome after he sailed."
There was only one himself in that house, therefore it was not difficult for the doctor to know who was meant. And so great was the eagerness of the old people to hear the last news of the son who was the apple of their eye that I had to stay to breakfast and tell them all about our meeting.
While Martin's mother laid the tables with oat-cake and honey and bowls of milk and deep plates for the porridge, I told the little there was to tell, and then listened to their simple comments.
"There now, doctor! Think of that! Those two meeting in foreign parts that used to be such friends when they were children! Like brother and sister, you might say. And whiles and whiles we were thinking that some day … but we'll say no more about that now, doctor."
"No, we'll say no more about that now, Christian Ann," said the doctor.
Then there was a moment of silence, and it was just as if they had been rummaging among half-forgotten things in a dark corner of their house, and had come upon a cradle, and the child that had lived in it was dead.
It was sweet, but it was also painful to stay long in that house of love, and as soon as I had eaten my oat-cake and honey I got up to go. The two good souls saw me to the door saying I was not to expect either of them at the Big House on my wedding-day, because she was no woman for smart clothes, and the doctor, who was growing rheumatic, had given up his night-calls, and therefore his gig, so as to keep down expenses.
"We'll be at the church, though," said Martin's mother. "And if we don't see you to speak to, you'll know we're there and wishing you happiness in our hearts."
I could not utter a word when I left them; but after I had walked a little way I looked back, intending to wave my farewell, and there they were together at the gate still, and one of her hands was on the doctor's shoulder—the sweet woman who had chosen love against the world, and did not regret it, even now when the night was falling on her.
I had to pass the Presbytery on my way home, and as I did so, I saw Father Dan in his study. He threw up the window sash and called in a soft voice, asking me to wait until he came down to me.
He came down hurriedly, just as he was, in his worn and discoloured cassock and biretta, and walked up the road by my side, breathing rapidly and obviously much agitated.
"The Bishop is staying with me over the wedding, and he is in such a fury that … Don't worry. It will be all right. But … "
"Yes?"
"Did you see young Martin Conrad while you were in Rome?"
I answered that I did.
"And did anything pass between you … about your marriage, I mean?"
I told him all that I had said to Martin, and all that Martin had said to me.
"Because he has written a long letter to the Bishop denouncing it, and calling on him to stop it."
"To stop it?"
"That's so. He says it is nothing but trade and barter, and if the Church is willing to give its blessing to such rank commercialism, let it bless the Stock Exchange, let it sanctify the slave market."
"Well?"
"The Bishop threatens to tell your father. 'Who is this young man,' he says, 'who dares to … ' But if I thought there was nothing more to your marriage than … If I imagined that what occurred in the case of your dear mother … But that's not all."
"Not all?"
"No. Martin has written to me too, saying worse—far worse."
"What does he say, Father Dan?"
"I don't really know if I ought to tell you, I really don't. Yet if it's true … if there's anything in it … "
I was trembling, but I begged him to tell me what Martin had said. He told me. It was about my intended husband—that he was a man of irregular life, a notorious loose liver, who kept up a connection with somebody in London, a kind of actress who was practically his wife already, and therefore his marriage with me would be—so Martin had said—nothing but "legalised and sanctified concubinage."
With many breaks and pauses my dear old priest told me this story, as if it were something so infamous that his simple and innocent heart could scarcely credit it.
"If I really thought it was true," he said, "that a man living such a life could come here to marry my little … But no, God could not suffer a thing like that. I must ask, though. I must make sure. We live so far away in this little island that … But I must go back now. The Bishop will be calling for me."
Still deeply agitated,