During the fortnight in which my mother was confined to bed I was her
constant companion and attendant. With the mighty eagerness of a child
who knew nothing of what the solemn time foreboded I flew about the
house on tiptoe, fetching my mother's medicine and her milk and the ice
to cool it, and always praising myself for my industry and thinking I
was quite indispensable.
"You couldn't do without your little Mally, could you, mammy?" I would
say, and my mother would smooth my hair lovingly with her thin white
hand and answer:
"No, indeed, I couldn't do without my little Mally." And then my little
bird-like beak would rise proudly in the air.
All this time I saw nothing of Martin, and only heard through Doctor
Conrad in his conversations with my mother, that the boy's broken arm
had been set, and that as soon as it was better, he was to be sent to
King George's College, which was at the other end of Ellan. What was to
be done with myself I never inquired, being so satisfied that my mother
could not get on without me.
I was partly aware that big letters, bearing foreign postage-stamps and
seals and coats of arms, with pictures of crosses and hearts, were
coming to our house. I was also aware that at intervals, while my mother
was in bed, there was the sound of voices, as if in eager and sometimes
heated conference, in the room below, and that my mother would raise her
pale face from her pillow and stop my chattering with "Hush!" when my
father's voice was louder and sterner than usual. But it never occurred
to me to connect these incidents with myself, until the afternoon of the
day on which my mother got up for the first time.
She was sitting before the fire, for autumn was stealing on, and I was
bustling about her, fixing the rug about her knees and telling her if
she wanted anything she was to be sure and call her little Mally, when a
timid knock came to the door and Father Dan entered the room. I can see
his fair head and short figure still, and hear his soft Irish voice, as
he stepped forward and said:
"Now don't worry, my daughter. Above all, don't worry."
By long experience my mother knew this for a sign of the dear Father's
own perturbation, and I saw her lower lip tremble as she asked:
"Hadn't Mary better run down to the garden?"
"No! Oh no!" said Father Dan. "It is about Mary I come to speak, so our
little pet may as well remain."
Then at a signal from my mother I went over to her and stood by her
side, and she embraced my waist with a trembling arm, while the Father
took a seat by her side, and, fumbling the little silver cross on his
chain, delivered his message.
After long and anxious thought--and he might say prayer--it had been
decided that I should be sent away to a Convent. It was to be a Convent
of the Sacred Heart in Rome. He was to take me to Rome himself and see
me safely settled there. And they (meaning my father and Aunt Bridget)
had promised him--faithfully promised him--that when the holidays came
round he should be sent to bring me home again. So there was nothing to
fear, nothing to worry about, nothing to . . . to . . .
My mother listened as long as she could, and then--her beautiful white
face distorted by pain--she broke in on the Father's message with a cry
of protest.
"But she is so young! Such a child! Only seven years old! How can any
one think of sending such a little one away from home?"
Father Dan tried to pacify her. It was true I was very young, but then
the Reverend Mother was such a good woman. She would love me and care
for me as if I were her own child. And then the good nuns, God bless
their holy souls. . . .
"But Mary is all I have," cried my mother, "and if they take her away
from me I shall be broken-hearted. At such a time too! How cruel they
are! They know quite well what the doctor says. Can't they wait a little
longer?"
I could see that Father Dan was arguing against himself, for his eyes
filled as he said:
"It's hard, I know it's hard for you, my daughter. But perhaps it's best
for the child that she should go away from home--perhaps it's all God's
blessed and holy will. Remember there's a certain person here who isn't
kind to our little innocent, and is making her a cause of trouble. Not
that I think she is actuated by evil intentions. . . ."
"But she is, she is," cried my mother, who was growing more and more
excited.
"Then all the more reason why Mary should go to the convent--for a time
at all events."
My mother began to waver, and she said:
"Let her be sent to a Convent in the island then."
"I thought of that, but there isn't one," said Father Dan.
"Then . . . then . . . then take her to the Presbytery," said my mother.
"Dear, dear Father," she pleaded, "let her live with you, and have
somebody to teach her, and then she can come to see me every day, or
twice a week, or even once a week--I am not unreasonable."
"It would be beautiful," said Father Dan, reaching over to touch my arm.
"To have our little Mary in my dull old house would be like having the
sun there always. But there are reasons why a young girl should not be
brought up in the home of a priest, so it is better that our little
precious should go to Rome."
My mother was breaking down and Father Dan followed up his advantage.
"Then wisha, my daughter, think what a good thing it will be for the
child. She will be one of the children of the Infant Jesus first, then a
child of Mary, and then of the Sacred heart itself. And then remember,
Rome! The holy city! The city of the Holy Father! Why, who knows, she
may even see himself some day!"
"Yes, yes, I know," said my mother, and then turning with her melting
eyes to me she said:
"Would my Mary like to go--leaving her mamma but coming home in the
holidays--would she?"
I was going to say I would not, because mamma could not possibly get on
without me, but before I could reply Aunt Bridget, with her bunch of
keys at her waist, came jingling into the room, and catching my mother's
last words, said, in her harsh, high-pitched voice.
"Isabel! You astonish me! To defer to the will of a child! Such a child
too! So stubborn and spoiled and self-willed! If _we_ say it is good for
her to go she _must_ go!"
I could feel through my mother's arm, which was still about my waist,
that she was trembling from head to foot, but at first she did not speak
and Aunt Bridget, in her peremptory way, went on:
"We say it is good for you, too, Isabel, if she is not to hasten your
death by preying on your nerves and causing you to break more blood
vessels. So we are consulting your welfare as well as the girl's in
sending her away."
My mother's timid soul could bear no more. I think it must have been the
only moment of anger her gentle spirit ever knew, but, gathering all her
strength, she turned upon Aunt Bridget in ungovernable excitement.
"Bridget," she said, "you are doing nothing of the kind. You know you
are not. You are only trying to separate me from my child and my child
from me. When you came to my house I thought you would be kinder to my
child than a anybody else, but you have not been, you have been cruel to
her, and shut your heart against her, and while I have been helpless
here, and in bed, you have never shown her one moment of love and
kindness. No, you have no feeling except for your own, and it never
occurs to you that having brought your own child into my house you are
trying to turn my child out of it."
"So that's how you look at it, is it?" said Aunt Bridget, with a flash
of her cold grey eyes. "I thought I came to this house--your house as
you call it--only out of the best intentions, just to spare you trouble
when you were ill and unable, to attend to your duties as a wife. But
because I correct your child when she is wilful and sly and
wicked. . . ."
"Correct your own child, Bridget O'Neill!" cried my mother, "and leave
mine to me. She's all I have and it isn't long I shall have her. You
know quite well how much she has cost me, and that I haven't had a very
happy married life, but instead of helping me with her father. . . ."
"Say no more," said Aunt Bridget, "we don't want you to hurt yourself
again, and to allow this ill-conditioned child to be the cause of
another hemorrhage."
"Bridget O'Neill," cried my mother, rising up from her chair, "you are a
hard-hearted woman with a bad disposition. You know as well as I do that
it wasn't Mary who made me ill, but you--you, who reproached me and
taunted me about my child until my heart itself had to bleed. For seven
years you have been doing that, and now you are disposing of my darling
over my head without consulting me. Has a mother no rights in her own
child--the child she has suffered for, and loved and lived for--that
other people who care nothing for it should take it away from her and
send it into a foreign country where she may never see it again? But you
shall not do that! No, you shall not'! As long as there's breath in my
body you shall not do it, and if you attempt. . . ."
In her wild excitement my mother had lifted one of her trembling hands
into Aunt Bridget's face while the other was still clasped about me,
when suddenly, with a look of fear on her face, she stopped speaking.
She had heard a heavy step on the stairs. It was my father. He entered
the room with his knotty forehead more compressed than usual and said:
"What's this she shall not do?"
My mother dropped back into her seat in silence, and Aunt Bridget,
wiping' her eyes on her black apron--she only wept when my father was
present--proceeded to explain.
It seems I am a hard-hearted woman with a bad disposition and though,
I've been up early and late and made myself a servant for seven years
I'm only in this house to turn my sister's child out of it. It seems
too, that we have no business--none of us have--to say what ought to be
done for this girl--her mother being the only person who has any rights
in the child, and if we attempt . . ."
"What's that?"
In his anger and impatience my father could listen no longer and in his
loud voice he said:
"Since when has a father lost control of his own daughter? He has to
provide for her, hasn't he? If she wants anything it's to him she has to
look for it, isn't it? That's the law I guess, eh? Always has been, all
the world over. Then what's all this hustling about?"
My mother made a feeble effort to answer him.
"I was only saying, Daniel . . ."
"You were saying something foolish and stupid. I reckon a man can do
what he likes with his own, can't he? If this girl is my child and I say
she is to go somewhere, she is to go." And saying this my father brought
down his thick hand with a thump on to a table.
It was the first time he had laid claim to me, and perhaps that acted on
my mother, as she said, submissively:
"Very well, dear. _You_ know best what is best for Mary, and if you
say--you and Bridget and . . . and Father Dan. . . ."
"I do say, and that's enough. So just go to work and fix up this Convent
scheme without future notice. And hark here, let me see for the future
if a man can't have peace from these two-cent trifles for his important
business."
My mother was crushed. Her lips moved again, but she said nothing aloud,
and my father turned on his heel, and left the room, shaking the floor
at every step under the weight of his sixteen stone. At the next moment,
Aunt Bridget, jingling her keys, went tripping after him.
Hardly had they gone when my mother broke into a long fit of coughing,
and when it was over she lay back exhausted, with her white face and her
tired eyes turned upwards. Then I clasped her about the neck, and Father
Dan, whose cheeks were wet with tears patted her drooping hand.
My darling mother! Never once have I thought of her without the greatest
affection, but now that I know for myself what she must have suffered I
love best to think of her as she was that day--my sweet, beautiful,
timid angel--standing up for one brief moment, not only against Aunt
Bridget, but against the cruelty of all the ages, in the divine right of
her outraged motherhood.