When Martin's mother came into the room she looked nervous and almost
frightened, as if she had charged herself with a mission which she was
afraid to fulfil. But I put her to sit in my mother's easy chair and sat
on the arm of it myself, and then she seemed calmer and more
comfortable.
In spite of the silver threads in the smooth hair under her poke bonnet
her dear face was still the face of a child, and never before had it
seemed to me so helpless and child-like.
After a moment we began to talk of Martin. I said it must be a great
happiness to her to have him back after his long and perilous voyage;
and she answered that it was, but his visit was so short, only four days
altogether, although the doctor and she had looked forward to it so
long.
"That's not Martin's fault, though," she said. "He's such a good son. I
really, really think no mother ever had such a good son. But when
children grow up they can't always be thinking of the old people, can
they? That's why I say to the doctor, 'Doctor,' I say, 'perhaps we were
the same ourselves when we were young and first loved each other.'"
Already I thought I saw vaguely what the dear soul had come to tell me,
but I only said I supposed Martin was still with them.
She told me no, he had gone to King George's. That was his old school,
and being prize-giving day the masters had asked him to the sports and
to the dinner that was to be given that night before the breaking-up for
the holidays.
"The boys will give him a cheer, I know they will," she said.
I said of course he would be back to-morrow, but again she said no; he
had gone for good, and they had said good-bye to him. When he left King
George's he was to go on to Castle Raa. Didn't I know that? He had said
he would telegraph to me. But being from home perhaps I had not yet
received his message. Oh yes, he was going on to the Castle to-morrow
night and would stay there until it was time to leave the island.
"I'm so glad," I said, hardly knowing with what fervour I had said it,
until I saw the same expression of fear come back to the sweet old face.
"Martin will be glad, too," she said, "and that's why I've come
to see you."
"That?"
"You won't be cross with me, will you? But Martin is so fond of
you. . . . He always has been fond of you, ever since he was a
boy . . . but this time. . . ."
"Yes?"
"This time I thought . . . I really, really thought he was too fond of
you."
I had to hold my breast to keep down the cry of joy that was rising to
my throat, but the dear soul saw nothing.
"Not that he said so--not to say said so, but it's a mother to see
things, isn't it? And he was talking and talking so much about Mary
O'Neill that I was frightened--really frightened."
"Frightened?"
"He's so tender-hearted, you see. And then you . . . you're such a
wonderful woman grown. Tommy the Mate says there hasn't been the like of
you on this island since they laid your mother under the sod. It's truth
enough, too--gospel truth. And Martin--Martin says there isn't your
equal, no, not in London itself neither. So . . . so," she said,
trembling and stammering, "I was thinking . . . I was thinking he was
only flesh and blood like the rest of us, poor boy, and if he got to be
_too_ fond of you . . . now that you're married and have a husband, you
know. . . ."
The trembling and stammering stopped her for a moment.
"They're saying you are not very happy in your marriage neither. Times
and times I've heard people saying he isn't kind to you, and they
married you against your will. . . . So I was telling myself if that's
so, and Martin and you came together now, and you encouraged him, and
let him go on and anything came of it . . . any trouble or disgrace or
the like of that . . . it would be such a terrible cruel shocking thing
for the boy . . . just when everybody's talking about him and speaking
so well too."
It was out at last. Her poor broken-hearted story was told. Being a
married woman, unhappily married, too, I was a danger to her beloved
son, and she had come to me in her sweet, unmindful, motherly
selfishness to ask me to protect him _against myself_.
"Whiles and whiles I've been thinking of it," she said. "'What will I
do?' I've been asking myself, and sometimes I've been thinking I would
speak to Martin. I didn't dare do it, though. But when I heard last
night that you had come home to see your father, I said: 'Doctor, I'll
go over and speak to herself.' 'You'll never do that, Christian Ann,'
said the doctor. 'Yes, I will,' I said. 'I'll speak to the young
mistress herself. She may be a great lady now, but haven't I nursed her
on my knee? She'll never do anything to harm my boy, if I ask her not
to. No indeed she won't. Not Mary O'Neill. I'll never believe it of her.
Never in this world.'"
The sweet old face was beaming but it was wet with tears, too, and while
trying to get out her pocket-handkerchief, she was fumbling with the
flowers which she was still holding and passing from hand to hand.
"Let me take the roses," I said as well as I could, for I could scarcely
say anything.
"I brought them for you," she said, and then she laughed, a little
confusedly, at her own forgetfulness.
"To be sure they're nothing to the green-house ones you'll have at the
Castle, but I thought you'd like them for all that. They're from the
tree outside the window of your own little room. We call it your room
still--the one you slept in when you came in your little velvet frock
and pinnie, singing carols to my door. 'Mary O'Neill's room,' Martin
called it then, and it's been the same to us ever since."
This touched me so deeply that, before I knew what I was doing, I was
putting my arm about her waist and asking her to tell me what she wished
me to do and I would do it.
"Will you, though?" she said, and then one by one she propounded the
artless little schemes she had concocted to cure Martin of what she
conceived to be his love for me.
Her first thought was that I might make excuse of my father's illness to
remain where I was until the time came for Martin to leave the island;
but she repented of this almost immediately, remembering that Martin was
set on seeing me, ('I _must_ see her,' he had said) and if he did not
see me he would be so downhearted.
Then she thought I might praise up my husband to Martin, saying what a
fine man he was to be sure, and how good he had been to me, and what a
proud woman I was to be married to him; but she was ashamed of that
almost as soon as she had said it, for it might not be true, and Martin
might see I was pretending.
Finally, she suggested that in order to create a coolness between Martin
and myself I might try not to be so nice to him, speaking short to him
sometimes, and even harsh and angry; but no, that would be too cruel,
especially from me, after all these years, just when he was going so far
away, too, and only the Lord and the blessed saints knew what was to
become of him.
It was Martin, Martin, always Martin. Still in her sweet motherly
selfishness she could think of nobody else. Fondly as she loved me, it
never occurred to her for a moment that if I did what she wished and
sent Martin away from me, I too would suffer. But a harder heart than
mine would have melted at the sight of her perplexity and distress, and
when with a helpless look she said:
"I don't know what you are to do--I really, really don't," I comforted
her (needing comfort so much myself), and told her I would find a way of
my own to do what she desired.
"Will you, though?" she said.
"Indeed I will."
"And you won't send him away sore-hearted, either?"
"Indeed I won't."
"I knew you would say that. May the Lord and His holy Mother bless you!"
She was weeping tender, copious, blessed tears by this time, but there
were smiles behind them.
"Not that there's another woman in the world I would rather give him to
if things were as they used to be. But they're different now, are they
not?" she asked.
"Yes, they're different now," I answered.
"But are you sure you're not cross with me for coming?"
"Oh, no, no," I said, and it was all I _could_ say for my voice was
failing me.
She gave a sigh of inexpressible relief and then rose to go.
"I must be going now. The doctor is digging in the garden and he hasn't
had his breakfast. But I put the pot on the _slouree_ to boil and it
will be ready for the porridge."
She got as far as the door and then turned and said:
"I wish I had a photo of you--a right one, just as you are at this very
minute. I'd hang it in your own room, and times and times in the day I'd
be running upstairs to look at it. But it's all as one. I've got a photo
of you here," (touching her breast) "and sometimes I can see it as plain
as plain."
I could not speak after that, but I kissed her as she was going out, and
she said:
"That's nice, now! Good-bye, _my chree!_ You'll not be going home until
to-morrow, it's like, so perhaps I'll be putting another sight on you.
Good-bye!"
I went to the window to watch her as she walked down the drive. She was
wiping her eyes, but her head was up and I thought her step was light,
and I was sure her face was shining.
God bless her! The dear sweet woman! Such women as she is, and my mother
was--so humble and loving, so guileless and pure, never saying an unkind
word or thinking an unkind thought--are the flowers of the world that
make the earth smell sweet.
* * * * *
When she was gone and I remembered the promise I had made to her I asked
myself what was to become of me. If I could neither divorce my husband
under any circumstances without breaking a sacrament of the Church, nor
love Martin and be loved by him without breaking the heart of his
mother, where was I?
I intended to go home the following morning; I was to meet Martin the
following night. What was I to say? What was I to do?
All day long these questions haunted me and I could find no answers. But
towards evening I took my troubles where I had often taken them--to
Father Dan.