There must be a physical power in fierce emotion to deprive us of the
use of our senses of hearing and even of sight, for my memory of what
happened after I left the Jew's has blank places in it.
Trying to recall the incidents of that night is like travelling on a
moorland road under a flying moon, with sometimes the whitest light in
which everything is clearly seen, and then the blackest darkness.
I remember taking the electric car going west, and seeing the
Whitechapel Road shooting by me, with its surging crowds of pedestrians,
its public-houses, its Cinema shows, and its Jewish theatres.
I remember getting down at Aldgate Pump, and walking through that dead
belt of the City, which, lying between east and west, is alive like a
beehive by day and silent and deserted by night.
I remember seeing an old man, with a face like a rat's, picking up
cigar-ends from the gutters before the dark Banks, and then a flock of
sheep bleating before a barking dog as they were driven through the
echoing streets from the river-side towards the slaughter-houses near
Smithfield Market.
I remember that when I came to St. Paul's the precincts of the cathedral
were very quiet and the big clock was striking nine. But on Ludgate Hill
the traffic was thick, and when I reached Fleet Street crowds of people
were standing in front of the newspaper offices, reading large placards
in written characters which were pasted on the windows.
I remember that I did not look at these placards, thinking their news
was nothing to me, who had not seen a newspaper for months and for whom
the world was now eclipsed, but that as I stepped round one of the
crowds, which extended to the middle of the street, somebody said:
"He has landed at Southampton, it seems."
I remember that when I reached Charing Cross I found myself on the
fringe of another and much larger crowd, and that the people, who seemed
to be waiting for somebody and were chatting with a noise like the
crackling of thorns under a pot, were saying:
"His train is fifty minutes late, so we've half an hour to wait yet."
Then I remember that walking at random round St Martin's Church into
Leicester Square I came upon three "public women" who were swinging
along with a high step and laughing loudly, and that one of them was
Angela, and that she stopped on seeing me and cried:
"Hello! Here I am again, you see! _Giovanni's dead, and I don't care a
damn!_"
I remember that she said something else--it was about Sister Mildred,
but my mind did not take it in--and at the next moment she left me, and
I heard her laughter once more as she swept round the corner.
I hardly know what happened next, for here comes one of the blank places
in my memory, with nothing to light it except vague thoughts of Martin
(and that soulless night in Bloomsbury when the newspapers announced
that he was lost), until, wandering aimlessly through streets and
streets of people--such multitudes of people, no end of people--I found
myself back at Charing Cross.
The waiting crowd was now larger and more excited than before, and the
traffic at both sides of the station was stopped.
"He's coming! He's coming! Here he is!" the people cried, and then there
were deafening shouts and cheers.
I recall the sight of a line of policemen pushing people back (I was
myself pushed back); I recall the sight of a big motor-car containing
three men and a woman, ploughing its way through; I recall the sight of
one of the men raising his cap; of the crowd rushing to shake hands with
him; then of the car swinging away, and of the people running after it
with a noise like that of the racing of a noisy river.
It is the literal truth that never once did I ask myself what this
tumult was about, and that for some time after it was over--a full hour
at least--I had a sense of walking in my sleep, as if my body were
passing through the streets of the West End of London while my soul was
somewhere else altogether.
Thus at one moment, as I was going by the National Gallery and thought I
caught the sound of Martin's name, I felt as if I were back in Glen Raa,
and it was I myself who had been calling it.
At another moment, when I was standing at the edge of the pavement in
Piccadilly Circus, which was ablaze with electric light and thronged
with people (for the theatres and music-halls were emptying, men in
uniform were running about with whistles, policemen were directing the
traffic, and streams of carriages were flowing by), I felt as if I were
back in my native island, where I was alone on the dark shore while the
sea was smiting me.
Again, after a brusque voice had said, "Move on, please," I followed the
current of pedestrians down Piccadilly--it must have been
Piccadilly--and saw lines of "public women," chiefly French and Belgian,
sauntering along, and heard men throwing light words to them as they
went by, I was thinking of the bleating sheep and the barking dog.
And again, when I was passing a men's club and the place where I had met
Angela, my dazed mind was harking back to Ilford (with a frightened
sense of the length of time since I had been there--"Good heavens, it
must be five hours at least!"), and wondering if Mrs. Oliver was giving
baby her drops of brandy and her spoonfuls of diluted milk.
But somewhere about midnight my soul seemed to take full possession of
my body, and I saw things clearly and sharply as I turned out of Oxford
Street into Regent Street.
The traffic was then rapidly dying down, the streets were darker, the
cafés were closing, men and women were coming Pout of supper rooms,
smoking cigarettes, getting into taxis and driving away; and another
London day was passing into another night.
People spoke to me. I made no answer. At one moment an elderly woman
said something to which I replied, "No, no," and hurried on. At another
moment, a foreign-looking man addressed me, and I pushed past without
replying. Then a string of noisy young fellows, stretching across the
broad pavement arm-in-arm, encircled me and cried:
"Here we are, my dear. Let's have a kissing-bee."
But with angry words and gestures I compelled them to let me go,
whereupon one of the foreign women who were sauntering by said
derisively:
"What does she think she's out for, I wonder?"
At length I found myself standing under a kind of loggia at the corner
of Piccadilly Circus, which was now half-dark, the theatres and
music-halls being closed, and only one group of arc lamps burning on an
island about a statue.
There were few people now where there had been so dense a crowd awhile
ago; policemen were tramping leisurely along; horse-cabs were going at
walking pace, and taxis were moving slowly; but a few gentlemen (walking
home from their clubs apparently) were passing at intervals, often
looking at me, and sometimes speaking as they went by.
Then plainly and pitilessly the taunt of the foreign woman came back to
me--what was I there for?
I knew quite well, and yet I saw that not only was I not doing what I
came out to do, but every time an opportunity had offered I had resisted
it. It was just as if an inherited instinct of repulsion had restrained
me, or some strong unseen arm had always snatched me away.
This led me--was it some angel leading me?--to think again of Martin and
to remember our beautiful and sacred parting at Castle Raa.
"Whatever happens to either of us, we belong to each other for ever," he
had said, and I had answered, "For ever and ever."
It was a fearful shock to think of this now. I saw that if I did what I
had come out to do, not only would Mary O'Neill be dead to me after
to-night, but Martin Conrad would be dead also.
When I thought of that I realised that, although I had accepted, without
question, the newspaper reports of Martin's death, he had never hitherto
been dead to me at all. He had lived with me every moment of my life
since, supporting me, sustaining me and inspiring me, so that nothing I
had ever done--not one single thing--would have been different if I had
believed him to be alive and been sure that he was coming back.
But now I was about to kill Martin Conrad as well as Mary O'Neill, by
breaking the pledge (sacred as any sacrament) which they had made for
life and for eternity.
Could I do that? In this hideous way too? Never! Never! Never! I should
die in the streets first.
I remember that I was making a movement to go back to Ilford (God knows
how), when, on the top of all my brave thinking, came the pitiful
thought of my child. My poor helpless little baby, who had made no
promise and was party to no pledge. She needed nourishment and fresh air
and sunshine, and if she could not get them--if I went back to her
penniless--she would die!
My sweet darling! My Isabel, my only treasure! Martin's child and mine!
That put a quick end to all my qualms. Again I bit my lip until it bled,
and told myself that I should speak to the Very next man who came along.
"Yes, the very next man who comes along," I thought.
I was standing at that moment in the shadow of one of the pilasters of
the loggia, almost leaning against it, and in the silence of the street
I heard distinctly the sharp firm step of somebody coming my way.
It was a man. As he came near me he slowed down, and stopped. He was
then immediately behind me. I heard his quick breathing. I felt that his
eyes were fixed on me. One sidelong glance told me that he was wearing a
long ulster and a cap, that he was young, tall, powerfully built, had a
strong, firm, clean-shaven face, and an indescribable sense of the open
air about him.
"Now, now!" I thought, and (to prevent myself from running away) I
turned quickly round to him and tried to speak.
But I said nothing. I did not know what women say to men under such
circumstances. I found myself trembling violently, and before I was
aware of what was happening I had burst into tears.
Then came another blinding moment and a tempest of conflicting feelings.
I felt that the man had laid hold of me, that his strong hands were
grasping my arms, and that he was looking into my face. I heard his
voice. It seemed to belong to no waking moment but to come out of the
hours of sleep.
"Mary! Mary!"
I looked up at him, but before my eyes could carry the news to my brain
I knew who it was--I knew, I knew, I knew!
"Don't be afraid! It's I!"
Then something--God knows what--made me struggle to escape, and I cried:
"Let me go!"
But even while I was struggling--trying to fly away from my greatest
happiness--I was praying with all my might that the strong arms would
hold me, conquer me, master me.
They did. And then something seemed to give way within my head, and
through a roaring that came into my brain I heard the voice again, and
it was saying:
"Quick, Sister, call a cab. Open the door, O'Sullivan. No, leave her to
me. I've got her, thank God!"
And then blinding darkness fell over me and everything was blotted out.
But only a moment afterwards (or what seemed to be a moment) memory came
back in a great swelling wave of joy. Though I did not open my eyes I
knew that I was safe and baby was safe, and all was well. Somebody--it
was the same beloved voice again--was saying:
"Mally! My Mally! My poor, long-suffering darling! My own again, God
bless her!"
It was he, it was Martin, my Martin. And, oh Mother of my Lord, he was
carrying me upstairs in his arms.