ornaments which stood on the parlor mantelpiece and on the top of the
piano. There was a china shepherdess with a basket of flowers at one
end of the mantelpiece and an exact duplicate on the other. In the
center a big clock of speckled marble was surmounted by a little domed
edifice with Corinthian pillars in front, and this again was topped by
the figure of an archer with a bent bow--there was nothing on top of
this figure because there was not any room. Between each of these
articles there stood little framed photographs of members of Mrs.
O'Connor's family, and behind all there was a carved looking-glass
with beveled edges having many shelves. Each shelf had a cup or a
saucer or a china bowl on it. On the left-hand side of the fireplace
there was a plaque whereon a young lady dressed in a sky-blue robe
crossed by means of well-defined stepping-stones a thin but furious
stream; the middle distance was embellished by a cow, and the horizon
sustained two white lambs, a brown dog, a fountain and a sun-dial. On
the right-hand side a young gentleman clad in a crimson coat and
yellow knee-breeches carried a three-cornered hat under his arm, and
he also crossed a stream which seemed the exact counterpart of the
other one and whose perspective was similarly complicated. There were
three pictures on each wall--nine in all; three of these were
pictures of ships, three were pictures of battles: two portrayed
saintly but emaciated personages sitting in peculiarly disheartening
wildernesses (each wilderness contained one cactus plant and a camel).
One of these personages stared fixedly at a skull, the other personage
looked with intense firmness away from a lady of scant charms in a
white and all too insufficient robe: above the robe a segment of the
lady's bosom was hinted at bashfully--it was probably this the
personage looked firmly away from. The remaining picture showed a
little girl seated in a big armchair and reading with profound culture
the most massive of bibles: she had her grandmother's mutch cap and
spectacles on, and looked very sweet and solemn; a doll sat bolt
upright beside her, and on the floor a kitten hunted a ball of wool
with great earnestness.
All these things Mrs. Makebelieve discussed to her daughter, as also
of the carpet which might have been woven in Turkey or elsewhere,
the sideboard that possibly was not mahogany, and the chairs and
occasional tables whose legs had attained to rickets through
convulsions; the curtains of cream-colored lace which were reinforced
by rep hangings and guarded shutters from Venice, also the deer's head
which stood on a shelf over the door and was probably shot by a member
of the family in a dream, and the splendid silver tankards which
flanked this trophy and were possibly made of tin.
Mrs. Makebelieve further spoke of the personal characteristics of the
householder with an asperity which was still restrained. She had a
hairy chin, said Mrs. Makebelieve: she had buck teeth and a solid
smile, and was given to telling people who knew their business how
things ought to be done. Beyond this she would not say anything.--The
amount of soap the lady allowed to wash out five rooms and a lengthy
staircase was not as generous as one was accustomed to, but, possibly,
she was well-meaning enough when one came to know her better.
Mary Makebelieve, apropos of nothing, asked her mother did she ever
know a girl who got married to a policeman, and did she think that
policemen were good men?
Her mother replied that policemen were greatly sought after as
husbands for several reasons--firstly, they were big men, and big men
are always good to look upon; secondly, their social standing was very
high and their respectability undoubted; thirdly, a policeman's pay
was such as would bring comfort to any household which was not
needlessly and criminally extravagant; and this was often supplemented
in a variety of ways which rumor only hinted at: there was also the
safe prospect of a pension and the possibility of a sergeantship,
where the emoluments were very great: and fourthly, a policeman, being
subjected for many years to a rigorous discipline, would likely make a
nice and obedient husband. Personally Mrs. Makebelieve did not admire
policemen--they thought too much of themselves, and their continual
pursuit of and intercourse with criminals tended to deteriorate their
moral tone; also, being much admired by a certain type of woman, their
morals were subjected to so continuous an assault that the wife of
such a one would be worn to a shadow in striving to preserve her
husband from designing and persistent females.
Mary Makebelieve said she thought it would be nice to have other women
dying for love of one's husband, but her mother opposed this with the
reflection that such people did not die for love at all, they were
merely anxious to gratify a foolish and excessive pride or to inflict
pain on respectable married women. On the whole, a policeman was not
an ideal person to marry. The hours at which he came home were liable
to constant and vexatious changes, so that there was a continual
feeling of insecurity, which was bad for housekeeping; and if one had
not stability in one's home all discipline and all real home life was
at an end. There was this to be said for them--that they all loved
little children. But, all things considered, a clerk made a better
husband: his hours were regular and, knowing where he was at any
moment, one's mind was at ease.
Mary Makebelieve was burning to tell some one of her adventure during
the day, but although she had never before kept a secret from her
mother she was unable to tell her this one. Something--perhaps the
mere difference of age, and also a kind of shyness--kept her silent.
She wished she knew a nice girl of her own age, or even a little
younger, to whose enraptured ear she might have confided her story.
They would have hugged each other during the recital, and she would
have been able to enlarge upon a hundred trivialities of moustache and
hair and eyes the wonder of which older minds can seldom appreciate.
Her mother said she did not feel at all well. She did not know what
was the matter with her, but she was more tired than she could
remember being for a long time. There was a dull aching in all her
bones, a coldness in her limbs, and when she pressed her hair
backwards it hurt her head; so she went to bed much earlier than was
usual. But long after her regular time for sleep had passed Mary
Makebelieve crouched on the floor before the few warm coals. She was
looking into the redness, seeing visions of rapture, strange things
which could not possibly be true; but these visions warmed her blood
and lifted her heart on light and tremulous wings; there was a singing
in her ears to which she could never be tired listening.
XII
Mrs. Makebelieve felt much better the next morning after the extra
sleep which she had. She still confessed to a slight pain in her scalp
when she brushed her hair and was a little languid, but not so much as
to call for complaint. She sat up in bed while her daughter prepared
the breakfast and her tongue sped as rapidly as heretofore. She said
she had a sort of feeling that her brother Patrick must come back from
America some time, and she was sure that when he did return he would
lose no time in finding out his relatives and sharing with them the
wealth which he had amassed in that rich country. She had memories of
his generosity even as a mere infant when he would always say "no" if
only half a potato remained in the dish or a solitary slice of bread
was on the platter. She delighted to talk of his good looks and high
spirits and of the amazingly funny things he had said and done. There
was always, of course, the chance that Patrick had got married and
settled down in America, and, if so, that would account for so prolonged
a silence. Wives always came between a man and his friends, and this
woman would do all she could to prevent Patrick benefiting his own
sister and her child. Even in Ireland there were people like that, and
the more one heard of America the less one knew what to expect from
the strange people who were native to that place. She had often thought
she would like to go out there herself, and, indeed, if she had a little
money she would think nothing of packing up her things to-morrow and
setting out for the States. There were fine livings to be made there,
and women were greatly in request, both as servants and wives. It was
well known, too, that the Americans loved Irish people, and so there
would be no difficulty at all in getting a start. The more she thought
of Mrs. O'Connor the more favorably she pondered on emigration. She
would say nothing against Mrs. O'Connor yet, but the fact remained that
she had a wen on her cheek and buck teeth. Either of these afflictions
taken separately were excusable, but together she fancied they betoken
a bad, sour nature; but maybe the woman was to be pitied: she might be
a nice person in herself, but, then, there was the matter of the soap,
and she was very fond of giving unnecessary orders. However, time would
show, and, clients being as scarce as they were, one could not quarrel
with one's bread and butter.
The opening of a door and the stamping downstairs of heavy feet shot
Mrs. Makebelieve from her bed and into her clothing with furious speed.
Within five minutes she was dressed, and after kissing her daughter
three times she fled down the stairs and away to her business.
Mary had obtained her mother's consent to do as she pleased with the
piece of black velvet on the hem of her Sunday skirt, so she passed
some time in ripping this off and cleaning it. It would not come as
fresh as she desired, and there were some parts of it frayed and
rubbed so that the velvet was nearly lost, but other portions were
quite good, and by cutting out the worn parts and neatly joining the
good pieces she at last evolved a quite passable sash. Having the sash
ready she dressed herself to see how it looked, and was delighted.
Then becoming dissatisfied with the severe method of doing her hair
she manipulated it gently for a few minutes until a curl depended by
both ears and two or three very tiny ones fluttered above her
forehead. She put on her hat and stole out, walking very gently for
fear any of the other people in the house would peep through their
doors as she went by. Walk as gently as she could these bare, solid
stairs rang loudly to each footfall, and so she ended in a rush and
was out and away without daring to look if she was observed. She had a
sort of guilty feeling as she walked, which she tried to allay by
saying very definitely that she was not doing anything wrong. She said
to herself with determined candor that she would walk up to the St.
Stephen's Green Park and look at the ducks and the flower-beds and the
eels, but when she reached the quays she blushed deeply, and turning
towards the right went rapidly in the direction of the Phoenix Park.
She told herself that she was not going in there, but would merely
take a walk by the river, cross at Island Bridge, and go back on the
opposite side of the Liffey to the Green. But when she saw the broad
sunlit road gleaming through the big gates she thought she would go
for a little way up there to look at the flowers behind the railings.
As she went in a great figure came from behind the newspaper kiosk
outside the gates and followed Mary up the road. When she paused to
look at the flowers the great figure halted also, and when she went on
again it followed. Mary walked past the Gough Statue and turned away
into the fields and the trees, and here the figure lengthened its
stride. In the middle of the field a big shadow bobbed past her
shoulder, and she walked on holding her breath and watching the shadow
growing by queer forward jerks. In a moment the dull beat of feet on
grass banished all thought of the shadow, and then there came a
cheerful voice in her ears, and the big policeman was standing by her
side. For a few moments they were stationary, making salutation and
excuse and explanation, and then they walked slowly on through the
sunshine. Wherever there was a bush there were flowers on it. Every
tree was thronged with birds that sang shrilly and sweetly in sudden
thrills and clear sustained melodies, but in the open spaces the
silence was more wonderful; there was no bird note to come between
Mary and that deep voice, no shadow of a tree to swallow up their own
two shadows; and the sunlight was so mildly warm, the air was so sweet
and pure, and the little wind that hushed by from the mountains was a
tender and a peaceful wind.
XIII
After that day Mary Makebelieve met her new friend frequently.
Somehow, wherever she went, he was not far away; he seemed to spring
out of space--one moment she was alone watching the people passing and
the hurrying cars and the thronged and splendid shop windows, and then
a big voice was booming down to her and a big form was pacing
deliberately by her side. Twice he took her into a restaurant and gave
her lunch. She had never been in a restaurant before, and it seemed to
her like a place in fairyland. The semi-darkness of the retired rooms
faintly colored by tiny electric lights, the beautifully clean tables
and the strange foods, the neatly dressed waitresses with quick, deft
movements and gravely attentive faces--these things thrilled her. She
noticed that the girls in the restaurant, in spite of their gravity
and industry, observed both herself and the big man with the minutest
inspection, and she felt that they all envied her the attentions of so
superb a companion. In the street also she found that many people
looked at them, but, listening to his constant and easy speech, she
could not give these people the attention they deserved.
When they did not go to the Park they sought the most reserved streets
or walked out to the confines of the town and up by the River Dodder.
There are exquisitely beautiful places along the side of the Dodder:
shy little harbors and backwaters, and now and then a miniature
waterfall or a broad placid reach upon which the sun beats down like
silver. Along the river bank the grass grows rank and wildly
luxurious, and at this season, warmed by the sun, it was a splendid
place to sit. She thought she could sit there forever watching the
shining river and listening to the great voice by her side.
He told her many things about himself and about his comrades--those
equally huge men. She could see them walking with slow vigor through
their barrack-yard, falling in for exercise or gymnastics or for
school. She wondered what they were taught, and who had sufficient
impertinence to teach giants, and were they ever slapped for not
knowing their lessons? He told her of his daily work, the hours when
he was on and off duty, the hours when he rose in the morning and when
he went to bed. He told her of night duty, and drew a picture of the
blank deserted streets which thrilled and frightened her ... the tense
darkness, and how through the silence the sound of a footstep was
magnified a thousandfold, ringing down the desolate pathways away and
away to the smallest shrill distinctness, and she saw also the alleys
and lane-ways hooded in blackness, and the one or two human fragments
who drifted aimless and frantic along the lonely streets, striving to
walk easily for fear of their own thundering footsteps, cowering in
the vastness of the city, dwarfed and shivering beside the gaunt
houses; the thousands upon thousands of black houses, each deadly
silent, each seeming to wait and listen for the morning, and each
teeming with men and women who slept in peace because he was walking
up and down outside, flashing his lantern on shop windows and feeling
doors to see if they were by any chance open. Now and again a step
from a great distance would tap-tap-tap, a far-off delicacy of sound,
and either die away down echoing side streets or come clanking on to
where he stood, growing louder and clearer and more resonant, ringing
again and again in doubled and trebled echoes; while he, standing far
back in a doorway, watched to see who was abroad at the dead of
night--and then that person went away on his strange errand, his
footsteps tramping down immense distances, till the last echo and the
last faint tremble of his feet eddied into the stillness. Now and
again a cat dodged gingerly along a railing, or a strayed dog slunk
fearfully down the pathway, nosing everywhere in and out of the
lamplight, silent and hungry and desperately eager. He told her
stories also, wonderful tales of great fights and cunning tricks, of
men and women whose whole lives were tricks, of people who did not
know how to live except by theft and violence; people who were born by
stealth, who ate by subterfuge, drank by dodges, got married in antics
and slid into death by strange, subterranean passages. He told her the
story of the Two Hungry Men, and of The Sailor Who Had Been Robbed,
and a funny tale about the Barber Who Had Two Mothers. He also told
her the stories of The Eight Tinkers, and of the Old Women Who Steal
Fish at Nighttime, and the story of The Man He Let Off, and he told
her a terrible story of how he fought five men in a little room, and
he showed her a great livid scar hidden by his cap, and the marks in
his neck where he had been stabbed with a jagged bottle, and his wrist
which an Italian mad-man had thrust through and through with a dagger.
But though he was always talking he was not always talking of himself.
Through his conversation there ran a succession of queries--tiny
slender questions which ran out of his stories and into her life.
Questions so skillful and natural and spontaneous that only a girl
could discover the curiosity which prompted them. He wanted her name,
her address, her mother's name, her father's name; had she other
relatives, did she go to work yet, what was her religion, was it a
long time since she left school, and what was her mother's business?
To all of these Mary Makebelieve answered with glad candor. She saw
each question coming, and the personal curiosity lying behind it she
divined and was glad of. She would have loved to ask him personal and
intimate questions about his parents, his brothers and sisters, and
what he said when he said his prayers, and had he walked with other
girls, and, if so, what had he said to them, and what did he really
and truly think of her? Her curiosity on all these points was abundant
and eager, but she did not dare to even hint a question.
One of the queries often touched upon by him she eluded--she shrank
from it with something like terror--it was, "What was her mother's
business?" She could not bear to say that her mother was a charwoman.
It did not seem fitting. She suddenly hated and was ashamed of this
occupation. It took on an aspect of incredible baseness. It seemed to
be the meanest employment wherein any one could be engaged; and so
when the question, conveyed in a variety of ways, had to be answered
it was answered with reservations--Mary Makebelieve told him a lie.
She said her mother was a dressmaker.
XIV
One night when Mrs. Makebelieve came home she was very low-spirited
indeed. She complained once more of a headache and of a languor which
she could not account for. She said it gave her all the trouble in the
world to lift a bucket. It was not exactly that she could not lift a
bucket, but that she could scarcely close her mind down to the fact
that a bucket had to be lifted. Some spring of willingness seemed to
be temporarily absent. To close her two hands on a floor-cloth and
twist it into a spiral in order to wring it thoroughly was a thing
which she found herself imagining she could do if she liked, but had
not the least wish to do. These duties, even when she was engaged in
them, had a curious quality of remoteness. The bucket into which her
hand had been plunged a moment before seemed somehow incredibly
distant. To lift the soap lying beside the bucket one would require an
arm of more than human reach, and having washed, or rather dabbed, at
a square of flooring, it was a matter of grave concern how to reach
the unwashed part just beyond without moving herself. This languor
alarmed her. The pain in her head, while it was severe, did not really
matter. Every one had pains and aches, sores and sprains, but this
unknown weariness and disinclination for the very slightest exertion
gave her a fright.
Mary tempted her to come out and watch the people going into the
Gayety Theater. She said a certain actor was playing whom all the
women of Dublin make pilgrimages, even from distant places, to look
at; and by going at once they might be in time to see him arriving in
a motor car at the stage door, when they could have a good look at him
getting out of the car and going into the theater. At these tidings
Mrs. Makebelieve roused for a moment from her strange apathy. Since
tea-time she had sat (not as usual upright and gesticulating, but
humped up and flaccid) staring at a blob of condensed milk on the
outside of the tin. She said she thought she would go out and see the
great actor, although what all the women saw in him to go mad about
she did not know, but in another moment she settled back to her
humped-up position and restored her gaze to the condensed milk tin.
With a little trouble Mary got her to bed, where, after being hugged
for one moment, she went swiftly and soundly to sleep.
Mary was troubled because of her mother's illness, but, as it is
always difficult to believe in the serious illness of another person
until death has demonstrated its gravity, she soon dismissed the
matter from her mind. This was the more easily done because her mind
was teeming with impressions and pictures and scraps of dialogue.
As her mother was sleeping peacefully, Mary put on her hat and went
out. She wanted, in her then state of mind, to walk in the solitude
which can only be found in crowded places, and also she wanted some
kind of distraction. Her days had lately been so filled with adventure
that the placid immobility of the top back room was not only irksome,
but maddening, and her mother's hasty and troubled breathing came
between her and her thoughts. The poor furniture of the room was
hideous to her eyes, the uncarpeted floor and bleak, stained walls
dulled her.
She went out, and in a few moments was part of the crowd which passes
and repasses nightly from the Rotunda up the broad pathways of
Sackville Street, across O'Connell Bridge, up Westmoreland Street,
past Trinity College, and on through the brilliant lights of Grafton
Street to the Fusiliers' Arch at the entrance to St. Stephen's Green
Park. Here from half-past seven o'clock in the evening youthful
Dublin marches in joyous procession. Sometimes bevies of young girls
dance by, each a giggle incarnate. A little distance behind these a
troop of young men follow stealthily and critically. They will be
acquainted and more or less happily paired before the Bridge is
reached. But generally the movement is in couples. Appointments,
dating from the previous night, have filled the streets with happy and
careless boys and girls--they are not exactly courting, they are
enjoying the excitement of fresh acquaintance; old conversation is
here poured into new bottles, old jokes have the freshness of infancy,
every one is animated, and polite to no one but his partner; the
people they meet and pass and those who overtake and pass them are all
subjects for their wit and scorn, while they, in turn, furnish a
moment's amusement and conversation to each succeeding couple.
Constantly there are stoppages when very high-bred introductions
result in a redistribution of the youngsters. As they move apart the
words "To-morrow night," or "Thursday," or "Friday," are called
laughingly back, showing that the late partner is not to be lost sight
of utterly; and then the procession begins anew.
Among these folk Mary Makebelieve passed rapidly. She knew that if she
walked slowly some partially elaborate gentleman would ask suddenly
what she had been doing with herself since last Thursday? and would
introduce her as Kate Ellen to six precisely similar young gentlemen,
who smiled blandly in a semi-circle six feet distant. This had
happened to her once before, and as she fled the six young gentlemen
had roared "bow, wow, wow" after her, while the seventh mewed
earnestly and with noise.
She stood for a time watching the people thronging into the Gayety
Theater. Some came in motor cars, others in carriages. Many
hearse-like cabs deposited weighty and respectable solemnities under
the glass-roofed vestibule. Swift outside cars buzzed on rubber tires
with gentlemen clad in evening dress, and ladies whose silken wraps
blew gently from their shoulders, and, in addition, a constant
pedestrian stream surged along the pathway. From the shelter of an
opposite doorway Mary watched these gayly animated people. She envied
them all innocently enough, and wondered would the big policeman ever
ask her to go to the theater with him, and if he did, would her mother
let her go. She thought her mother would refuse, but was dimly certain
that in some way she would manage to get out if such a delightful
invitation were given her. She was dreaming of the alterations she
would make in her best frock in anticipation of such a treat when,
half-consciously, she saw a big figure appear round the corner of
Grafton Street and walk towards the theater. It was he, and her heart
jumped with delight. She prayed that he would not see her, and then
she prayed that he would, and then, with a sudden, sickening coldness,
she saw that he was not alone. A young, plump, rosy-cheeked girl was
at his side. As they came nearer the girl put her arm into his and said
something. He bent down to her and replied, and she flashed a laugh up
at him. There was a swift interchange of sentences, and they both
laughed together, then they disappeared into the half-crown door.