I
Mrs. MacDermott had remained in London for a week. John, eager to show
the sights to her, had tried to persuade her to stay for a longer
period, but she was obstinate in her determination to return to Ireland
at the end of the week. "I don't like the place," she said; "it's not
neighbourly!" She repeated this objection so frequently that John began
for the first time in his life to understand something of his mother's
point of view. He remembered how she had insisted upon the fact that
the MacDermotts had lived over the shop in Ballyards for several
generations; and now, with her repetition of the statement that London
was an unneighbourly town, he realised that Ballyards in her mind was a
place of kinsmen, that the people of Ballyards were members of one
family. She was horrified when she discovered that Hinde had been
stating the bare truth when he said that he had lived in Miss Squibb's
house for several years, but still was ignorant of the names of his
neighbours. Miss Squibb had told her that people in London made a habit
of taking a house on a three-years' lease. "When it expires, they go
somewhere else," she had said. Miss Squibb had never heard of a family
that had lived in the same house in London for several generations. She
did not think it was a nice idea, that. She liked "chynge" herself, and
was sorry she could not afford to get as much of it as she would like
to have.
"I do not understand the people in this place," Mrs. MacDermott had
complained to Hinde. "They've no feeling for anything. They don't love
their homes!..."
But although she had stayed in London for a week only, she had seen
much of Eleanor Moore in that time. It had not occurred to John, until
the moment his mother and he entered Charing Cross station, that Mrs.
MacDermott and Eleanor might not like each other. He imagined that his
mother must like Eleanor simply because he liked her, but as he held a
swing-door open so that his mother might pass through, a sudden dubiety
took possession of him and he became full of alarm. Supposing they did
not care for each other?... The doubt had hardly time to enter his mind
when it was resolved for him. Eleanor arrived at the bookstall almost
simultaneously with themselves. (It struck him then that Eleanor was a
remarkably punctual girl.) "This is my mother, Eleanor!" he had said,
and stood anxiously by to watch their greeting. The old woman and the
girl regarded each other for a moment, and then Mrs. MacDermott had
taken Eleanor's outstretched hand and had drawn her to her and had
kissed her; and John's dubiety disappeared from his mind. They had
dined together in Soho that night, but Mrs. MacDermott had not enjoyed
the meal. The number of diners and the clatter of dishes and knives and
the foreign look and the foreign language of the waiters disconcerted
her and made her feel as if she were a stranger. Above all else in the
world, Mrs. MacDermott hated to feel like a stranger! She demanded
familiar surroundings and faces, and was unhappy when she found herself
without recognition. The menu made her suspicious of the food because
it was written in French. She distrusted foreigners. London appeared to
be full of all sorts of people from all parts of the world. Never in
her life had she seen so many black men as she had seen in London that
day. John had taken her to St. Paul's Cathedral in the afternoon and
had shown her the place where Queen Victoria returned thanks to
Almighty God for her Diamond Jubilee ... and there, standing on the
very steps of a Christian church, was a Chinaman! There were no
Chinamen in Ballyards, thank God, nor were there any black men either.
She realised, of course, that God had made black men and Chinamen and
every other sort of men, but she wished that they would stay in the
land in which God had put them and would not go trapesing about the
world!...
"What about us, then?" said John. "We don't stay in the one place!"
"I know that," she replied. "That's what's wrong with the world.
Everyone should stay in his own country!"
The dinner had not entirely pleased John. Somehow, in a way that he
could not understand, he found himself being edged out of the
conversation, not altogether, but as a principal. His mother and
Eleanor addressed each other primarily; they only addressed him now and
then and in a way that seemed to indicate that they had suddenly
remembered his presence and were afraid he might feel hurt at being
left out of their talk. He was glad, of course, that his mother and
Eleanor were getting on so well together, but after all he was in
charge of this affair.... When his mother proposed to Eleanor that they
should meet on the following evening and go somewhere for a quiet talk,
he could hardly believe his ears.
"But what about me?" he said.
"Oh, you! You'll do rightly!" his mother replied.
"But!..."
"You can come and bring me home from wherever we go," Mrs. MacDermott
continued.
Eleanor had suggested that Mrs. MacDermott should meet her at the
bookstall and go to her club from which John would fetch her at ten
o'clock.
"That'll do nicely, Eleanor!" Mrs. MacDermott said.
John hardly noticed that his mother had called Eleanor by her Christian
name: it seemed natural that she should do so; but he was vaguely
disturbed by the arrangement that had just been made.
"I wonder what she's up to?" he said to himself as he moodily examined
his mother's face.
He sat back in his chair and listened while Eleanor and his mother
talked together. He was not accustomed to taking a subsidiary part in
discussions and he greatly disliked his present position, but he could
not think of any way of altering it.
"Do you like living in London?" Mrs. MacDermott had suddenly said to
Eleanor.
"No, I hate it," Eleanor vehemently answered.
"Then why do you stay?" Mrs. MacDermott continued.
"I have to. A girl gets better-paid work in London than in the
provinces. That's the only reason!"
"Would you rather live in the country, then?"
"Yes!" Eleanor said.
"I wonder would you like Ballyards!" Mrs. MacDermott said almost as if
she were speaking to herself. Then she began to talk of something else.