— Go on, he said. Daddy could have kept us. You’re right. Kind, generous daddy would have come along with his money-bags to sour our lives. Where’s the use in talking. Me a writer? I’d be laughed out of the county. The bar in the Grosvenor Arms would collapse after a week of the laughing. Did you hear how mad Mor knocked up old man Fitz’s daughter and moved into the big house and now says he’s writing a book? Did you ever hear the likes? No, Liza. This place produced me and will destroy me if I try to break free. All this crowd understands is the price of a heifer and the size of the new car and the holiday in Spain and those godblasted dogs howling for blood. No.
She said quietly:
— If you hated these people so much, why did you marry into them?
— Because, Liza my dear, I didn’t know I was marrying into them.
There was a long silence, then Liza spoke:
— It wasn’t my fault he died, she said, sadly defiant.
Mor turned away from her in the chair and threw up his hands.
— Always, he said. Always it comes to your mind. Blaming me.
She did not speak, and he leaned towards her, whispering:
— Blaming me.
She joined her hands before her and sighed, holding her eyes fixed on the dark gleam of the glass before her. He said:
— Well why don’t you just trot along now after old David there. Sure maybe he can give you a better one. One that will live longer and make you happy.
She swung about to face him. Her eyes blazed, and she said:
— All right then, Mor, if you want a fight you’ll get one.
For a moment they stared at each other, and her anger went away. She turned back to the window.
— Well? Mor asked, and the word rang in the silence. She lifted her shoulders slowly, allowed them to fall. Mor nodded.
— Yes, he said. We’ve had it all before.
He stood up unsteadily, pressing his fingers on the arm of the chair for support. He went and stood beside her at the window. She said:
— They’re still searching. Look at the lights.
Side by side they stood and watched the tiny flashes move here and there in the dark. Suddenly she said:
— If he got to the stables he could come in through the side door. If he did I’d hide him.
He stared at her, and feeling his eyes on her she set her mouth firmly and said:
— I would, I’d hide him. And then in the morning I’d get him out and bring him to Dublin and put him on the boat for England, for Liverpool or some place.
She reached out blindly and took his hand. There were tears on her face, they fell, each gathering to itself a little light and flashing in the darkness of the window.
— We could do that if he came, couldn’t we, Mor? It wouldn’t be a bad thing to do. It wouldn’t be a crime, I mean, would it? Out there in the dark with the rain and everything and thinking about all the things — thinking and thinking. It wouldn’t be wrong to help him, Mor?
He took her in his arms and held her head on his shoulder. She was trembling.
— No, he said softly. It wouldn’t be a bad thing.
She began to sob quietly, and he lifted her head and smiled at her.
— Don’t cry, Liza. There now.
The door-bell rang, and her eyes filled with apprehension. Without a word she moved past him and left the room.
Mor stood and looked about him. Long ago when he first saw this room he had thought it beautiful, and now it was one of the few things left which had not faded. The shaded lamps took from the warm walls of lilac a soft, full light, it touched everything, the chairs, the worn carpet, with gentle fingers. On the table beside him a half-eaten sandwich lay beside his bottle. There was an olive transfixed on a wooden pin. Muted voices came in from the hall, and outside in the fields a shout flared like a flame in the dark and then was blown away. Mor lifted his glass, and when the amber liquid moved, all the soft light of the room seemed to shift with it. He felt something touch him. It was as though all the things he had ever lost had now come back to press upon his heart with a vast sadness. He stared at the table, at the little objects, the bread and the bottle, the olive dead on its pin.
Liza came back, her hands joined before her, and the knuckles white. She stopped in the middle of the room and looked blankly about her, as if she were dazed.
— What is it? he asked. Who was at the door?
— A guard.
— What did he want?
— What?
— What did he want? The guard.
— O, the guard. He wanted to use the ’phone.
She looked at him, and blinked rapidly twice.
— They found him, she said. He hanged himself in the long meadow.
She examined the room once again with vague eyes, then she sighed, and went away. He sat down to finish his drink, and after a time went out and climbed the stairs.
Liza was lying in bed, the lamp beside her throwing a cruel light over her drawn face. He sat beside her and watched her. Her eyes were open, staring up into the dimness. In the silence there was the sound of the rain against the window. She said, so softly he barely heard her:
— We missed so much.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She did not move. He put his hand over her breast, feeling the nipple cold and small through the silk of her nightgown.
— Liza.
She turned away from him, and when she spoke her voice was muffled by the sheets.
— Bring me a glass of water, Morris. My mouth is dry.
He moved away from her, and switched off the light. He went down the stairs in the darkness, the air cold and stale against his face. On quiet feet he returned to the drawing room and poured another, last drink. Then he went and stood at the dark window, and listened to the wind blowing in the trees.
Summer Voices
… Shalt thou hope. His truth shall compass thee with a shield. Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror of the night, of the arrow that flies in the day, of the business that walks in the dark, of invasion or of the noonday devil.
The old voice droned on, and the boy wondered at the words. He looked through the window at the countryside, the fields floating in the summer heat. On Hallowe’en people must stay indoors for fear of the devils that fly in the darkness. Once he had heard them crying, those dark spirits, and she said it was only the wind. But to think of the wind in the black trees out on the marsh was almost as bad as imagining devils. And late that night from the window of his bedroom he saw huge shadows of leaves dancing on the side of the house, and the circle of light from the street lamp shivering where it fell on the road.
— Are you going to ask her?
— What?
The little girl frowned at him and leaned close to his ear, her curls falling about her face. She whispered:
— Ssh, will you. Are you going to ask her can we go? He said seven days and the tide will be up in an hour. Go on and ask her.
He nodded.
— In a minute.
She stuck out her tongue at him. Through his crossed legs he touched his fists on the cool tiles of the floor. The old woman in the chair before him licked her thumb and turned a page of the black missal. The thin paper crackled and the ribbons stirred where they hung from the torn spine.
— I will deliver him and glorify him. I will fill him with length of days and I will show him my salvation.
She raised her eyes from the page and glared at them over the metal rims of her spectacles. Crossly she said:
— What are you two whispering about there?
— Tantey, can we go for a swim? the little girl cried and jumped to her feet. The old woman smiled and shook her head.
— O it’s a swim is it? You’d rather be off swimming now than listening to the words of God.