silence. Miss Furlong, who was one of Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly what was
the name of the pretty waltz she had played; and Mr Browne, seeing that he was
ignored, turned promptly to the two young men, who were more appreciative.
A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, excitedly clapping
her hands and crying:
`Quadrilles! Quadrilles!'
Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:
`Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!'
`O, here's Mr Bergin and Mr Kerrigan,' said Mary Jane. `Mr Kerrigan, will you take
Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner, Mr Bergin. O, that'll just do
now.'
`Three ladies, Mary Jane,' said Aunt Kate.
The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the pleasure, and Mary
Jane turned to Miss Daly.
`O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good, after playing for the last two dances, but
really we're so short of ladies tonight.'
`I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan.'
`But I've a nice partner for you, Mr Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor. I'll get him to sing later
on. All Dublin is raving about him.'
`Lovely voice, lovely voice!' said Aunt Kate.
As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary Jane led her recruits
quickly from the room. They had hardly gone when Aunt Julia wandered slowly into
the room, looking behind her at something.
`What is the matter, Julia?' asked Aunt Kate anxiously. `Who is it?'
Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to her sister and said,
simply, as if the question had surprised her:
`It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him.'
In fact, right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy Malins across the
landing. The latter, a young man of about forty, was of Gabriel's size and build, with
very round shoulders. His face was fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at the
thick hanging lobes of his ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse
features, a blunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid and protruded lips. His
heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his scanty hair made him look sleepy. He was
laughing heartily in a high key at a story which he had been telling Gabriel on the
stairs and at the same time rubbing the knuckles of his left fist backwards and
forwards into his left eye.
`Good evening, Freddy,' said Aunt Julia.
Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good evening in what seemed an off-hand
fashion by reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then, seeing that Mr Browne
was grinning at him from the sideboard, crossed the room on rather shaky legs and
began to repeat in an undertone the story he had just told to Gabriel.
`He's not so bad, is he?' said Aunt Kate to Gabriel.
Gabriel's brows were dark, but he raised them quickly and answered:
`O, no, hardly noticeable.'
`Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!' she said. `And his poor mother made him take the
pledge on New Year's Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into the drawing-room.'
Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr Browne by frowning and
shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr Browne nodded in answer and, when
she had gone, said to Freddy Malins:
`Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out a good glass of lemonade just to buck
you up.'
Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved the offer aside
impatiently, but Mr Browne, having first called Freddy Malins' attention to a disarray
in his dress, filled out and handed him a full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left
hand accepted the glass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in the mechanical
readjustment of his dress. Mr Browne, whose face was once more wrinkling with
mirth, poured out for himself a glass of whisky while Freddy Malins exploded, before
he had well reached the climax of his story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic
laughter and, setting down his untasted and overflowing glass, began to run the
knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye, repeating words of
his last phrase as well as his fit of laughter would allow him.
Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy piece, full of runs
and difficult passages, to the hushed drawing-room. He liked music, but the piece she
was playing had no melody for him and he doubted whether it had any melody for the
other listeners, though they had begged Mary Jane to play something. Four young
men, who had come from the refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound
of the piano, had gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The only persons
who seemed to follow the music were Mary Jane herself, her hands racing along the
keyboard or lifted from it at the pauses like those of a priestess in momentary
imprecation, and Aunt Kate standing at her elbow to turn the page.
Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswax under the heavy
chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano. A picture of the balcony scene in
Romeo and Juliet hung there and beside it was a picture of the two murdered princes
in the Tower which Aunt Julia had worked in red, blue, and brown wools when she
was a girl. Probably in the school they had gone to as girls that kind of work had been
taught for one year. His mother had worked for him as a birthday present a waistcoat
of purple tabinet, with little foxes' heads upon it, lined with brown satin and having
round mulberry buttons. It was strange that his mother had had no musical talent,
though Aunt Kate used to call her the brains carrier of the Morkan family. Both she
and Julia had always seemed a little proud of their serious and matronly sister. Her
photograph stood before the pier-glass. She had an open book on her knees and was
pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressed in a man-o'-war suit, lay at
her feet. It was she who had chosen the names of her sons, for she was very sensible
of the dignity of family life. Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate in
Balbriggan and, thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his degree in the Royal
University. A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullen opposition to
his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had used still rankled in his memory; once
she had spoken of Gretta as being country cute and that was not true of Gretta at all. It
was Gretta who had nursed her during all her last long illness in their house at
Monkstown.
He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece, for she was playing again
the opening melody with runs of scales after every bar, and while he waited for the
end the resentment died down in his heart. The piece ended with a trill of octaves in
the treble and a final deep octave in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as,
blushing and rolling up her music nervously, she escaped from the room. The most
vigorous clapping came from the four young men in the doorway who had gone away
to the refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had come back when the
piano had stopped.
Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss Ivors. She was a
frank-mannered, talkative young lady, with a freckled face and prominent brown
eyes. She did not wear a low-cut bodice, and the large brooch which was fixed in the
front of her collar bore on it an Irish device and motto.
When they had taken their places she said abruptly:
`I have a crow to pluck with you.'
`With me?' said Gabriel.
She nodded her head gravely.
`What is it?' asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner.
`Who is G.C.?' answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him.
Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did not understand, when
she said bluntly:
`O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily Express. Now, aren't
you ashamed of yourself?'
`Why should I be ashamed of myself?' asked Gabriel, blinking his eyes and trying to
smile.
`Well, I'm ashamed of you,' said Miss Ivors frankly. `To say you'd write for a paper
like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton.'
A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face. It was true that he wrote a literary
column every Wednesday in The Daily Express, for which he was paid fifteen
shillings. But that did not make him a West Briton surely. The books he received for
review were almost more welcome than the paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers
and turn over the pages of newly printed books. Nearly every day when his teaching
in the college was ended he used to wander down the quays to the second-hand
booksellers, to Hickey's on Bachelor's Walk, to Webb's or Massey's on Aston's Quay,
or to O'Clohissey's in the by-street. He did not know how to meet her charge. He
wanted to say that literature was above politics. But they were friends of many years'
standing and their careers had been parallel, first at the University and then as
teachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her. He continued blinking his
eyes and trying to smile and murmured lamely that he saw nothing political in writing
reviews of books.
When their turn to cross had come he was still perplexed and inattentive. Miss Ivors
promptly took his hand in a warm grasp and said in a soft friendly tone:
`Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now.'
When they were together again she spoke of the University question and Gabriel felt
more at ease. A friend of hers had shown her his review of Browning's poems. That
was how she had found out the secret: but she liked the review immensely.
Then she said suddenly:
`O, Mr Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Isles this summer? We're
going to stay there a whole month. It will be splendid out in the Atlantic. You ought
to come. Mr Clancy is coming, and Mr Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would be
splendid for Gretta too if she'd come. She's from Connacht, isn't she?'
`Her people are,' said Gabriel shortly.
`But you will come, won't you?' said Miss Ivors, laying her warm hand eagerly on his
arm.
`The fact is,' said Gabriel, `I have just arranged to go--'
`Go where?' asked Miss Ivors.
`Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with some fellows and so--'
`But where?' asked Miss Ivors.
`Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany,' said Gabriel
awkwardly.
`And why do you go to France and Belgium,' said Miss Ivors, `instead of visiting your
own land?'
`Well,' said Gabriel, `it's partly to keep in touch with the languages and partly for a
change.'
`And haven't you your own language to keep in touch with - Irish?' asked Miss Ivors.
`Well,' said Gabriel, `if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my language.'
Their neighbours had turned to listen to the cross-examination. Gabriel glanced right
and left nervously and tried to keep his good humour under the ordeal, which was
making a blush invade his forehead.
`And haven't you your own land to visit,' continued Miss Ivors, `that you know
nothing of, your own people, and your own country?'
`O, to tell you the truth,' retorted Gabriel suddenly, `I'm sick of my own country, sick
of it!'
`Why?' asked Miss Ivors.
Gabriel did not answer, for his retort had heated him.
`Why?' repeated Miss Ivors.
They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, Miss Ivors said
warmly:
`Of course, you've no answer.'
Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance with great energy. He
avoided her eyes, for he had seen a sour expression on her face. But when they met in
the long chain he was surprised to feel his hand firmly pressed. She looked at him
from under her brows for a moment quizzically until he smiled. Then, just as the
chain was about to start again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear:
`West Briton!'
When the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote corner of the room where
Freddy Malins' mother was sitting. She was a stout, feeble old woman with white
hair. Her voice had a catch in it like her son's and she stuttered slightly. She had been
told that Freddy had come and that he was nearly all right. Gabriel asked her whether
she had had a good crossing. She lived with her married daughter in Glasgow and
came to Dublin on a visit once a year. She answered placidly that she had had a
beautiful crossing and that the captain had been most attentive to her. She spoke also
of the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow, and of all the friends they had
there. While her tongue rambled on Gabriel tried to banish from his mind all memory
of the unpleasant incident with Miss Ivors. Of course the girl, or woman, or whatever
she was, was an enthusiast, but there was a time for all things. Perhaps he ought not to
have answered her like that. But she had no right to call him a West Briton before
people, even in joke. She had tried to make him ridiculous before people, heckling
him and staring at him with her rabbit's eyes.
He saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzing couples. When
she reached him she said into his ear:
`Gabriel, Aunt Kate wants to know won't you carve the goose as usual. Miss Daly
will carve the ham and I'll do the pudding.'
`All right,' said Gabriel.
`She's sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz is over so that we'll have
the table to ourselves.'
`Were you dancing?' asked Gabriel.
`Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What row had you with Molly Ivors?'
`No row. Why? Did she say so?'
`Something like that. I'm trying to get that Mr D'Arcy to sing. He's full of conceit, I
think.'
`There was no row,' said Gabriel moodily, `only she wanted me to go for a trip to the
west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't.'
His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump.
`O, do go, Gabriel,' she cried. `I'd love to see Galway again.'
`You can go if you like,' said Gabriel coldly.
She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs Malins and said:
`There's a nice husband for you, Mrs Malins.'
While she was threading her way back across the room Mrs Malins, without adverting
to the interruption, went on to tell Gabriel what beautiful places there were in
Scotland and beautiful scenery. Her son-in-law brought them every year to the lakes
and they used to go fishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher. One day he caught
a beautiful big fish and the man in the hotel cooked it for their dinner.
Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that supper was coming near he began to
think again about his speech and about the quotation. When he saw Freddy Malins
coming across the room to visit his mother Gabriel left the chair free for him and
retired into the embrasure of the window. The room had already cleared and from the
back room came the clatter of plates and knives. Those who still remained in the
drawing-room seemed tired of dancing and were conversing quietly in little groups.
