And everywhere Kate went her gown was being talked about – the gown she was to be married in, a grey silk that had been bought at a rummage sale. They were all at her, and so persistently that she had begun to feel she was being driven into a trap, and on the morning of her wedding turned round to ask her sister if she thought she ought to marry Peter. Julia thought it would be a pity if she didn’t, for her dress would be wasted, and Kate threw a look down the skirt that boded no good.
‘I hate the both of them – the priest and that old waddling sow of a mother-in-law of mine, or what is to be.’
After this speech Julia expected to hear Peter’s name, but Kate was not thinking of him then nor did she think of him once during the ceremony; she seemed all the time to be absent from herself; and it was not till he got up beside her on the car that she remembered they were now one flesh. But Peter did not notice that she shrank from him; nor did the others. The distribution occupied all their attention. The fat were set beside the lean,1 and the bridal party drove away, amid a great waving of hands and hullabaloo.
And when the last car passed out of sight, Mrs M’Shane returned home like a goose, waddling slowly, a little overcome by the thought of the happiness that awaited her son. There would be no more lonely evenings in the cabin; Kate would be with him now, and later on there would be some children, and she waddled home thinking of the cradle, and the joy it would be to her to take her grandchildren upon her knee. Passing in at the door, she sat down, so that she might dream over her happiness a little longer. But she had not been sitting long when she had a thought of the work before her – the cabin to be cleaned from end to end, the supper to be cooked, and she did not pause in her work till the pig’s head was on the table, and the sheep’s tongues also; till the bread was baked and the barrel of porter rolled up in a corner. As she stood with her arms akimbo, expecting the piper every minute, thinking of the great evening it would be, she remembered that her old friend, Annie Connex, had refused to come to Peter’s wedding, and that all the village was saying that Kate wouldn’t have married Peter if she hadn’t been driven to it by the priest and her mother.
‘Poor boy!’ she thought, ‘his heart is so set upon her that he has no ears for any word against her. And aren’t people ill-natured to be talking ill of a girl on her wedding day, and Annie Connex preventing her son from coming to the dance? If she won’t come herself, she might let Pat come round for an hour.’ And if Annie would do this, all the gossips would have their tongues tied. Anyhow, she might try to persuade her. She locked her door and waddled up the road.
‘I came round, Annie, to tell you they’re married.’
‘Well, come in, Mary,’ she said, ‘if you have the time.’
‘If I have the time,’ Mrs M’Shane repeated to herself as she passed into the comfortable kitchen, with sides of bacon and home-cured hams hanging from the rafters. She had not prospered like Mrs Connex, and she knew she would never have a beautiful closed range, but an open hearth, till the end of her days. She would never have a nice dresser with a pretty carved top. The dresser in her kitchen was deal, and had no nice shining brass knobs on it. She would never have a parlour, and this parlour had in it a mahogany table and a grandfather’s clock that would show you the moon on it just the same as it was in the sky, and there was a glass over the fireplace. And this was Annie Connex’s own parlour. The parlour on the other side of the house was even better furnished, for in the summer months Mrs Connex bedded and boarded her lodgers for one pound or one pound five shillings a week.
‘So she was married today, and Father Maguire married her after all. I never thought he would have brought her to it. Well, I’m glad she’s married.’ It rose to Mary’s lips to say, ‘You are glad she didn’t marry your son,’ but she put back the words. ‘It comes upon me as a bit of surprise, for sure and all I could never see her settling down in the parish.’
‘Them that are the wildest before marriage are often the best after, and I think it will be like that with Kate.’
‘I hope so,’ said Annie. ‘And there is reason why it should be like that. She must have liked Peter better than we thought; you will never get me to believe that it was the priest’s will or anybody’s will but her own that brought Kate to do what she did.’
‘I hope she’ll make my boy a good wife.’
‘I hope so, too,’ said Annie, and the women sat over the fire thinking it out.
Annie Connex held the Kavanagh family in abomination; they got two shillings a week off the rates, though every Saturday evening they bought a quarter barrel of porter, and Annie Connex could not believe in the future of a country that would tolerate such a thing. If her son had married a Kavanagh her life would have come to an end, and the twenty years she had worked for him would have been wasted years. Alert as a bee she sprang from her chair, for she was thinking of the work that was waiting for her as soon as she could rid herself of that bothering old slut Mary, who’d just as lief sit here all the morning talking of the Kavanaghs.
‘You know Julia is doing well with her lace-making?’
‘Selling it, I haven’t a doubt, above its market value.’
‘She sells it for what she can get. Why shouldn’t she?’
‘And it looking like as if it was cut out of paper!’
To sell above the market value was abominable in Annie Connex’s eyes. Her idea of life was order and administration. And Mary M’Shane seemed to her the very picture of the thriftless, idle village in which they lived.
‘We never had anyone like Kate Kavanagh in the village before. I hear she turned round to her sister Julia, who was dressing her, and said, “Now am I to marry him, or shall I go to America?” And she putting on her grey dress at the time.’
‘She looked fine in that grey dress; there was lace on the front of it, and there isn’t a man in the parish that wouldn’t be in Pether’s place today if he only dared.’
‘I don’t catch your meaning, Mary.’
‘Well, perhaps I oughtn’t to have said it now that she’s my own daughter, but I think many would have been a bit afraid of her after what she said to the priest three days ago.’
‘She did have her tongue on him. People are telling all ends of stories.’
‘’Tis said that Father Maguire was up at the Kavanaghs’ three days ago, and I heard that she hunted him. She called him a policeman, and a tax collector, and a landlord, and if she said this she said more to a priest than anyone ever said before, for there is plenty in the parish who believe he could turn them into rabbits if he liked, though I don’t take it on myself to say if it be truth or lie. But I know for a fact that Patsy Rogan had promised to vote for the Unionist2 to please his landlord, but the priest had been to see his wife, who was going to be confined, and didn’t he tell her that if Patsy voted for the wrong man there would be horns on the new baby, and Mrs Rogan was so frightened that she wouldn’t let her husband go when he came in that night till he had promised to vote as the priest wished.’
‘Patsy Rogan is an ignorant man,’ said Annie; ‘there are many like him even here.’
‘Ah, sure there will be always some like him. Don’t we like to believe the priest can do all things?’
‘Anyhow she’s married, and there will be an end to all the work that has been going on.’
‘That’s true for you, Annie, and that’s just what I came to talk to you about. I think now she’s married we ought to give her a chance. Every girl ought to get her chance, and the way to put an end to all this talk about her will be for you to come round to the dance tonight.’
‘I don’t know that I can do that. I am not friends with the Kavanaghs, though I always bid them the time of day when I meet them on the road.’
‘If you come in for a few minutes, or if Pat were to come in for a few minutes. If Pether and Pat aren’t friends they’ll be enemies.’
‘Maybe they’d be worse enemies if I don’t keep Pat out of Kate’s way. She’s married Pether; but her mind isn’t settled yet.’
‘Yes, Annie, I’ve thought of all that; but they’ll be meeting on the road, and, if they aren’t friends, there will be quarrelling, and some bad deed may be done.’
Annie did not answer, and, thinking to convince her, Mary said:
‘You wouldn’t like to see a corpse right over your window.’
‘It ill becomes you, Mary, to speak of corpses after the blow that Pether gave Pat with his stick at Ned Kavanagh’s wedding. And I must stand by my son, and keep him out of the low Irish, and he won’t be safe until I get him a good wife.’
‘The low Irish! Indeed, it ill becomes you, Annie, to be talking in that way of your neighbours. Is it because none of us have brass knockers on our doors? I have seen this pride growing up in you, Annie Connex, this long while. There isn’t one in the village that you’ve any respect for, except the grocer, that black Protestant,3 who sits behind his counter and makes money, and knows no enjoyment in life at all.’
‘That’s your way of looking at it; but it isn’t mine. I set my face against my son marrying Kate Kavanagh, and you should have done the same.’
‘Something will happen to you for the cruel words you have spoken to me this day.’
‘Mary, you came to ask me to your son’s wedding, and I had to tell you—’
‘Yes, and you’ve told me that you won’t come, and that you hate the Kavanaghs, and you’ve said all you could against them. I oughtn’t to have listened to all you said; if I did, ’tis because we have known each other these twenty years. But don’t I remember well the rags you’d on your back when you came to this village? It ill becomes—’
Annie followed her to the gate.
The sounds of wheels and hoofs were heard; it was the wedding party going by, and on the first car whom should they see but Kate sitting between Pat and Peter.
‘Goodbye, Annie, and good luck to you. I see that Pat’s coming to our dance after all,’ and she could not speak for want of breath when she got to her door.
They were all there, Pat and the piper, and Kate and Peter, and all their friends: but she couldn’t speak, and hadn’t the strength to find the key, for she could only think of the black look that had come over Annie’s face when she saw Pat sitting by Kate on the car, and Mrs M’Shane laughed as she searched for the key, thinking how quickly her punishment had come.
And all the while they were telling her how they had met Pat at Michael Dunne’s.
‘When he saw us he tried to sneak into the yard; but I went after him. And don’t you think I did right?’ Kate was heard to say; and as soon as they were inside she said: ‘Now I’ll get the biggest jug of porter, and Pether shall drink one half and Pat the other.’
Peter was fond of jugs, and there were large and small on the dresser: some white and brown, and some were gilt, with pink flowers.
‘Now, Pether, you’ll say something nice.’
‘I’ll say, then,’ said Peter, ‘this is the happiest day of my life, as it should be, indeed: for haven’t I got the girl that I wanted, and hasn’t Pat forgiven me for the blow I struck him? For he knows well I wouldn’t hurt a hair of his head. Weren’t we boys together? But I had a cross drop in me at the time, and that was how it was.’
Catching sight of Kate’s black hair and rosy cheeks, which were all the world to him, he stopped speaking and stood looking at her, unheedful of everything; and at that moment he looked so good and foolish that more than one woman thought it would be a weary thing to live with him.
‘Now, Pat, you must make a speech, too,’ said Kate.
‘I haven’t any speech in me,’ he said. ‘I’m glad enough to be sitting here; but I’m sore afraid my mother saw me on the car, and I think I had better be going home and letting you finish this marriage.’
‘What’s that you’re saying?’ said Kate. ‘You won’t go out of this house till you’ve danced a reel with me, and now sit down at the table next to me; and, Pether, you sit on the other side of him, so that he won’t run away to his mother.’
Her eyes were as bright as coals of fire, and she calling to her father, who was at the end of the table, to have another slice of pig’s head, and to the piper, who was having his supper in the window, to have a bit more; and then turning to Pat, who said never a word, and laughing at him for having nothing to say.
It was afterwards they remembered that Kate had seemed to put Pat out of her mind suddenly, and had stood talking to her husband, saying he must dance with her, though it was no amusement to a girl to dance opposite Peter. It was afterwards that Mary, Ned’s wife, remembered how Kate, though she had danced with Peter in the first reel, had not been able to keep her eyes from the corner where Pat sat sulking, and that, sudden-like, she had grown weary of Peter. Mary remembered, too, she had seen a wild look pass in Kate’s eyes, and that she had gone over to Pat and pulled him out for a dance. And why shouldn’t she? for it was a pleasure for a girl to dance opposite to Pat, so cleverly did his feet move to the pipes. Everyone was admiring them when Pat cried out:
‘I’m going home. I bid you all goodnight here; finish this wedding as you like.’
And before anyone could stop him he had run out of the house.
‘Pether, go after him,’ Kate said; ‘bring him back. It would be ill luck on our wedding night for anyone to leave us like that.’
Peter went out of the door, and was away some time; but he came back without Pat.
‘The night is that dark, I lost him,’ he said.
Then Kate didn’t seem to care what she said. Her black hair fell down, and she told Peter he was a fool, and that he should have run faster. And her mother said it was the porter that had been too much for her; but she said it was the priest’s blessing, and this frightened everyone. But, after saying all this, she went to her husband, saying that he was very good to her, and she had no fault to find with him. But no sooner were the words out of her mouth than her mind seemed to wander, and everyone had expected her to run out of the house. But she went into the other room instead, and shut the door behind her. Everyone knew then there would be no more dancing that night; the piper packed up his pipes, and the wedding party left Peter by the fire, who seemed to be crying like. And they were all sorry to leave him like this; and, so that he might not remember what had happened, Ned drew a big jug of porter, and put it by him.
He took a sup out of it, but seemed to forget everything, and the jug fell out of his hand.
‘Never mind the pieces, Pether,’ his mother said. ‘You can’t put them together; and it would be better for you not to drink any more porther. Go to your bed. There’s been too much drinking this night, I’m thinking.’
‘Mother, I want to know why she said I didn’t run fast enough after Pat. And didn’t she know that if I hit Pat so hard it was because there were knobs on his stick; and didn’t I pick up his stick by mistake for my own?’
‘Sure, Peter, it wasn’t your fault; we all know that, and Kate knows it too. Now let there be no more talking or drinking. No, Pether, you’ve had enough porther for tonight.’
He looked round the kitchen, and seeing that Kate was not there, he said:
‘She’s in the other room, I think; mother, you’ll be wantin’ to go to your bed.’
And Peter got on his feet and stumbled against the wall, and his mother had to help him towards the door.
‘Is it drunk I am, mother? Will you open the door for me?’
But Mrs M’Shane couldn’t open the door, and she said:
‘I think she’s put a bit of stick in it.’
‘A bit of stick in the door? And didn’t she say that she didn’t want to marry me? Didn’t she say something about the priest’s blessing?’
And then Peter was sore afraid that he would not get sight of his wife that night, and he said:
‘Won’t she acquie-esh-sh?’
And Kate said:
‘No, I won’t.’
And then he said:
‘We were married in church – today, you acquieshed.’
And she said:
‘I’ll not open the door to you. You’re drunk, Pether, and not fit to enter a decent woman’s room.’
‘It isn’t because I’ve a drop too much in me that you should have fastened the door on me; it is because you’re thinking of the blow I gave Pat. But, Kate, it was because I loved you so much that I struck him. Now will you open – the door?’
‘No, I’ll not open the door tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m tired and want to go to sleep.’
And when he said he would break open the door, she said:
‘You’re too drunk, Pether, and sorra bit of good it will do you. I’ll be no wife to you tonight, and that’s as true as God’s in heaven.’
‘Pether,’ said his mother, ‘don’t trouble her tonight. There has been too much dancing and drinking.’
‘It’s a hard thing… shut out of me wife’s room.’
‘Pether, don’t vex her tonight. Don’t hammer her door any more.’
‘Didn’t she acquie-esh? Mother, you have always been agin me. Didn’t she acquie-esh?’
‘Oh, Pether, why do you say I’m agin you?’
‘Did you hear her say that I was drunk? If you tell me I’m drunk I’ll say no more. I’ll acquie-esh.’
‘Pether, you must go to sleep.’
‘Yes, go to sleep… I want to go to sleep, but she won’t open the door.’
‘Pether, never mind her.’
‘It isn’t that I mind; I’m getting sleepy, but what I want to know, mother, before I go to bed, is if I’m drunk. Tell me I’m not drunk on my wedding night, and, though Kate – and I’ll acquie-esh in all that may be put upon me.’
He covered his face with his hands and his mother begged him not to cry. He became helpless, she put a blanket under his head and covered him with another blanket, and went up the ladder and lay down in the hay. She asked herself what had she done to deserve this trouble, and cried a great deal. And the poor, hapless old woman was asleep in the morning when Peter stumbled to his feet and found his way into the yard. As soon as he had dipped his head in a pail of water, he remembered the horses were waiting for him in the farm, and walked off to his work, staggering a little. Kate must have been watching for his going, for as soon as he was gone she drew back the bolt of the door and came into the kitchen.
‘I’m going, mother,’ she called up to the loft.
‘Wait a minute, Kate,’ said Mrs M’Shane, and she was halfway down the ladder when Kate said:
‘I can’t wait, I’m going.’ And she walked up the road to her mother’s – all the chairs were out in the pathway, for the rector was coming down that afternoon, and she wanted to show him how beautifully clean she kept the cabin.
‘I’ve come, mother, to give you this,’ and she took the wedding ring off her finger and threw it on the ground. ‘I shut the door on him last night, and I’m going to America today. You see how well the marriage that you and the priest made up together has turned out.’
‘Going to America,’ said Mrs Kavanagh. ‘Now, is Pat going with you? and for pity sake—’
Kate stood looking at the bushes that grew between their cottage and the next one, remembering that elder-flower water is good for the complexion.
‘I’m going,’ she said suddenly, ‘there’s nothing more to say. Goodbye.’
And her mother said, ‘She’s going with Pat Connex.’ But Kate had no thought of going to America with him or of seeing him that day. But she met him at the crossroads, out with one of his carts, and she thought he looked a nice boy; but her second thoughts were, ‘He’s better suited to Ireland.’ And on this thought he and the country she had lived in always seemed to escape from her like a dream.
‘I’m going to America, Pat.’
‘You were married yesterday.’
‘Yes, that was the priest’s doing and mother’s, and I thought they knew best. But I’m thinking one must go one’s own way, and there’s no judging for oneself here. That’s why I’m going. You’ll find some other girl, Pat.’
‘There’s not another girl like you in the village. We’re a dead and alive lot. You stood up to the priest.’
‘I didn’t stand up to him enough. You’re waiting for someone. Who are you waiting for?’
‘I don’t like to tell you, Kate.’
She pressed him to answer her, and he told her he was waiting for the priest. His mother had said he must marry, and the priest was coming to make up a marriage for him.
‘Everything’s mother’s.’
‘That’s true, Pat, and you’ll give a message for me. Tell my mother-in-law that I’ve gone.’
‘She’ll be asking me questions, and I’ll be sore set for an answer.’
She looked at him steadily, but she left him without speaking, and he stood thinking.
He had had good times with her, and all such times were ended for him for ever. He was going to be married and he didn’t know to whom. Suddenly he remembered he had a message to deliver, and went down to the M’Shanes’ cabin.
‘Ah, Mrs M’Shane, it was a bad day for me when she married Pether. But this is a worse one, for we’ve both lost her.’
‘My poor boy will feel it sorely.’
And when Peter came in for his dinner his mother said:
‘Pether, she’s gone, she’s gone to America, and you’re well rid of her.’
‘Don’t say that, mother, I am not well rid of her, for there’s no other woman in the world for me except her that’s gone. Has she gone with Pat Connex?’
‘No, he said nothing about that, and it was he who brought the message.’
‘I’ve no one to blame but myself, mother. Wasn’t I drunk last night, and how could she be letting a drunken fellow like me into her bed?’
And out he went into the back yard, and didn’t his mother hear him crying there till it was time for him to go back to work?