from afar, ineffably beautiful.
She scarcely touched the sandwiches he produced and, remembering Polly’s demonstrative tyranny, he did not press her. The shade was soothing. Overhead the new green flickering leaves sent quiet patterns chasing across the moss, carpeted with dry beechnuts, on which they sat. There was a smell of flowing sap; the throaty call of a thrush came from a high twig overhead.
After a few moments she leaned back against the bole of the tree, tilted her head, and closed her eyes.
Her relaxation seemed somehow the greatest tribute she could pay him. He considered her with a deeper surge of tenderness, stirred to undreamed-of compassion by the arch of her neck, so thin and unprotected. The welling tenderness within him strangely protective. When her head slipped a little from the tree he scarcely dared touch her. Yet, fancying her asleep, he moved his arm instinctively to support her. The next instant she wrenched herself free, struck him repeatedly on the face and chest with her clenched knuckles, hysterically breathless.
‘Leave me alone! You brute! You beast!’
‘Nora, Nora! What’s the matter?’
Panting, she drew back, her face quivering, distorted. ‘Don’t try to get round me that way. You’re all the same. Every one of you!’
‘Nora!’ He pleaded with her desperately. ‘ For pity’s sake … let’s get this straight.’
‘Get what straight?’
‘Everything … why you’re going on like this … why you’re marrying Gilfoyle.’
‘Why shouldn’t I marry him?’ She threw the question at him, with a bitter defensiveness.
His lips were dry, he could speak. ‘But Nora, he’s such a poor creature … He’s not your sort.’
‘He’s as good as anybody. Haven’t I said you’re all the same? At least I’ll keep him in his place.’
Confounded, he stared at her with a pale and stricken face. And there was that in his unbelieving eyes which cut her so cruelly, she more cruelly cut back.
‘Perhaps you think I should be marrying you … the bright-eyed altar boy … the half-baked carpet priest!’ Her lip twitched with the bitterness of her sneer. ‘Let me tell you this. I think you’re a joke … a sanctimonious scream. Go on, turn up your blessed eyes. You don’t know how funny you are … you holy pater noster. Why if you were the last man in the world I wouldn’t …’ She choked and shuddered violently, tried, painfully, uselessly, to check her tears with the back of her hand and then, sobbing, flung her head upon his breast. ‘Oh, Francis, Francis, dear, I’m sorry! You know I’ve always loved you. Kill me if you want to … I don’t care.’
While he quieted her, clumsily, stroking her brow, he felt himself trembling as much as she. The racking violence of her sobs diminished gradually. She was like a wounded bird in his arms. She lay, spent and passive, her face hidden against his coat. Then slowly she straightened herself. With averted eyes, she took her handkerchief, rubbed her ravaged, tear-stained face, straightened her hat, then said, in an exhausted neutral tone: ‘We’d better get home.’
‘Look at me, Nora?’
But she would not, only remarking in that same odd monotone: ‘Say what you want to say.’
‘I will then, Nora.’ His youthful vehemence overcame him. ‘ I’m not going to stand this! I can see there’s something behind it. But I’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re not going to marry that fool Gilfoyle. I love you, Nora. I’ll stand by you.’
There was a pitiful stillness.
‘Dear Francis,’ she said, with an oddly hollow smile. ‘You make me feel as though I’d lived a million years.’ And rising, she bent and kissed him, as she had kissed him once before, upon the cheek. As they went down the hill the thrush had ceased its singing in the high tree.
That evening, with fixed intention, Francis set out for the dockside tenement inhabited by the Magoons. He found the banished Scanty alone, since Maggie was still
She scarcely touched the sandwiches he produced and, remembering Polly’s demonstrative tyranny, he did not press her. The shade was soothing. Overhead the new green flickering leaves sent quiet patterns chasing across the moss, carpeted with dry beechnuts, on which they sat. There was a smell of flowing sap; the throaty call of a thrush came from a high twig overhead.
After a few moments she leaned back against the bole of the tree, tilted her head, and closed her eyes.
Her relaxation seemed somehow the greatest tribute she could pay him. He considered her with a deeper surge of tenderness, stirred to undreamed-of compassion by the arch of her neck, so thin and unprotected. The welling tenderness within him strangely protective. When her head slipped a little from the tree he scarcely dared touch her. Yet, fancying her asleep, he moved his arm instinctively to support her. The next instant she wrenched herself free, struck him repeatedly on the face and chest with her clenched knuckles, hysterically breathless.
‘Leave me alone! You brute! You beast!’
‘Nora, Nora! What’s the matter?’
Panting, she drew back, her face quivering, distorted. ‘Don’t try to get round me that way. You’re all the same. Every one of you!’
‘Nora!’ He pleaded with her desperately. ‘ For pity’s sake … let’s get this straight.’
‘Get what straight?’
‘Everything … why you’re going on like this … why you’re marrying Gilfoyle.’
‘Why shouldn’t I marry him?’ She threw the question at him, with a bitter defensiveness.
His lips were dry, he could speak. ‘But Nora, he’s such a poor creature … He’s not your sort.’
‘He’s as good as anybody. Haven’t I said you’re all the same? At least I’ll keep him in his place.’
Confounded, he stared at her with a pale and stricken face. And there was that in his unbelieving eyes which cut her so cruelly, she more cruelly cut back.
‘Perhaps you think I should be marrying you … the bright-eyed altar boy … the half-baked carpet priest!’ Her lip twitched with the bitterness of her sneer. ‘Let me tell you this. I think you’re a joke … a sanctimonious scream. Go on, turn up your blessed eyes. You don’t know how funny you are … you holy pater noster. Why if you were the last man in the world I wouldn’t …’ She choked and shuddered violently, tried, painfully, uselessly, to check her tears with the back of her hand and then, sobbing, flung her head upon his breast. ‘Oh, Francis, Francis, dear, I’m sorry! You know I’ve always loved you. Kill me if you want to … I don’t care.’
While he quieted her, clumsily, stroking her brow, he felt himself trembling as much as she. The racking violence of her sobs diminished gradually. She was like a wounded bird in his arms. She lay, spent and passive, her face hidden against his coat. Then slowly she straightened herself. With averted eyes, she took her handkerchief, rubbed her ravaged, tear-stained face, straightened her hat, then said, in an exhausted neutral tone: ‘We’d better get home.’
‘Look at me, Nora?’
But she would not, only remarking in that same odd monotone: ‘Say what you want to say.’
‘I will then, Nora.’ His youthful vehemence overcame him. ‘ I’m not going to stand this! I can see there’s something behind it. But I’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re not going to marry that fool Gilfoyle. I love you, Nora. I’ll stand by you.’
There was a pitiful stillness.
‘Dear Francis,’ she said, with an oddly hollow smile. ‘You make me feel as though I’d lived a million years.’ And rising, she bent and kissed him, as she had kissed him once before, upon the cheek. As they went down the hill the thrush had ceased its singing in the high tree.
That evening, with fixed intention, Francis set out for the dockside tenement inhabited by the Magoons. He found the banished Scanty alone, since Maggie was still
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