The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore

what help Latin is to a girl who’s preparing for life.’
    When she said this, Una and Shaun giggled and she
     
    remembered-if only I could remember it sooner-that she had said it often before. I mustn’t repeat the same things, she thought, I simply must try not to.
    ‘Well, I won’t keep you from your lessons, Una dear,’ she said. ‘And good bye, Shaun. Cover yourself up well if you go out. It’s awfully cold, besides being wet.’
    Two good byes and they were gone, running out together, bacUy brought up children. And she was alone in the big bright room, with Moira O’Neill already nodding in the chair opposite. I wonder should I mention about meeting Mr Madden? No, better not. Moira O’Neill is the last one to tell about meeting a nlan who might be thought a little common. Remember how she never said a word, years ago, when everyone thought she was common.
    And, as she watched Moira O’Neill, Miss Hearne’s mind moved in a familiar spiral from present to past, made a journey which had become increasingly frequent since her dear aunt died. It was so much easier to go back now; going forward was so frightening.
    In that journey she saw Moira as she had first seen her: young, charming, common, an upstart who came from nowhere to claim the prize. A scheming hussy they called her then, an unknown girl born on a farm in Fermanagh and educated by her uncle, a parish priest in some small place. A student in one of Owen O’Neill’s classes and he twice her age at the time. But she had carried him off’, a well-connected man, a professor and the son of a well-known lawyer with money on Ms mother’s side. Miss Hearne remembered her Aunt D’Arcy’s comment at the time: that Moira was no more in love with Owen than with the man in the moon; that she had tricked and gulled and provoked him into marriage. She remembered too, Owen’s mother, old Mrs O’Neill, a stiffold lady if ever there was one and the way she had snubbed Moira when she heard of the engagement. And I hadn’t a good word to say for her myself, Miss Hearne thought, remembering all the gossip that ran against the new bride. It wasn’t kind of me. But I’ll give her her due, Moira, she put up with a lot of cold looks at the time. Those Thursday At blomes and all his
     
    relatives nodding their heads. She .just sailed through them, and you never knew what she was thinking. And you’d never know now. She’s deep. But she’s the type to remember. So I’d better hold my tongue about Mr Madden. She’d find the commonness in him, quick enough, seeing she had it in herself.
    She pulled her chair closer to the fire and put on her extra cardigan. She always felt too hot or too cold and she carried an extra cardigan, just in case. Mira went on knitting and asked about the new digs, and how they were. And Miss Hearne told about Mrs Henry Rice and how poor the breakfasts were, only tea and toast, but kippers on Sunday. And about Mr Lenehan and Miss Friel. And that there was an American there too. A Mr Madden.
    She stopped then and looked at Moira, waiting for a question. But Moira’s head was going jump, jump, and her chin, was resting on her bosom. Dozing again!
    Miss Hearne watched Vioira until there was a snore. Then she picked up a paper and read it for a while. But there was nothing much interesting in the Observer. All book reviews, and dispatches from foreign countries and long political articles. Dull, dull, but she read it, for soon tea would come.
    It came at four. Ellen knocked on the door and wheeled the tea wagon in, the cups on the top shelf, the cakes and biscuits on the second and the sherry, jams and cheese on the bottom.
    ‘O, my goodness, I was dozing again,’ Moira O’Neill said, waking up. ‘Put it over there, Ellen, and go and ask the master if he wants some tea. Excuse me, Judy dear, I must have been asleep for ages. You should have wakened me.’
    ‘No, no, you must be tired with all those children around you,’ Miss Hearne