The Boarding House
Mrs Mooney was a butchers daughter. She
was a woman who was quite able to keep things to herself: a determined
woman. She had married her fathers foreman, and opened a butchers shop
near Spring Gardens. But as soon as his father-in-law was dead Mr Mooney
began to go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till, ran headlong into
debt. It was no use making him take the pledge: he was sure to break out
again a few days after. By fighting his wife in the presence of customers
and by buying bad meat he ruined his business. One night he went for his
wife with the cleaver, and she had to sleep in a neighbours house.
[...]
Polly was a slim
girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a small full mouth. Her
eyes, which were grey with a shade of green through them, had a habit
of glancing upwards when she spoke with anyone, which made her look like
a little perverse madonna. Mrs Mooney had first sent her daughter to be
a typist in a corn-factors office, but as a disreputable sheriffs man
used to come every other day to the office, asking to be allowed to say
a word to his daughter, she had taken her daughter home again and set
her to do housework. As Polly was very lively, the intention was to give
her the run of the young men. Besides, young men like to feel that there
is a young woman not very far away. Polly, of course, flirted with the
young men, but Mrs Mooney, who was a shrewd judge, knew that the young
men were only passing the time away: none of them meant business. Things
went on so for a long time, and Mrs Mooney began to think of sending Polly
back to typewriting, when she noticed that something was going on between
Polly and one of the young men. She watched the pair and kept her own
counsel.
Polly knew that she
was being watched, but still her mothers persistent silence could not
be misunderstood. There had been no open complicity between mother and
daughter, no open understanding, but though people in the house began
to talk of the affair, still Mrs Mooney did not intervene. Polly began
to grow a little strange in her manner, and the young man was evidently
perturbed. At last, when she judged it to be the right moment, Mrs Mooney
intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat:
and in this case she had made up her mind.
[...]
Mr Doran was very
anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had made two attempts to shave,
but his hand had been so unsteady that he had been obliged to desist.
Three days reddish beard fringed his jaws, and every two or three minutes
a mist gathered on his glasses so that he had to take them off and polish
them with his pocket-handkerchief. The recollection of his confession
of the night before was a cause of acute pain to him; the priest had drawn
out every ridiculous detail of the affair, and in the end had so magnified
his sin that he was almost thankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation.
The harm was done. What could he do now but marry her or run away? He
could not brazen it out. The affair would be sure to be talked of, and
his employer would be certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city:
everyone knows everyone elses business. He felt his heart leap warmly
in his throat as he heard in his excited imagination old Mr Leonard calling
out in his rasping voice: Send Mr Doran here, please.
All his long years
of service gone for nothing! All his industry and diligence thrown away!
As a young man he had sown his wild oats, of course; he had boasted of
his free-thinking and denied the existence of God to his companions in
public-houses. But that was all passed and done with
nearly. He
still bought a copy of Reynolds Newspaper every week, but he attended
to his religious duties, and for nine-tenths of the year lived a regular
life. He had money enough to settle down on; it was not that. But the
family would look down on her. First of all there was her disreputable
father, and then her mothers boarding house was beginning to get a certain
fame. He had a notion that he was being had. He could imagine his friends
talking of the affair and laughing. She was a little vulgar; sometimes
she said I seen and If I hadve known. But what would grammar
matter if he really loved her? He could not make up his mind whether to
like her or despise her for what she had done. Of course he had done it
too. His instinct urged him to remain free, not to marry. Once you are
married you are done for, it said.
[...]
Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she dried
her eyes and went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of the
towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water. She
looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear. Then
she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She regarded the pillows
for a long time, and the sight of them awakened in her mind secret, amiable
memories. She rested the nape of her neck against the cool iron bedrail
and fell into a reverie. There was no longer any perturbation visible
on her face.
She waited on patiently,
almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memories gradually giving place
to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and visions were so intricate
that she no longer saw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed,
or remembered that she was waiting for anything.
At last she heard
her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to the banisters.
-Polly! Polly!
-Yes, mamma?
-Come down, dear.
Mr Doran wants to speak to you.
Then she remembered
what she had been waiting for.
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