He

had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over

to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had

found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say

to him.


"I know these sailor chaps," he said.


One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to

meet her lover secretly.


The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in

her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her

father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her

father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her.

Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had

been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made

toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive,

they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She

remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to make the

children laugh.


Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window,

leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of

dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street

organ playing. She knew the air Strange that it should come that

very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise

to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered

the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the close

dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a

melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go

away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting

back into the sickroom saying:


"Damned Italians! coming over here!"


As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on

the very quick of her being--that life of commonplace sacrifices

closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her

mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:


"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"


She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must

escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps

love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She

had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her

in his arms. He would save her.


She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North

Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her,

saying something about the passage over and over again. The

station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide

doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the

boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She

answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a

maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what

was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist.

If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank,

steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked.

Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her

distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips

in silent fervent prayer.


A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:


"Come!"


All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing

her into them: he would drown her.