THE BRIDAL NIGHT

It was sunset, and the two great humps of rock made a twilight in the
cove where the boats were lying high up the strand. There was one light
only in a little whitewashed cottage. Around the headland came a boat,
and the heavy dipping of its oars was like a heron’s flight.  The old
woman was sitting on the low stone wall out- side her cottage.

“’Tis a lonesome place,” said I.

“’Tis so,” she agreed, “a lonesome place, but any place is lonesome
without one you’d care for.”

“Your own flock are gone from you, I suppose?” I asked.

“I never had but the one,” she replied, “the one son only,” and I knew
because she did not add a prayer for his soul that he was still alive.

“Is it in America he is?” I asked. (It is to America all the boys of the
locality go when they leave home.)

“No, then,” she replied simply. “It is in the asylum in Cork he is on me
these twelve years.”

I had no fear of trespassing on her emotions. These lonesome people in
wild places, it is their nature to speak; they must cry out their
sorrows like the wild birds.

“God help us!” I said. “Far enough!”

“Far enough,” she sighed. “Too far for an old woman.  There was a nice
priest here one time brought me up in his car to see him. All the ways
to this wild place he brought it, and he drove me into the city. It is a
place I was never used to, but it eased my mind to see poor Denis
well-cared-for and well-liked. It was a trouble to me before that, not
knowing would they see what a good boy he was before his madness came on
him. He knew me; he saluted me, but he said nothing until the
superintendent came to tell me the tea was ready for me.  Then poor
Denis raised his head and says, ‘Leave ye not forget the toast. She was
ever a great one for her bit of toast.’ It seemed to give him ease and
he cried after. A good boy he was and is. It was like him after seven
long years to think of his old mother and her little bit of toast.”

“God help us,” I said, for her voice was like the birds’, hurrying high,
immensely high, in the coloured light, out to sea to the last islands
where their nests were.

“Blessed be His Holy Will,” the old woman added, “there is no turning
aside what is in store. It was a teacher that was here at the time. Miss
Regan her name was. She was a fine big jolly girl from the town. Her
father had a shop there. They said she had three hundred pounds to her
own cheek the day she set foot in the school, and—’tis hard to believe
but ’tis what they all said: I will not belie her—twasn’t banished she
was at all, but she came here of her own choice, for the great liking
she had for the sea and the mountains. Now, that is the story, and with
my own eyes I saw her, day in day out, coming down the little pathway
you came yourself from the road, and sitting beyond there in a hollow
you can hardly see, out of the wind. The neighbours could make nothing
of it, and she being a stranger, and with only the book Irish, they left
her alone. It never seemed to take a peg out of her, only sitting in
that hole in the rocks, as happy as the day is long, reading her little
book or writing her letters. Of an odd time she might bring one of the
little scholars along with her’ to be picking posies.

“That was where my Denis saw her. He’d go up to her of an evening and
sit on the grass beside her, and off and on he might take her out in the
boat with him.  And she’d say with that big laugh of hers, ‘Denis is my
beau.’ Those now were her words and she meant no more harm by it than
the child unborn, and I knew it and Denis knew it, and it was a little
joke we had, the three of us. It was the same way she used to joke about
her little hollow. ‘Mrs. Sullivan,’ she’d say, ‘leave no one near it. It
is my nest and my cell and my little prayer-house, and maybe I would be
like the birds and catch the smell of the stranger and then fly away
from ye all.’ It did me good to hear her laugh, and whenever I saw Denis
moping or idle I would say it to him myself, ‘Denis, why wouldn’t you go
out and pay your attentions to Miss Regan and all saying you are her
intended?’ It was only a joke. I would say the same thing to her face,
for Denis was such a quiet boy, no way rough or accustomed to the girls
at all—and how would he in this lonesome place?

“I will not belie her; it was she saw first that poor Denis was after
more than company, and it was not to this cove she came at all then but
to the little cove beyond the headland, and ‘tis hardly she would go
there itself without a little scholar along with her. Ah,’ says I, for I
missed her company, ‘isn’t it the great stranger Miss Regan is
becoming?’ and Denis would put on his coat and go hunting in the dusk
till he came to whatever spot she was. Little ease that was to him, poor
boy, for he lost his tongue entirely, and lying on his belly before her,
chewing an old bit of grass, is all he would do till she got up and left
him. He could not help himself, poor boy. The madness was on him, even
then, and it was only when I saw the plunder done that I knew there was
no cure for him only to put her out of his mind entirely.  For ’twas
madness in him and he knew it, and that was what made him lose his
tongue—he that was maybe without the price of an ounce of ’baccy—I will
not deny it: often enough he had to do without it when the hens would
not be laying; and often enough stirabout and praties was all we had for
days. And there was she with money to her name in the bank! And that
wasn’t all, for he was a good boy; a quiet, good-natured boy, and
another would take pity on him, knowing he would make her a fine steady
husband, but she was not the sort, and well I knew it from the first day
I laid eyes on her, that her hand would never rock the cradle. There was
the madness out and out.

“So here was I, pulling and hauling, coaxing him to stop at home, and
hiding whatever little thing was to be done till evening the way his
hands would not be idle.  But he had no heart in the work, only
listening, always listening, or climbing the cnuceen to see would he
catch a glimpse of her coming or going. And oh, Mary, the heavy sigh
he’d give when his bit of supper was over and I bolting the door for the
night, and he with the long hours of darkness forninst him—my heart was
broken, thinking of it. It was the madness, you see. It was on him.  He
could hardly sleep or eat, and at night I would hear him, turning and
groaning as loud as the sea on the rocks.

“It was then when the sleep was a fever to him that he took to walking
in the night. I remember well the first night I heard him lift the
latch. I put on my few things and went out after him. It was standing
here I heard his feet on the stile. 1 went back and latched the door and
hurried after him. What else could I do, and this place terrible after
the fall of night with rocks and hills and water and streams, and he,
poor soul, blinded with the dint of sleep. He travelled the road apace,
and then took to the hills, and I followed him with my legs all torn
with briers and furze. It was over by the doctor’s house beyond that he
gave up. He turned to me then the way a little child that is running
away turns and clings to your knees; he turned on me and said, ‘Mother,
we’ll go home now. It was the bad day for you ever you brought me into
the world.’ And as the day was breaking I got him back to bed and
covered him up to sleep.

“I was hoping in time he would wear himself out, but it was worse he was
getting. I was a strong woman then, a mayen-strong woman. I could cart a
load of seaweed or dig a field with any man, but the night walking broke
me. I knelt one night before the Blessed Virgin and I prayed whatever
was to happen, it would happen while the light of life was in me, the
way I would not be leaving him lonesome like that in a wild place.

“And it happened the way I prayed. Blessed be God, he woke that night or
the next night on me and he roaring. I went in to him but I could not
hold him.  He had the strength of five men. So I went out and locked the
door behind me. It was down the hill I faced in the starlight to the
little house above the cove. The Donoghues came with me: I will not
belie them; they were fine powerful men and good neighbours. The father
and the two sons came with me and brought the rope from the boats. It
was a hard struggle they had of it and a long time before they got him
on the floor, and a longer time before they got the ropes on him. And
when they had him tied they put him back into bed for me, and I covered
him up, nice and decent, and put a hot stone to his feet to take the
chill of the cold floor off him.

“Sean Donoghue spent the night sitting beside the fire with me, and in
the morning he sent one of the boys off for the doctor. Then Denis
called me in his own voice and I went in to him. Sean Donoghue came with
me.  ‘Mother,’ says Denis, ‘will you leave me this way against the time
they come for me?’ I hadn’t the heart. God knows I hadn’t. ‘Don’t do it,
Peg,’ says Sean. ‘If ’twas a hard job trussing him before, it will be
harder the next time and I won’t answer for it.’

“‘You’re a kind neighbour, Sean,’ says I, ‘and I would never make little
of you, but he is the only son I ever reared and I’d sooner he’d kill me
now than to shame him at the last.’

“So I loosened the ropes on him and he lay there very quiet all day
without breaking his fast. Coming on to evening he asked me for the sup
of tea and he drank it, and soon after the doctor and another man came
in the car. They said a few words to Denis but he made them no answer,
and the doctor gave me the bit of writing.  ‘It will be tomorrow before
they come for him,’ says he, ‘and ’tisn’t right for you to be alone in
the house with the man.’ But I said I would stop with him and Sean
Donoghue said the same.

“When darkness came on there was a little bit of a wind blew up from the
sea and Denis began to rave to himself, and it was her name he was
calling all the time. ‘Winnie,’ that was her name, and it was the first
time I heard it spoken. ‘Who is that he is calling?’ says Sean.  ‘It is
the schoolmistress,’ says I, ‘for though I do not recognise the name, I
know ‘tis no one else he would be asking for.’ ‘That is a bad sign,’
says Sean. ‘He will get worse as the night goes on and the wind rises.
’Twould be better for me to go down and get the boys to put the ropes on
him again while he’s quiet.’ And it was then something struck me and I
said, ‘Maybe if she came to him herself for a minute he would be quiet
after?’ ‘We can try it anyway, says Sean, ‘and if the girl has a kind
heart she will come.’

“It was Sean that went up for her. I would not have the courage to ask
her. Her little house is there on the edge of the hill; you can see it
as you go back the road with the bit of garden before it the new teacher
left grow wild. And it was a true word Sean said, for ‘twas worse Denis
was getting, shouting out against the wind for us to get Winnie for
him. Sean was a long time away, or maybe I felt it long, and I thought
it might be the way she was afeared to come. There are many like that,
small blame to them. Then I heard her step that I knew so well on the
boreen beside the house and I ran to the door, meaning to say I was
sorry for the trouble we were giving her, but when I opened the door
Denis called out her name in a loud voice, and the crying fit came on
me, thinking how light-hearted we used to be together.

“I couldn’t help it and she pushed in past me into the bedroom with her
face as white as that wall. The candle was lighting on the dresser. He
turned to her roaring with the mad look in his eyes, and then went quiet
all of a sudden, seeing her like that overright him with her hair all
tumbled in the wind. I was coming behind her.  I heard it. He put up his
two poor hands and the red mark of the ropes on his wrists and whispered
to her, ‘Winnie, asthore, isn’t it the long time you were away from me?’

“‘It is, Denis, it is indeed,’ says she, ‘but you know I couldn’t help
it.’

“‘Don’t leave me any more now, Winnie,’ says he, and then he said no
more, only the two eyes lighting out on her as she sat by the bed. And
Sean Donoghue brought in the little stooleen for me, and there we were,
the three of us talking, and Denis paying us no attention, only staring
at her. Then all at once he got excited and sat up in the bed.

“‘Winnie,’ says he, ‘lie down here beside me.’

“‘Oye, says Sean, humouring him, ‘don’t you know the poor girl is played
out after her day’s work? She must go home to bed.’

“‘No, no, no,’ says Denis, and the terrible mad light in his
eyes. ‘There is a high wind blowing and ’tis no night for one like her
to be out. Leave her sleep here beside me. Leave her creep under the
clothes to me the way I’ll keep her warm.’

“‘Oh, oh, oh, oh,’ says I, ‘indeed and indeed, Miss Regan, ’tis I’m
sorry for bringing you here. ’Tisn’t my son is talking at all but the
madness in him. I’ll go now,’ says I, ‘and bring Sean’s boys to put the
ropes on him again.

“‘No, Mrs. Sullivan,’ says she in a quiet voice, ‘don’t do that at
all. I’ll stop here with him and he’ll go fast asleep.  Won’t you,
Denis?’

“‘I will, I will,’ says he, ‘but come under the clothes to me. There
does a terrible draught blow under that door.’

“‘I will indeed, Denis,’ says she, ‘if you’ll promise me you’ll go to
sleep.’

“‘Oye, whisht, girl!’ says I. ‘‘Tis you that’s mad.  While you’re here
you’re in my charge, and how would I answer to your father if you
stopped here by yourself?’

“‘Never mind about me, Mrs. Sullivan,’ she said. ‘I’m not a bit in dread
of Denis. I promise you there will no harm come to me. You and
Mr. Donoghue can sit outside in the kitchen and I’ll be all right here.’

“She had a worried look, but there was something about her there was no
mistaking. I wouldn’t take it on myself to cross the girl. We went out
to the kitchen, Sean and myself, and we heard every whisper that passed
between them. She got into the bed beside him: I heard her. He was
whispering into her ear the sort of foolish things boys do be saying at
that age, and then we heard no more, only the pair of them breathing. I
went to the room door and looked in. He was lying with his arm about her
and his head on her bosom, sleeping like a child, sleeping like he slept
in his good days with no worry at all on his poor face. She did not look
at me and I did not speak to her. My heart was too full. God help us, it
was an old song of my father’s that was going through my head: ‘Lonely
Rock is the one wife my children will know,’

“Later on the candle went out and I did not light another. I wasn’t a
bit afraid of her then. The storm blew up and he slept through it all,
breathing nice and even. When it was light I made a cup of tea for her
and beckoned her from the room door. She loosened his hold and slipped
out of bed. Then he stirred and opened his eyes.

“‘Winnie,” says he, ‘where are you going?’

“‘I’m going to work, Denis,’ says she. ‘Don’t you know I must be at the
school early?’

“‘But you’ll come back to me tonight, Winnie?’ says he.

“‘I will, Denis,’ says she. ‘I’ll come back, never fear.’

“And he turned on his side and went fast sleep again.

“When she walked into the kitchen I went on my two knees before her and
kissed her hands. I did so. There would no words come to me, and we sat
there, the three of us, over our tea, and I declare for the time being I
felt ’twas nearly worth it all, all the troubles of his birth and
rearing and all the lonesome years ahead.

“It was a great ease to us. Poor Denis never stirred, and when the
police came he went along with them without commotion or handcuffs or
anything that would shame him and all the words he said to me was,
‘Mother, tell Winnie I’ll be expecting her.’

“And isn’t it a strange and wonderful thing? From that day to the day
she left us there did no one speak a bad word about what she did, and
the people couldn't do enough for her. Isn’t it a strange thing, and the
world as wicked as it is, that no one would say the bad word about her?”

Darkness had fallen over the Atlantic, blank grey to its farthest
reaches.