“Yes, they want something like that to live in a place like this.”
What struck the young man forcibly at that moment was that the people were like himself; that under certain conditions he might be just as they were, even like the man lying under the dirty bag by the side of the pockmarked harridan; and that man under favourable conditions might be himself, Morrison, and full of glorious dreams for the betterment of the race to which he belonged.
That night Morrison slept little, and when sleep came he dreamt that he lay with the old harridan under the dirty coverlet, his arms round her and his lips pressed against the dry and almost bloodless lips of the woman. In the morning the remembrance of the dream filled him with horror. That such people should exist; that, under certain conditions, he might be the man lying there in the pig-sty! He began to think seriously of things. Then he came across a woman in Paisley—a woman who belonged to the club of which he was a member—a woman whom he thought was different to all others. She was progressive and pronounced in her views and explained to Morrison how society from top to bottom, from hall to hovel, from robes to rags, was an expression of injustice, of wrong, of vice, of filth and moral decrepitude, and that in the interest of the future race the social system had to be changed and society to be renovated. Because she was very clever and good looking Morrison fell in love with this woman. She was a typist in a merchant’s office.
II
THINKING of many things, he sauntered towards the farm. The cigarette went out; he threw it away and lit another. The evening was calm and quiet; a few late birds were chirruping in the hazel bushes and somewhere in the distance a dog barked loudly. The grey twilight that links day and night was over everything.
Suddenly Morrison perceived Norah Ryan coming towards him. She wore her grey tweed, which showed to perfection the outlines of her slender figure. In one hand she carried a book, the other hand hung idly by her side.
“Are you going for a walk, Norah Ryan?” Morrison asked when he met her.
“I am,” she answered, hardly knowing whether she should stop and talk to him or continue on her way.
“You’re reading, I see.” He took the cigarette from his mouth as he spoke, held it between finger and thumb and flicked the ash off with his little finger.
“Yes, I’m readin’,” she said, but did not tell him what book she held in her hand; he could see, however, that it was a prayer-book.