I don't know if it was the gill of comforting port, but at any rate I
was soon enough convinced that there was no reason for speaking
harshly to Doctor Chord. It served no purpose; it accomplished
nothing. The little old villain was really as innocent as a lamb. He
had no dream of wronging people. His prattle was the prattle of an
unsophisticated maiden lady. He did not know what he was talking.
These direful intelligences ran as easily off his tongue as water runs
off the falling wheel. When I had indirectly informed him that he was
more or less of a dangerous scandal-monger, he had cried: "The man is
mad!" Yes; he was an innocent old thing.
But then it is the innocent old scandal-mongers, poor placid-minded
well-protected hens, who are often the most harmful. The vicious
gabblers defeat themselves very often. I remember my father once going
to a fair and kissing some girls there. He kissed them all turn by
turn, as was his right and his duty, and then he returned to a girl
near the head of the list and kissed her five times more because she
was the prettiest girl in all Ireland, and there is no shame to him
there. However, there was a great hullabaloo. The girls who had been
kissed only once led a regular crusade against the character of this
other girl, and before long she had a bad name, and the odious sly
lads with no hair on their throats winked as she passed them, and
numerous mothers thanked God that their daughters were not fancied by
the lord of that region. In time these tales came to the ears of my
father, and he called some of his head men to meet him in the
dining-room.
"I'll have no trifling," said he. "The girl is a good girl for all I
know, and I have never seen her before or since. If I can trace a bad
word to any man's mouth, I'll flog him till he can't move. 'Tis a
shame taking away the girl's name for a few kisses by the squire at a
fair with everybody looking on and laughing. What do you blackguards
mean?"
Every man in the dining-room took oath he had never said a word, and
they all spoke truth. But the women clamoured on without pausing for
wind, and refused to take word of the men-folk, who were gifted with
the power of reason. However, the vicious people defeated themselves
in time. People began to say to a lass who had been kissed only once:
"Ah, now, you would be angry because you were not getting the other
five." Everything seemed to grow quiet, and my father thought no more
about it, having thought very little about it in the first place save
enough to speak a few sharp words. But, would you believe it, there
was an old woman living in a hovel not a mile from the castle, who
kept up the scandal for twelve more months. She had never been
married, and, as far as any one knew, she had never wished to be. She
had never moved beyond Father Donovan's church in one direction and a
little peat-heap in the other direction. All her days she had seen
nothing but the wind-swept moors, and heard nothing but the sea
lashing the black rocks. I am mistaken; once she came to the castle,
hearing that my mother was ill. She had a remedy with her, poor soul,
and they poured it in the ashes when her back was turned. My mother
bade them give her some hot porridge and an old cloth gown of her own
to take home. I remember the time distinctly. Well, this poor thing
couldn't tell between a real sin and an alligator. Bony, withered,
aged, this crone might have been one of the highest types of human
perfection. She wronged nobody; she had no power to wrong. Nobody
wronged her; it was never worth it. She really was at peace with all
the world. This obeys the most exalted injunctions. Every precept is
kept here. But this tale of the Squire and the girl took root in her
head. She must have been dazzled by the immensity of the event. It
probably appealed to her as would a grand picture of the burning of
Rome or a vivid statue of Lot's wife turning to look back. It reached
the dimensions of great history. And so this old woman, who had always
lived the life of a nun, dreamed of nothing but the colossal wrong
which had come within her stunted range of vision. Before and after
church she talked of no other thing for almost eighteen months.
Finally my father in despair rode down to her little cottage.
"Mollie," said he, calling from the road, "Mollie, come out." She came
out.
"Mollie," said my father, "you know me?"
"Ay," said she, "you are The O'Ruddy, and you are a rogue."
"True for you, Mollie," said my father pleasantly. "You know it and I
know it. I am indeed a grand rogue. But why would you be tearing to
tatters the name of that poor girl in Ballygoway?"
"'Tis not me that has said more than three words," she cried,
astonished, "and before I speak ill of anybody I hope the devil flies
away with me."
Well, my father palavered on for a long time, telling her that he
would take away the pension of twenty-five shillings a year which he
had given her because he by accident had shot her second cousin in the
leg twelve years before that time. She steadfastly answered that she
would never speak ill of anybody; but the girl was a brazen-faced
wench, and he was no better. My father came away, and I have no doubt
the scandal would still be alive if the old woman had not died, may
the saints rest her!
And so I was no longer angry with Doctor Chord, but spoke to him
pleasantly.
"Come," said I, "I would have you point me out the great swordsmen, if
it pleases you. I am eager to see them, and the talk will be cleanly,
also."
"Aye," said my friend. "Nothing could give me more pleasure. And now,
look you! The tall, straight, grave young man there is Ponsonby, who
flashes the wisest blade in England unless Reginald Forister is
better. Any how, Forister is not here to-day. At least I don't see
him. Ponsonby fought his last duel with a gentleman named Vellum
because Vellum said flatly that Mrs. Catherine Wainescorte was a--"
"Stop there," said I, "and get to the tale of the fighting."
"Well, Ponsonby won without difficulty," said the Doctor; "but it is
said that he took an unfair advantage--"
"Stop again!" I cried. "Stop again! We will talk no more of swordsmen.
Somehow I have lost my interest. I am put to it to think of a subject
for talk, and we may have to do with a period of silence, but that
will do your jaw no injury at any rate."
But I was mistaken in thinking that the little man could forego his
recreation for more than a moment. Suddenly he burst out with a great
spleen:
"Titles!" he cried. "Empty titles! husks, husks, husks! 'Tis all they
care for, this mob! Honourable manhood goes a-begging while the world
worships at the feet of pimply lords! Pah! Lovely girls, the making of
fine wives and mothers, grow old while the world worships at the feet
of some old horse-headed duchess! Pah! Look at those pick-thanks and
flatterers, cringing at the boots of the people of fashion. Upon my
life, before I would so demean myself, I--" he ceased suddenly, his
eye having caught sight of some people in the crowd. "Ah," said he,
while a singularly vain and fatuous smile settled upon his
countenance. "Ah, the Countess of Westport and her charming daughter,
the Lady Mary, have arrived. I must go and speak to them." My eye had
followed his glance quickly enough you may be sure. There, true
enough, was the formidable figure of the old Countess, and at her side
was the beautiful Lady Mary.
With an absent-minded murmur of apology, Doctor Chord went mincing
toward them, his face still spread with its idiotic smile.
He cantered up to them with the grace of a hobbled cow. I expected him
to get a rebuff that would stun him into the need of a surgeon, but to
my surprise the Countess received him affably, bending her head to say
some gracious words. However, I had more eyes for Lady Mary than for
the capers of little Chord.
It was a great joy to be able to look at her. I suffered from a
delicious trembling, and frequently my vision became dim purely from
the excitement. But later I was moved by another profound emotion. I
was looking at her; I must have her look at me. I must learn if her
eye would light, if her expression would change, when she saw me. All
this sounds very boyish, but it is not necessary to leave it out for
that reason, because, as my father often said, every Irishman is a boy
until he has grandchildren. I do not know if he was perfectly right in
this matter, but it is a certain advantage in a love affair to have
the true boyish ardour which is able to enshrine a woman in one's
heart to the exclusion of everything, believing her to be perfection
and believing life without her a hell of suffering and woe. No man of
middle-aged experience can ever be in love. He may have his illusions.
He may think he is in love. A woman may gain the power to bind him
hand and foot and drag him wherever she listeth, but he is not in
love. That is his mistaken idea. He is only misinterpreting his
feelings. But, as my father said, it is very different with Irishmen,
who are able to remain in love to a very great age. If you will note,
too, climatic conditions and other unpleasant matters have practically
no effect upon them; so little, indeed, that you may find streets
named after the main Italian cities, and many little German children
speak with a slight brogue. My father often said that one great reason
for an Irishman's successes with the ladies was his perfect
willingness to get married. He was seldom to be seen scouting for
advantages in intrigue. If the girl be willing, be she brown, yellow,
or white, he was always for the priest and the solemn words. My father
also contended that in every marriage contracted on the face of the
earth in which neither maid nor man could understand the other's
national speech, the bridegroom was an Irishman. He was the only man
who was able to make delightful love with the aid of mere signals.
However I must be going on with my story, although it is a great
pleasure to talk of my country-men. They possess a singular
fascination for me. I cannot forget that I too am an Irishman.
The little Doctor was still saying agreeable things; Lady Mary was
smiling in gentle amusement. As I moved out to catch Lady Mary's eye,
I did not at all lose sight of the fact that if the pugnacious mother
of my _innamorata_ took one glimpse of me there might result a scene
which could end in nothing but my ignominious flight. I edged toward
the group, advancing on the Countess's port quarter as she was talking
animately over her starboard bow at the entranced little Doctor. At
times Lady Mary looked about her, still smiling her smile, which no
doubt was born of the ridiculous performances of Chord. Once I thought
she looked squarely at me, and my heart beat like a drum so loudly
that I thought people must hear. But her glance wandered on casually
over the throng, and then I felt truly insignificant, like a man who
could hide behind the nail of his own thumb.
Perceiving that I was so insignificant, I judged it prudent as well as
advantageous to advance much closer. Suddenly Lady Mary's clear
virgin eye met mine,--met it fully.
Now, I don't know what was in this glance we exchanged. I have stopped
myself just on the verge of a full explanation of the thrills,
quivers, hopes, fears, and dreams which assailed me as I looked back
into the beautiful face of Lady Mary. I was also going to explain how
the whole scene appeared. But I can see soon enough that my language
would not be appropriate to the occasion. But any how we looked each
other point-blank in the eye. It was a moment in which that very
circling of the earth halted, and all the suns of the universe poised,
ready to tumble or to rise. Then Lady Mary lowered her glance, and a
pink blush suffused her neck and cheek.
The Countess, Lady Mary, and Doctor Chord moved slowly on through the
throng, and I followed. The great question now was whether Lady Mary
would look back. If she looked back, I would feel that I was making
grand way with her. If she did not look back, I would know myself as a
lost man. One can imagine how eagerly I watched her. For a long time
it was plain that she had no intention whatever of looking back. I
lugubriously arranged my complete downfall. Then, at the very moment
of my despair, she gazed studiously off to her extreme left for a
certain time, and then suddenly cast one short glance behind her. Only
heaven knows what value I placed upon this brief look. It appeared for
the moment to me that I had won her, won everything. I bravely forged
ahead until I was quite insistently under the eye of Lady Mary, and
then she again looked toward me, but it was a look so repelling and
frigid that it went through me as if I had been a paper ring in the
circus. I slunk away through the crowd, my thoughts busy with trying
to find out what had happened to me.
For three minutes I was a miserable human being. At the end of that
time I took heart again. I decided that Lady Mary had frowned at me
because she was afraid that she had been too good to me with her look
and smile. You know what I mean. I have seen a young girl give a young
man a flower, and at the very next moment be seemingly willing to give
her heart's blood to get that flower back, overcome with panic terror
that she had passed--in his opinion, mind you--beyond the lines of
best behaviour. Well I said to myself that Lady Mary had given me the
hard look for similar reasons. It was rational to make this judgment,
for certainly she had no cause for an active dislike. I had never been
even so much as a nuisance to her.
Fortified with these philosophic decisions, I again followed the trio,
and I was just in time to find Chord handing them into a splendid
chariot. I stood out boldly, for I knew if I could not get one more
look from Lady Mary I would die.
Seated beside her mother, her eye wandered eagerly over the crowd. I
was right, by the saints! She was looking for me.
And now here come the stupid laws of convention. Could I yell? Could I
even throw my hat in the air to guide her eye aright? No! I was doomed
to stand there as still as a bottle on a shelf.
But she saw me! It was at the very last moment. There was no time for
coquetry. She allowed her glance to linger, and God knows what we
said to each other in this subtle communication through all the noise
and hubbub of the entrance place. Then suddenly the coachman's reins
tightened; there were some last bows; the chariot whirled away.