Doctor Mangan told himself that he had never laid out a ten-pound note
to better advantage than the one he had pushed into the heel of
Tishy's fist. It had, as he thought it would, clinched the matter. He
had never been unaware of the menace of Cloherty, R.A.M.C., but he was
confident in the three forces that he had at his command--authority,
bribery, and propinquity.
"If I know my young lady," he said cheerfully to himself, "she'll
think more of Larry at her elbow, than of that foxy devil back at
Riverstown" (which was the present scene of Captain Cloherty's
professional labours). "And what's more, if Tishy will only give her
mind to it, it'll take a stiffer lad than Master Larry to be man
enough for her! She downed him once, and she'll do it again, in spite
of Christian Lowry!"
Even as the Big Doctor thought, there were many more that fought for
him in this matter than against him. Potent had been his suggestion to
his daughter that there wasn't a girl in Cluhir that wouldn't "be
gibeing at her" if she lost so golden an opportunity, nor one that
would believe she had not half hanged herself to secure it. (And
though it has not been possible to include them in this chronicle, it
may be accepted that there were many girls in Cluhir of the lively
malevolence of whose gibes Tishy was entirely sensible.) Even more
potent was the pull of Larry's position, the _prestige_ of his
money, of his "place," of his good looks; most potent of all, the fact
of his nearness, the mere primary fact that he was a young man, in
whose company she was daily thrown, whose unattached status (the
Doctor had kept his own counsel as to that interview with Christian,
and his deductions therefrom) was a continual challenge to her charms,
whose mere presence was an excitement an a stimulus.
As the polling day approached, and effort became more strenuous, Larry
fell ever more gratefully into the habit of No. 6, The Mall. Of coming
in, in the gloom of the wet afternoon, and finding Tishy mending her
gloves, or stitching something all lace and ribbons, something that
would obviously blossom into a "Sunday blouse," but that, with flash
of her grey eyes, she would tell him was "poor-clothes,' that the Nuns
had asked her to make. Of sitting on the big sofa beside her, and
teasing her about Captain Cloherty and the adventure in which Tinker
took a leading part.
"If you go telling tales to the Doctor, you'll be sorry!"
"How can you make me sorry?"
"Wait awhile and you'll find out! There are plenty ways to teach
little boys manners! Oh, look now what you've done! You've made me
pull the thread out o' me needle. Thread it now, you!"
Then Larry, with his quick eye and steady hand, would annoy her by
threading it as deftly as she herself could have done, would possibly
contribute some enormous stitches to the confection, and, by the time
its construction was seriously resumed, the collaborators on the big
sofa would have advanced a stage further on the road through the
jungle, that had, with so much foresight and patience, been prepared
for them.
Young Mr. Coppinger's hopes and fears as to his prospects of becoming
a Member of Parliament varied no more than was suitable in the
possessor of the artistic temperament, but Barty, his agent in chief,
maintained an attitude of unbroken pessimism. That whisper of the
secret and late-declared antagonism of the Church had reached him, and
in the secure seclusion of his own office he inveighed against
clerical interference with all the fierceness of a dog chained in his
kennel, who knows that his adversaries are as unable to touch him as
he is to injure them. Only, in Barry's case, he was quite sure that
his barkings were unheard, and he would have been exceedingly alarmed
had he thought otherwise.
"I declare to God I don't care what way it goes!" Larry had said many
times, but most often when fatigue and discouragement had together
taken control.
Such times had come more often during the last week Before the
election, and they reached their climax on the evening of the polling
day. The two young men, mentally and physically demoralised by
fatigue, had at length, at an hour considerably past midnight, escaped
from their colleagues, and, having gained the sanctuary of Barty's
office, were drearily reviewing the position by the light of a smoky
lamp and over the ashes of a dead fire; counting possible votes,
making unconvincing calculations based on supposition, wading
hand-in-hand ever deeper into the Slough of Despond.
"I was talking to your father this evening," said Larry, lighting a
cigarette and letting himself fall into an ancient rocking-chair. "He
wouldn't give me an opinion one way or the other, but it's my belief
he thinks it's a bad chance."
"I believe he's done his best for you," said Barty, dubiously; "but
the way he's situated, he doesn't like to come out too strong one way
or the other."
"Quite right too; I'm a rotten proposition," said Larry, "and this
dam' cigarette won't draw!"
"I could stand getting licked," went on Barty, too preoccupied to
consider the plaints of his principal, "if I thought the Clergy had
played fair. Father Hogan and Father Sweeney stood to us well, and I
know Father Greer was for you at the first go-off; but God knows what
way he and the rest o' them went, after. I wouldn't trust them--"
His dark and mournful eyes rested dejectedly upon Larry. "And what's
more, they don't trust you!"
"They're perfectly right," said Larry; "shows their sense! You and I
are what Father Greer and the rest of them would consider rotten bad
Catholics, and I believe they know it!" He got up from the limping old
rocking-chair and stretched himself, with a yawn that prolonged itself
into a howl. "Oh Dark Rosaleen!--or Kathleen-ni-Houlihan--or anything
else you like to call yourself--if you only knew how really and
sincerely devoted I am to you! I believe I'm a perfectly single-minded
Irish patriot, and ye you won't believe in me, and no more will any
one else except this bloody old fool of a Barty here! Barry my hearty,
I'm going to bed! I'm done! Don't wake me till the news comes in--"
He gave vent to another heart-broken yawn.
"Well, for God's sake stop howling like a banshee, and go!" replied
the hard-pressed Barty, "I'm about done myself!"
The opening Meet of the Broadwater Vale Hounds chanced to take place
at Cluhir Bridge, on the day after the election. Larry, finishing a
late breakfast at Hallinan's Hotel, heard the beloved sounds of the
hunt, the pistol-cracks of the whips, the clatter of horse-hoofs, the
jingle of bits, and the steady paddling of hounds' feet in the muddy
street. Joined with these was the clamour of the town curs and the
thunder of the following rush of town boys along Cluhir's narrow
pavements. Larry ran to the window, and opening it, found himself
practically face to face with young Georgy Talbot-Lowry, riding a
horse of Bill Kirby's.
The sight of the hounds drove from his mind the resolve to have no
dealings more with the house of Talbot-Lowry.
"Hullo, Georgy!" he shouted: "I didn't know you were home--"
Georgy gave a quick look at the window, and directed his gaze between
his horse's ears; save that his face had turned as red as his coat,
there was nothing, as he jogged on, to indicate that he had either
seen or heard.
Larry banged down the window, in a state of conflagration, every
strained nerve vibrating. What need to attempt to recount what he said
or thought? Dark Rosaleen has made trouble often enough between nearer
and dearer than Larry and his young cousin. She will send brothers to
fight each other to the changing music of her harp, crowned and
uncrowned; she will gather her sons under the sign of the Cross, and
encourage them to hate one another for the love of God. This was only
a trivial bit of mischief hardly worthy of our attention, were it not
that it had its share in the macadamising of that jungle road in
which, as is frequent in such routes, the preliminary labour had been
undertaken by an elephant, under the direction of a skilful mahout.
It was dark when the news came to Cluhir, six o'clock of a wet night.
The counting of the votes had taken place elsewhere, and the word was
to come by wire. Barty and Larry, with others of the rival
"Commy-tees," had hung about between the post-office, and their
respective offices, and houses of call, all day. Many drinks had been
drunk, many bets been laid; before the news came through, Larry's
proclaimed indifference as to the result had worn so thin as to be
imperceptible. It seemed to him, during the tedious hours of that dark
and wet afternoon, that success in this enterprise was the only thing
left in life worth having. To triumph, secretly, over that secret
clerical opposition, to snap his fingers, openly, at Georgy
Talbot-Lowry's impudence and all that it implied of hostility and
contempt. These were the great objects of life, the things that
justified all the double dealing, and the lies, and the humbug of the
past weeks. There was no such thing as patriotism, and ideals were
rot. He had claimed last night to be a single-minded patriot, but
to-day he knew better; he had become a man, and had put ideals away,
with love, and other childish things. The main thing was to have your
desire of your enemy.
He was standing in the heavy downpour on the outskirts of the group
that waited outside the post-office; he was sick with suspense and
fatigue, and hardly troubled to move as a motor came slowly nosing its
way through the crowd. It passed within a few inches of him and
stopped. He heard the Big Doctor's voice.
"Get into the car out of the rain," it commanded. "D'ye want to be ill
on my hands again? I'll run you down to No. 6. Let Barty 'phone the
news to you. Isn't that what he's for?"
Larry was alone in the dining-room of No. 6 when the telephone
summoned him. He had eaten nothing since breakfast; his hand shook
with cold and excitement, and he could scarcely hold the switch
firmly.
"Burke, 1047; Coppinger, 705;" Barty's voice sounded flat and without
emotion. "Majority against us, 342. Can you hear? Adverse majority,
342! They've beaten us to babby-rags!" The voice ceased.
Larry said: "All right, old chap. Thanks!" and hung up the receiver.
He returned to the dirty, comfortable old sofa by the fire.
Beaten! and Larry was used to victory. In all his twenty-five years of
life, he had never been thwarted. What he wished to do, that he did,
in games, in sport, in art. He might have said, with Beatrice: "There
was a star danced, and under that was I born!"
The first defeat he could remember was the one he had suffered at
Christian's hands, and here he was, turned down again, twice in a
month!
"My luck's out!" he said, staring at the flickering, whispering fire,
and feeling that ebbing of life which will befall, even at five and
twenty, when exhaustion, that has been held at bay by excitement and
hope, comes to its own.
The door burst open, and Tishy came swiftly into the room.
"I've just heard!" she said. "Dad got it on the other 'phone. It's a
wicked shame and a disgrace! That's what it is!" Her voice was hot
with wrath and sympathy; she flung across the room and caught Larry's
hand and shook it vehemently. "The fools!" she cried, furiously. "You
were too good for them, that's what it was! The dirty, low,
common--Oh, there's no words bad enough for them!" Her eyes blazed;
she looked exceedingly handsome. She was moved by a perfectly genuine
emotion of indignation; Larry was Mangan property, and it was not
fitting that the leading family of Cluhir should be defeated.
"You look half dead this minute!" she cried, pushing him down on to
the sofa by the hand that she had taken. "Sit down for gracious sake!"
Again the door opened, and from without the Doctor's deep voice said:
"Tishy! Come here a minute, I want you."
Larry, sitting on the sofa, watching his wet boots steaming, was
conscious of a sense of consolation. It was something to know that
these kind people cared. He heard the light chink of glasses, and
looked round, and saw Tishy coming into the room, bearing a tray, on
which were a cake, and wineglasses, and a bottle of champagne.
"Dad says he prescribes a little stimulant!" said Tishy, gaily, "the
wire's cut--"
She took the cork out of the bottle with a strong, capable hand, and
filled two glasses. "Drink that at once now! And I'll drink one drop
myself--just for luck! Here now! Here's to the next time, and you at
the top of the poll!"
"Sounds as if I were a bear!" said Larry, with a pale smile at her, as
he lifted the glass, "Clink!" He touched her glass, and then drank the
wine thirstily.
"I was just about cooked," he said apologetically. "Awfully good of
you and the Doctor--"
"Ah, don't be talking nonsense!" interrupted Tishy. "Here, show me
your glass--"
The glasses were very large and old fashioned; she refilled his,
brimmingly. "Now, sit down, and drink that, and eat a bit of cake. Not
a word out of you now! Only do as you're told!"
Then, as he obeyed her, she suddenly knelt beside him, and before he
realised what she was doing she began to unlace his boots. Larry
started up, horrified and protesting.
"Sit down at once and be good!" said Tishy, holding firmly to the foot
on which she had begun operations, and with a vigorous jerk compelling
him to obedience. "I'll do what I choose, I always do!"
Her nimble, white fingers made short work of the task that she had set
herself; Larry's remonstrances availed him nothing. She had insisted
on refilling his glass a third time, and the wine had begun to take
away from him the feeling of reality, and to make everything seem hazy
and indefinite, but quite agreeable.
"There now!" said Tishy, pushing the boots under the sofa, "aren't you
obliged to me? I often did that for the Doctor, but I never saw such
lovely green silk socks on _him_, I can tell you!"
The champagne had made her eyes very bright; there was a look in them
that spoke to a dim memory in Larry's cloudy mind. She was still
kneeling beside him, and as she prepared to rise, she rested one hand
on his knee to help herself. Larry put his hand on hers, and leaned
forward. Her brilliant, challenging face was very near his. His memory
cleared in a flash, and he thought of the night, long ago, when they
had played at forfeits.
"'My shoe buckle or my lips'? Do you remember?" he said, with an
unsteady laugh, answering the challenge. "It's my turn now--which will
you have?"
He did not wait for an answer, but looking straight into her eyes, he
bent down and kissed her laughing, red lips.
The situation had not materially changed when Dr. Mangan's large
presence was suddenly developed at the end of the sofa. He had come
noiselessly in, and was surveying his daughter and guest with a
benedictory smile.
"So that's the way, is it?" he said quietly.
The hot dream that held Larry, melted and reeled a little. He released
Tishy from his enfolding arms, and wondered if he had better risk
standing up. He wished old Mangan hadn't come bothering in. He had
only just begun to find out how much he liked Tishy.
But he stood up, and met the Doctor's smile with a guilty and foolish
grin, holding on with one hand to the end of the sofa. Tishy continued
to hold his other hand; he felt as if he should fall if she
relinquished it.
"Well, I suppose I may draw my own conclusions from what I see?" went
on the Big Doctor, in a voice that oozed fatherliness at every
syllable. "Eh, Larry?"
Larry swayed a little; his yellow hair was ruffled, his blue eyes
shone, he looked like a child who had just been awakened.
"Oh quite so, sir," he said, laughing. "Apparently it's the only thing
to do!" which was indisputable.
The bottle of champagne which had played its part so ably was finished
later on, and the engagement was ratified and celebrated with the pomp
that was its due.