RACHEL AND HER LOVERS.
On the day following that of O'Mahony's return to Galway, he, and
his daughter, and Frank Jones were together at the Galway Station
preparatory to the departure of the O'Mahonys for Dublin and London.
"I guess you two have got something to say to each other, so I'll
leave you to yourselves," said the father.
"I guess we have," said Rachel, "so if you'll wait here we'll come
to you when the cars are fixed." So saying, Rachel put her hand on
her lover's arm and walked off with him along the platform. Rachel
O'Mahony had not been badly described when her father said of her
that she looked as though she might be blown away. She was very fair,
and small and frail to look at. Her father had also said of her that
her health was remarkably good,--"the best confirmed that he had ever
known in his life." But though this too, was true, she hardly looked
it. No one could have pointed out any sign of malady about her; only
one would have said that there was nothing of her. And the colour on
her face was so evanescent that he who watched her was inclined to
think that she herself was like her colour. And she moved as though
she was always on the vanishing point. "I'm very fond of eating," she
had been heard to say. "I know it's vulgar; but it's true." No doubt
she was fond of eating, but so is a sparrow. There was nothing she
would not attempt to do in the way of taking exercise. She would
undertake very long walks, and would then fail, and declare that
she must be carried home; but she would finally get through the
day's work better than another woman who appeared to have double her
strength. Her feet and hands were the tiniest little adjuncts to a
grown human body that could be seen anywhere. They looked at least to
be so. But they were in perfect symmetry with her legs and arms. "I
wish I were bigger," she had once been heard to say, "because I could
hit a man." The man to whom she alluded was Mr. Mahomet M. Moss.
"I sometimes want to hit a woman, but that would be such a small
triumph." And yet she had a pride in her little female fineries.
"Now, Frank," she had once said, "I guess you won't get another woman
in all Galway to put her foot into that boot; nor yet in New York
either."
"I don't think I could," said the enraptured Frank.
"You'd better take it to New York and try, and if you find the lady
you can bring her back with you."
Frank refused the commission, saying something of course very pretty
as to his mistress's foot. "Ten buttons! These only have eight," she
said, objecting to a present which her lover had just brought her.
"If I had ten buttons, and the gloves to fit me, I'd cut my arm off
and put it under a glass case. Lovers are sent out to do all possible
and impossible things in order to deserve their lady-loves. You shall
go and wander about till you find a glove with ten buttons to fit
me, then I'll consent to be Mrs.----Jones." By all of which little
manoeuvres Frank was charmed and oppressed to the last degree. When
she would call herself the "future Mrs.----Jones," he would almost
feel inclined to abandon both the name and the property. "Why not
be Mrs. Morony," Rachel would say, "or Mrs. Ballintubber? The
Ballintubber, of Ballintubber, would sound exquisitely, and then I
should always be called 'Madam.'"
Her beauty was all but perfect, as far as symmetry was concerned,
only that there was not enough of it; and for the perfection of
female beauty a tone of colour is, methinks, needed somewhat darker
than that which prevailed with Rachel O'Mahony. Her hair was so light
that one felt it rather than saw it, as one feels the sunlight. It
was soft and feathery, as is the under plumage on the wings of some
small tropical birds. "A lock of my hair!" she had once said to
Frank; "but it will all go into nothing. You should have paid your
vows to some girl who could give you a good lump of hair fit to stuff
a pillow with. If you have mine you will think in a few weeks that
the spiders have been there and have left their dust behind." But
she gave him the lock of hair, and laid it on his lips with her own
little hands.
There was not enough of her beauty. Even in touching her a lover
could not but feel that he had to deal with a little child. In
looking at her he could only look down upon her. It was not till
she spoke, and that her words came to his assistance, that he found
that he had to deal with one who was not altogether a child. "Mr.
Mahomet M. Moss declares his opinion that I shall be seen above the
gaslights. It was very civil and complimentary of Mahomet M. M. But
I mean to make myself heard. Mahomet M. M. did not seem to think of
this." Since Frank had known her she had taken every opportunity in
her power of belittling Mahomet M. M., as she was wont to call Mr.
Moss.
Frank Jones was, in truth, a handsome stalwart young man, clever
enough for the world, who thought a good deal of himself, and who
thought very much more of the girl whom he loved. It was chiefly
because he was absolutely unlike an American that Rachel O'Mahony
had come to love him. Who does not know the "got up" look of the
gentleman from the other side of the water, who seems to know himself
to be much better than his father, and infinitely superior to his
grandfather; who is always ready to make a speech on every occasion,
and who feels himself to be fit company for a Prime Minister as soon
as he has left school. Probably he is. Young Jones was not so; and it
was on account of this deficiency that Rachel prized him. "I'm not
like a young girl myself," she had said to her father, "but I do love
a jolly nice boy. With us at sixteen, they are all but decrepit old
men, and yet they are such little monkeys."
"For a little monkey, what do you think of yourself?" her father had
replied. But the conversation then had not gone any further.
"I know you'll be after me before long," Rachel said to Frank, as
they walked up and down the platform together.
"If I do, I shall ask you to marry me at once," he replied.
"I shall never do that without your father's leave."
"Is that the way they manage things in America?"
"It's the way I shall manage them here," said Rachel. "I'm in the
unfortunate position of having three papas to whom I must attend.
There is papa O'Mahony--"
"You will never be incommoded much by him," he replied.
"He is the least potent of the three, no doubt. Then there is papa
Jones. He is absolutely omnipotent in this matter. He would not let
me come down to Castle Morony for fear I should contaminate you all.
I obeyed without even daring to feel the slightest snub, and if I
were married to-morrow, I should kiss his toe in token of respect,
and with a great deal more affection than I should kiss your
half-bearded lips, sir." Here Frank got a hold of her hand beneath
his arm, and gave it a squeeze. "He is the real old-fashioned father
in the play, who is expected to come out at last with a hundred
thousand dollars and his blessing."
"And who is the third papa?"
"Don't you know? Mahomet M. Moss. He is the third papa--if only he
would consent to remain in that comparatively humble position." Here
Frank listened to her words with sharp ears, but he said nothing at
the moment. "Mahomet M. Moss is at any rate my lord and master for
the present."
"Not whilst I am alive," said Frank.
"But he is. There is no use in rebelling. You are not my lord and
master until you have gone through a certain ceremony. I wish you
were. Will that satisfy you?"
"There is something in the name of lord and master which a girl
shouldn't apply to anyone but to him who is to be her husband."
"Fiddlestick! Mr. Lord and Master that is to be, but is not as yet.
But he is, in many respects. I don't think, Frank, you can imagine
the horror I feel in reference to that vilest of human beings. I
shall carry a dagger with me, in order to have it ready for any
occasion."
"What does he do? You shall not go to be subjected to such danger and
such annoyance."
She turned round, and looked up into his face as with derision. "The
annoyance no doubt will be mine, Frank, and must be endured; the
danger will be his, I think. Nor shall I use the dagger that I spoke
of. I can look at him, and I can make him hear my voice, in spite of
the smallness of my stature. But there is no one in this world whom I
detest as I do that greasy Jew. It is not for what he does, but that
I simply detest him. He makes love to me."
"What!"
"Oh! he does. You needn't look like that. You needn't be a bit
jealous."
"I shall come over at once."
"And knock him on the head! You had better not do that, because we
want to make some money by his means. As a lover I can keep him at a
distance. I wish I could do so to you, Mr. Jones."
"Why do you wish to keep me at a distance?"
"Because you know how to be troublesome. It is much harder to
keep a lover at a distance when you really love him with all your
heart"--here she looked up into his face and squeezed his arm, and
nearly made him mad for the moment--"than a beast like that, who is
no better than a toad to you. There, do you see that ugly old man
there?" She pointed to a cross-looking old gentleman of sixty, who
was scolding a porter violently. "Why aren't you jealous of that
man?"
"You never saw him before."
"That's just the reason. He may be worth my affection, but I know
that that Mahomet M. M. is not. You begin with the most bitter hatred
on my part. I don't hate that old gentleman. I rather like him on
the whole, though he was so cross. At any rate he's not a greasy Jew.
Papa says that hating Jews is a prejudice. Loving you is a prejudice,
I suppose."
"My darling!"
"You can't suppose you are the best man I ever saw, can you?"
"It's a sort of thing we are not to reason about."
"Then it's a prejudice. I'm prejudiced against Mahomet M. M. I'm
equally prejudiced in favour of Mr. Jones, junior, of Ballintubber.
It's horrible to be troubled by the one."
"Well!"
"Well! There's nothing more coming, Mr. Jones. Only don't you come
over in any of your fits of jealousy, or you'll have to be sent back
again. You're not my lord and master--yet."
"I wish I were."
"So do I. What more do you want than that? I don't believe there's
another girl in New York would say as much to you,--nor yet in County
Galway."
"But what does he say to you?"
"Well; just the kind of things that you never say. And he certainly
never does the kind of things which you do; and that, Mr. Jones, is
an improvement. But papa is in a hurry, and I shouldn't wonder if the
train didn't go on in a quarter of an hour. I'll write to you about
Mahomet M. M.; and if I behave very badly, such as prodding him with
the dagger, or something of that sort, then I will let you know the
details. You can't do it here, so you may as well go." So saying,
she jumped into the carriage, and the train had started before Frank
Jones had begun to think whether he could do it there or no.
"He's a good fellow, take him all round," said Mr. O'Mahony, when the
carriages had left the station.
"As good as the rest of them."
"I think he is better."
"Of course we all think so of our own. Why should he be better than
any other young lady's Mr. Jones? I don't suppose he is better; but
we'll endeavour to believe that he is up to the average."
"Is that all that you've got to say for him, Rachel?"
"What! To you? Not exactly--if I am to speak the solid truth; which I
don't see why I should have to do, even to my own father. I do think
him above the average. I think him so much above the average as to
be the best of all. But why? Simply because I believe him when he
says he wants to marry me, and make me his companion for life. And
then there's an affinity between us which God certainly manages. Why
should I trust him in every detail of life with a perfect faith, and
not trust Mr. Mahomet M. Moss to the extent of half-a-crown? If he
were to ask me for everything I have in the world, I should give it
to him, without a thought except of his goodness in taking care of it
for me. I wouldn't let Mahomet M. Moss have a dollar of mine without
giving me his bond. Papa, there will be a row between me and Mr.
Mahomet M. Moss, and so it's well to put you on your guard."
"What sort of a row, my dear?"
"A very rowy row. I don't mean about dollars, for you'll have to
manage that just at first. When we have got into the running, I think
I shall have something to say on that subject too."
"What row do you mean?"
"He'll misbehave himself. He always does, more or less."
"The poor fellow can't open his mouth without your saying that he
misbehaves himself."
"That's quite true; he can't. He can't brush his hair, or tie his
cravat, or settle his pantaloons, without misbehaving himself. He
certainly can't look out of his eye without gross misbehaviour."
"What is he to do then?" said Mr. O'Mahony. "Nature has imbued him
with all these peculiarities, and you are fantastic to find fault
with him."
"Perhaps so--but then I am fantastic. When you've got a dirty coat
on, or Frank, I don't find fault with it; but when he's got a clean
coat, I writhe at him in my disgust. Yet, upon the whole, I like men
to have clean coats."
"But you haven't said how the row is to come."
"Because I don't know; but it will come. It won't be about his coat,
nor yet his hat, unless he puts it close down under my nose. My time,
as I understand, is to be at his disposal."
"There will be an agreement made as to all that."
"An agreement as to my performances. I quite understand that I must
be present at fixed times at the theatre, and that he must fix them.
That will not worry me; particularly if you will go to the theatre
with me."
"Of course I will do that when you want it."
"But he is to come to me with his beastly lessons. Am I to have no
relief from that?"
"The hours can be fixed."
"But they won't be fixed. There's no doubt that he understands his
trade. He can make me open my mouth and keep it open. And he can
tell me when I sing false or flat. Providence when she gave him that
horrid head of hair, did give him also the peculiarity of a fine ear.
I think it is the meanest thing out for a man to be proud of that. If
you can run a straight furrow with a plough it is quite as great a
gift."
"That is nonsense, my dear. Such an ear as Mr. Moss's is very rare."
"A man who can see exactly across an entire field is just as rare.
I don't see the difference. Nor when a woman sings do I respect her
especially because of her voice. When a man can write a poem like
Homer, or rule a country like Washington, there is something to
say for him. I shall tell him that I will devote one hour a day to
practising, and no more."
"That will settle the difficulty; if it be enough."
"But during that hour, there is to be no word spoken except what has
to do with the lessons. You'll bear me out in that?"
"There must be some give and take in regard to ordinary
conversation."
"You don't know what a beast he is, papa. What am I to do if he tells
me to my face that I'm a beautiful young woman?"
"Tell him that you are quite aware of the fact, but that it is a
matter you do not care to talk about."
"And then he'll simper. You do not know what a vile creature he can
be. I can take care of myself. You needn't be a bit afraid about
that. I fancy I could give him a slap on the face which would startle
him a little. And if we came to blows, I do believe that he would not
have a leg to stand upon. He is nearly fifty."
"My dear!"
"Say forty. But I do believe a good shove would knock him off his
nasty little legs. I used to think he wore a wig; but no hairdresser
could be such a disgrace to his profession to let such a wig as that
go out of his shop."
"I always regarded him as a good-looking young man," said Mr.
O'Mahony. Here Rachel shook her head, and made a terrible grimace.
"It's all fancy you know," continued he.
"I suppose it is. But if you hear that I have told him that I regard
him as a disgusting monkey, you must not be surprised." This was the
last conversation which Mr. O'Mahony and his daughter had respecting
Mahomet M. Moss, till they reached London.