MRS. MACCABE HAS IT OUT WITH THE MAJOR.
“He is a fool who thinks, by force or skill,
To turn the current of a woman’s will.”
--S. TUKE.
The following morning, when the first press of business was over, and
when she had taken counsel with her sons, and had locked Lizzie into
her room, Mrs. Maccabe put on her shawl (she always wore her bonnet
except in bed) and stalked up the street, and out to Bridgetstown. She
had never visited it before, and her tall commanding figure in the
doorway, gave Sara, the parlour maid, what she subsequently described
as a “turn.” Doubtless she gave Mrs. Malone a turn also, for she
firmly believed that she had come for the balance of her bill--a large
balance--and tremulously hinted as much.
“Oh no, Mrs. Malone, ma’am; though in course I’ll be thankful to see my
money. I’ve come about something a great deal worse nor that. To make a
long story short, your son Denis has destroyed himself.”
“Denis,” shrieked the wretched woman, staggering back against the turf
basket. “What is it? Tell me the worst at once! Is he dead? Oh! what,
what has happened to him?”
“He has happened to get married to my niece, Lizzie Maccabe, at a
registry office in Dublin last October; _that’s_ what’s happened to
him!”
For a moment Mrs. Malone was speechless; then she went and sat down
very suddenly on the nearest chair, and put both her hands to her head.
“It’s gospel truth,” continued her visitor. “I only found it out last
night. I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for meself: it’s a terrible
disgrace to us both. Such a thing never happened to a Maccabe before. I
am going to get shut of her at wance.”
“Denis must have been mad,” said his mother distractedly. “Are you sure
he is married?”
Mrs. Maccabe’s brow now became clothed in thunder.
“Better be mad nor bad, nor worse than he is! He _is_ married. I have
the lines, and I’ve come up to talk the matter over with the Major, and
to see what he will do for his son’s wife. He must take her out of _my_
house.”
“Oh, Mrs. Maccabe, could you not keep it quiet for a little longer,
till we think it over. I simply dare not tell his father,” said Mrs.
Malone piteously.
“But I dar,” replied this heroic matron, standing squarely before her
meek little customer. “I dar a regiment of the likes of him; and I’ll
tell him within the next five minutes. Where’s the study?”
“Oh, give me time--a little time,” pleaded Mrs. Malone in tears, “till
I consult my eldest son. Oh, there he is! George, come here.”
George, who was equipped for riding, entered, whip in hand, and stared
in amazement at his weeping mother, and the butcher’s widow. A bill of
course.
“It’s something awful about Denis--and Mrs. Maccabe’s niece. He has
married her, and she has been his wife for months,” explained his
mother with streaming eyes.
George could not restrain a low whistle.
“It was only discovered yesterday, and Mrs. Maccabe is going to tell
his father, and don’t _you_ agree with me, that we might wait a little,
and think it over.”
“No, mother, Mrs. Maccabe is right,” returned her son with decision;
“there must be no delay; he should be told at once, and the marriage
openly acknowledged.”
“You are right, sir,” said Mrs. Maccabe approvingly, “and now I’ll not
detain you longer, ma’am, if you will show me the road to the Major’s
study.”
“I’ll go with you,” volunteered George gallantly, resolved that the
butcher’s widow should not bear the brunt of the fray alone and
unprotected. Mrs. Malone was helpless. She stood with her handkerchief
to her mouth, and watched them go into the study, saw them close
the door, and then rushed back, and buried her head among the sofa
cushions, poor coward! The study was next to the drawing-room, and at
first there was the steady humming sound of Mrs. Maccabe’s voice, then
a roar from the Major, then George spoke, then roar upon roar, like a
starving Bengal tiger who sees food.
The Major could not realize the truth at first. He pushed back his
chair, thereby capsizing Boozle, who was sleeping comfortably in the
paper basket on all the unpaid bills. He gasped, his face became the
colour of a boiled beetroot.
“Eh? What? What?” he shouted, and then he rose and figuratively fell
upon Mrs. Maccabe, for “a lying, thieving, scheming old harridan, who
had ruined his innocent son--an infernal old fosthooke, who had made
the match.”
“And what would I get, av you please?” drawing herself up with an air
of superb enquiry. “For why would I marry me niece, a decent girl,
to an idle, drunken scutt, that never earned six-pence, a low-minded
rapscallion, heir to nothing but debt and his father’s bad name? A fine
thing to tell Bridget Maccabe----” and she looked about her, as if in
search of the ox tail.
In vain the Major stormed; here his bellowing and bullying was as water
on a rock. To borrow a word from the intrepid widow, she “bested him,”
as she subsequently boasted--cowed him, silenced him, yea even him.
George was scarcely able to get in one syllable between such a war
of words, and two such champions. It was Greek meeting Greek with a
vengeance. The Major assumed an attitude of ferocious antagonism that
would have struck terror into the heart of a less valiant opponent,
and the battle raged. At last there was a lull; the man was worn down
by the woman’s vigorous eloquence, and Mrs. Maccabe calmly stated her
ultimatum.
“The girl should be decently married, as soon as possible, before the
priest, and before the Rev. Mr. Mahon, too, if they liked, and Denis
Malone should take his wife home. If he passed the medical, he might
get something to do.”
“But he has _not_ passed,” bawled the Major. “I’ve heard by yesterday’s
post he has failed for his final examination, and he is done for.
The most I’ll do for him will be to give him a steerage passage to
Australia, and a five-pound note.”
“Man, that’s all balderdash and nonsense!”--that the Major should live
to be apostrophised as a mere “man”! “Ye can’t turn your only son out
into the world as ye would an ass on a bog, and him with a wife on his
hands--ye bid to provide for him,” responded the widow in a tone of
unshaken resolve.
“Denis might make a good start in Australia,” ventured his
step-brother. “You see he likes a country life: he rides well, and he
knows a little about stock, and if he had a small share in a run, just
a start, he might do very well.”
“Then will _you_ start him?” enquired the Major, turning on him
furiously, forgetting the recent plunge he had made into George’s
pocket.
“I am quite unable to do anything at present.”
“Av _course_ the Major will assist his only son. It’s not your place,
sir,” said Mrs. Maccabe emphatically. “The Major will give at least
five hundred pounds, and their passages and outfit, and do the thing
respectably, when he is about it,” speaking precisely as if the Major
were miles away.
He, with his eyes almost starting out of his head, assured her in
forcible language (that cannot here be quoted) that he would not do
anything of the sort. But this determined woman made him listen to what
she called “reason”; she bargained and chaffered with him, as if she
were buying a young stall-fed bullock, and when she had left the study,
rather hoarse and breathless, she had gained her end.
The Major would give four hundred pounds down on the nail; she herself
(poor woman as she was) would put down two more. This money to be
lodged in the hands of a respectable, honest man in Melbourne, who
would see that Denis did not make ducks and drakes of it, but invest
it prudently. The couple were to be married as soon as possible, and
to take ship to Australia. “She would pay her niece’s passage, second
class, and give her a sensible outfit, and no one could say but that
she had done a handsome thing for a desolate, lorn widow woman, with no
one to earn for her but herself, and hard work, and small returns, and
_bad_ debts. She would not trouble the Major further at present, but
maybe he would spake a word to Mr. Denis and tell him that he was not
to go next or nigh Bridget Maccabe, as she would not be answerable for
herself.”
“Spake a word to Mr. Denis,” but feebly expresses the scene that
awaited that young gentleman, as he strolled into the house in time
for dinner. He had given the governor a wide berth since the fatal
letter had been received the previous day, and had spent his time
most agreeably, in coursing and card playing with some of his boon
companions. He had a phlegmatic nature, and an adjustable conscience:
it was rather a bore that he had not passed, but he hated the
profession, and for the present his mother had assured him that he
could live at home, and they would “think it over.” He was certain
to get something, some agency; he was only twenty-four; there was
lots of time! The Major’s fury would blow itself out like a gale, so
he flattered himself, as he prepared for dinner. A sharp knock at
the door, and enter Cuckoo, pale and excited-looking, and evidently
bursting with some great news.
“Now then,” said Denis, who was belabouring his thick stiff hair with a
brush in either hand, “what’s up?”
“Everything is up!” returned his sister tragically. “I thought I would
just come in and warn you. Mrs. Maccabe was here this morning; they
know you are married to Lizzie.”
Here Denis let fall a hair brush with a clang.
“It’s not true, is it, Denis?--that common girl! I’ve seen her walking
with the Police Sergeant, over and over again--and I am sure she
greases her hair with suet.”
“Who told?” enquired Denis fiercely, “and how did it come out?”
“From all I can hear, it was Foxy Joe that told.”
“Foxy Joe! Then I’ll break every bone in his crooked body.”
“The Major is raging mad, Denis. I never saw him so bad, and mother has
been crying all day. You and Lizzie are to be married in chapel, and to
be packed off to Australia. Mrs. Maccabe will help to send you; that’s
all I could get out of George.”
This programme was acceptable to Denis; he was sick of Bridgetstown; he
would gladly go forth and see the world, and begin a new life. Visions
of a free, novel, thoroughly untrammelled existence, where he could
play cards whenever he pleased, and with whom he pleased, and gallop
over miles of good going, on a well-bred waler, instantly rose before
his mind’s eye (an eye that kept a sharp look out on its own interest).
After all, “Lizzie’s row,” as he called it, was bound to come some day;
best have the two rows together, he said to himself philosophically;
the row about his exam., and the row about his wife: as well be hanged
for a sheep as a lamb; and he descended, with a certain amount of
dogged courage, to face the storm!
A storm indeed! A typhoon, that raged in the latitude of Bridgetstown
for ten whole days. During occasional lulls, Denis was married in
chapel and in church, passages were taken, money paid in, letters
written, outfits procured.
The news of Denis Malone’s match ran through the neighbourhood like
wildfire, and people said that “he would never do a day’s good at home;
he was well out of the country, and that for _once_ the Major showed
some sense.” Here the Major got credit for wisdom that was not his own;
his share of the money he had raised by giving a bill on the furniture
at Bridgetstown, and he was so furious with his son that he actually
thought him a cheap riddance at the price.
But Denis’s mother was heartbroken: she wept, she implored, she even
went on her knees to her husband for her poor dear boy. She abased
herself before Mrs. Maccabe (who was now a connection), and it was all
of no avail; that great woman was inexorable, and the bitterest drop in
all her cup was the knowledge that Denis, her darling, was _glad_ to go.
In intervals of pleading and weeping, she prepared his shirts and
clothes, and packed up some portion of the household linen and (but
this is in strict confidence) some of the Major’s silk socks and
handkerchiefs, his second-best top-coat, a rarely remembered gold
watch, and a dozen silver forks and spoons, also the pink topazes
for Lizzie--or it might be another relative. A few came forward with
presents for the young couple. George gave his brother a saddle and
bridle, and a gun. Mrs. Finny presented him with an old case of
surgical instruments. Maria gave him a piece of her mind. Miss Dopping
gave Lizzie a first-rate sewing machine, and a long lecture, concluding
with this pleasant little prophecy:
“If you come to want, and to earn your bread, Lizzie Malone, as I
honestly believe you will, this machine, if you work it industriously,
will keep you from actual starvation. You will have to support your
husband too--unless you can keep him away from cards, and whisky.”
“I think I’ll be able to do that, ma’am,” returned young Mrs. Malone
confidently; “and if the worst comes to the worst, I can always make my
living as a cashier in a shop. I am very fond of Denis, but I’ll never
earn _his_ bread.”
In which sentiment Lizzie displayed a flash of her aunt’s high spirit.
Betty Redmond presented Lizzie with a warm shawl for the voyage, Belle
gave her her photograph, and Mrs. Redmond, with much pomp, presented
her with a case of needles (marked two shillings). Thus, endowed with
gifts and advice, the young couple set out to seek their fortune in the
new world. Major Malone personally conducted them down to Queenstown,
saw them on board the steamer (in case they should miss it), and
waved them away from the shores of old Ireland with his best red silk
pocket-handkerchief.
The news about Denis Malone fell like a thunderbolt at Noone. Juggy
brought up the intelligence from the gate lodge to the kitchen, and
from the kitchen it flew upstairs. Mrs. Redmond wagged her head, and
cast up her eyes, and said “that, after _that_, nothing would surprise
her.” Belle laughed maliciously: she was glad of a bit of excitement.
She was delighted that Denis was in trouble and going to “get the
sack,” for she knew that he bore her no good will, and might possibly
interfere with her prospects; and Betty, who was deeply relieved, was
both glad and sorry. She had been almost rude to Mr. Holroyd--thanks to
Lizzie’s daring falsehood; and how was she to excuse herself? How could
she explain that she had mistaken him for Denis? She must make amends
for her blunder at the first opportunity; but this opportunity never
occurred. An urgent, nay an angry invitation, summoned him to stay
with his Uncle Godfrey. When he came over to make his adieux at Noone,
he found all the ladies at home. Betty was herself again, and her
bright face was all smiles. But it was now _his_ turn to be cold and
irresponsive. He did not understand nor respect a girl who could change
like a weather-cock. She would be an uncomfortable sort of wife; if she
meant to have accepted him, she must have known what was trembling on
his lips that night at Lord Enniscorthy’s ball, and her manner, when
they next met, had been intended to show him unmistakably that she
did not wish to hear what he had to say--and he would now be for ever
silent. He was glad to go away from her neighbourhood, to where, among
new scenes, he might forget her. He was glad to leave that miserable
home, where a weeping mother, an irascible step-father, an intolerable
brother, had recently made him their confidante, go-between and victim.
“Yes,” in answer to Belle’s pathetic enquiries. “He was coming back,
of course, before his leave was up: he had got an extension: he
did not return to India till July--the end of July.” Belle sighed
a heart-breaking sigh, as she placed her hand timidly in his, and
breathed a fervent inward prayer, that when he returned to the gorgeous
East he would take her with him.