A DISCOURSE ON LYING
All day Larry Kildene slept, hardly waking long enough toward
nightfall to drink his broth, but the next day he was refreshed and
merry.
"Leave Madam Manovska alone," he admonished Harry. "Take Amalia off
for another ride, and I'll go down to the cabin, and if there's a way
to set her mind at rest about her husband, I'll find it. I'd not be
willing to take an oath on what I may tell her, but it will be
satisfying, never fear."
The ride was a short one, for the air was chill, and there were more
signs of snow, but when they returned to the cabin, they found Larry
seated by the fire, drinking a brew of Madam's tea and conversing
with her joyously about his trip and what he had seen of the new
railroad. It was curious how he had succeeded in bringing her to take
an interest in things quite alien to her. The very atmosphere of
the cabin seemed to be cleared by his presence, big, genial, and
all-embracing. Certainly nothing of the recluse appeared in his
demeanor. Only when they were alone in their own quarters did he
show occasionally a longing for the old condition of unmolested
tranquillity. To go to his dinner at a set hour, no matter how well
prepared it might be, annoyed him.
"There's no reason in life why they should get a meal ready merely
because a timepiece says twelve o'clock. Let them wait until a man's
hungry," he would grumble. Then, arrived at the cabin, he would be all
courtesy and geniality.
When Harry rallied him on his inconsistency, he gravely replied: "An
Irish gentleman is an Irish gentleman the world over, no matter where
you find him, in court, camp, or wilderness; it's all one to him. Why
do you think I brought that mirror you shave by all the way up the
mountain? Why, to have a body to look at now and again, and to
blarney, just that I might not forget the trick. What was the good of
that, do you ask? Look at yourself, man. You're a dour Scotchman,
that's what you are, and you keep your humor done up in a wet blanket,
and when it glints out of the corner of your eye a bit, you draw down
the corners of your mouth to belie it. What's the good of that, now?
The world's a rough place to walk in for the most part, especially for
women, and if a man carries a smile on his face and a bit of blarney
on the tip of his tongue, he smooths the way for them. Now, there's
Madam Manovska. What would you and Amalia have done to her? Driven her
clean out of her head with your bungling. In a case like hers you must
be very discreet, and lead her around, by the way she wants to go, to
a place of safety."
Harry smiled. Since his avowal to Amalia of his determination to make
expiation for the crime that clouded his life, he had grown more
cheerful and less restrained in manner. He would accept the present
happiness, and so far as he could without wrong to her, he would fill
his hours with the joy of her companionship, and his love should
dominate him, and his heart should revel in the thought of her, and
her nearness to him; then when the spring should come and melt the
snowy barriers between him and the world below, he would go down and
make his expiation, drinking the bitter cup to the dregs.
This happy imprisonment on the mountain top with these two refined
women and this kindly man with the friendly heart and splendid body
and brain, he deemed worth a lifetime spent more sordidly. Here and
now, he felt himself able to weigh true values, and learned that
the usual ambitions of mortals--houses and gear and places of
precedence--could become the end of existence only to those whose
desires had become distorted by the world's estimates. Now he
understood how a man might live for a woman's smile, or give his life
for the touch of her hand, and how he might hunger for the pressing
of children's lips to his own. The warm friendships of life grew to
their true proportions in the vast scheme of things, as he looked in
the big man's eyes and answered his kindly banter.
"I see. It takes a genius to be a discreet and wise liar. Amalia's
lacking there--for me, I might learn. Now pocket your blarney long
enough to tell me why you called me a Scotchman."
"How would I know the difference between a broncho and a mule? By the
earmarks, boy. I've lived in the world long enough to know men. If
there be only a drop of Scotch blood in a man, he shows it. Like the
mule he brays at the wrong time, or he settles back and stands when he
should go forward. Oh, there's many a sign to enlighten the wise."
He rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe and thrust it in his
pocket and began to look over his pack, which had not been opened. Two
good-sized sacks hung on either side of the pack mule had held most
of his purchases, all carefully tied in separate bundles. The good man
had not been sparing of his gold. Since he had so long exiled himself,
having no use for what he had accumulated, he had now reveled in
spending.
"We're to live like lords and ladies, now, Harry. I've two silver
plates, and they're for the ladies. For us, we'll eat off the tin as
before. And silver mugs for their drink. See? I would have got them
china but it's too likely to break. Now, here's a luxury I've brought,
and it was heavy to carry, too. Here's twenty-four panes of glass. I
carried them, twelve on each side of my horse, like that, slung so,
see? That's two windows of two sash each, and six panes to a sash. Oh,
they're small, but see what a luxury for the women to do their pretty
work by. And there's work for you, to be making the sash. I've done my
share of that sort of thing in building the cabin for you, and
then--young man--I'll set you to digging out the gold. That's work
that'll put the worth of your body to the test, and the day will come
when you'll need it."
"I doubt my ever having much need of gold, but whatever you set me at
I'll do to the best of my ability."
"You may have your doubts, but I have none. Men are like bees; they
must ever be laying by something, even if they have no use for it." As
Larry talked he continued to sort over his purchases, and Harry looked
on, astounded at their variety and number.
While apparently oblivious of the younger man's interest, and absorbed
in his occupation, whistling, and turning the bundles over in his
hands as he tallied them off, he now and then shot a keen glance in
his companion's face. He had noticed the change in Harry, and was
alert to learn the cause. He found him more talkative, more eager and
awake. He suspected Harry had passed through some mental crisis, but
of what nature he was at a loss to determine. Certainly it had made
him a more agreeable companion than the gloom of his former manner.
"I'll dig for the gold, indeed I will, but I'd like to go on a hunt
now and then. I'd like a shot at the beast we saw sniffing over the
spot where I sat all night waiting for you to appear. It will no
longer be safe for Amalia to wander about alone as she did before she
hurt her ankle."
"The creature was after sheep. He'll find his prey growing scarcer now
that the railroad is so near. In ten years or less these mountain
sheep will be extinct. That's the result of civilization, my boy."
"I'd like to shoot this panther, though."
"We'll have to set a bait for him--and that means a deer or a sheep
must go. We'll do it soon, too."
"You've reconciled Madam Manovska to your coming home without her
husband! I didn't think it possible. Give me a lesson in diplomacy,
will you?"
"Wait till I light my pipe. Now. First, you must know there are several
kinds of lying, and you must learn which kinds are permissible--and
otherwise." With his pipe between his teeth, Larry stood, a mock
gravity about his mouth, and a humorous twinkle in his eyes, while he
looked down on Harry, and told off the lies on his fingers.
"First, there's the fool's lie--you'll know it because there's no
purpose in it, and there's the rogue's lie,--and as we're neither
fools nor rogues we'll class them both as--otherwise; then there's
the lie of pride, and, as that goes along with the fool's lie, we'll
throw it out with the--otherwise--and the coward's lie also goes with
the otherwise." Larry shook his fingers as if he tossed the four lies
off from their tips, and began again. "Now. Here's the friend's lie--a
man risks his soul to save a friend--good--or to help him out of
trouble--very well. And then there's the lover's lie, it's what a lad
tells his sweetheart--that goes along with what she tells him--and
comes by way of nature--"
"Or you might class it along with your own blarney."
"Let be, lad. I'm teaching you the diplomacy, now. Then there's the
lie of shame, and the lie of sorrow, wherein a man puts by, for his
own loved one's sake, or his self-respect, what's better covered;
that, too, comes by way of nature, even as a dog crawls away to die
alone, and we'll accept it. Now comes the lie of the man who would
tell a good tale for the amusement of his friends; very well, the
nature of man loves it, so we'll count it in, and along with it comes
a host of little lies like the sportsman's lie and the traveler's
lie--they all help to make life merry, and the world can ill do
without them. But now comes the lie of circumspection. You must learn
to lie it without lying. See? It's the lie of wisdom, and it's a very
subtle thing, and easily abused. If a man uses it for a selfish cause
and merely to pervert the truth, it's a black lie, and one of the very
worst. Or he may use it in a good cause, and it's fairly white. It
must be used with discrimination. That's the lie I used for the poor
Madam down there."
"But what did you say?"
"She says to me, 'And where is my 'usband?' I reply, 'Madam, your
husband is in a very safe and secret place,'--and that is true
enough--'where his enemies will never find him,'--and for all we know
that is also true. 'But I cannot understand why he did not come to me.
That is not like my 'usband.' 'No, Madam, it is not. But man must do
what he must, and the way was too long and arduous for his strength;
he could not take the long, weary climb.' And no more could he, true
enough. 'No, Madam, you cannot go to him, nor he come to you, for the
danger of the way and the wild beasts that are abroad looking for
food.' And what more true than that, for did not her daughter see one
hunting for food?
"So she covers her face with her hand and rocks herself back and
forth, and now, lad, here's where the blarney comes in. It's to tell
her of the worth of her husband, and what a loss it would be to the
world if he were to die on the trail, and what he would suffer if he
thought she were unhappy, and then in the ardor of my speech comes the
straight lie. I told her that he was writing the story of his life and
that it was to be a great work which would bring about a tremendous
revolution of justice and would bring confusion to his enemies, until
at last she holds up her head proudly and speaks of his wonderful
intellect and goodness. Then she says: 'He cannot come to me, very
good. He is not strong enough--no. I go to him to-morrow.' Think of
that, man! What I had to meet, and it was all to go over again. I
would call it very circumspect lying and in a good cause, too, to
comfort the poor soul. I told her of the snow, and how surely she
would die by the way and make her husband very sad, he who was now
happy in the writing of his book, and that to do so would break his
heart and cause his own death,--while to wait until spring in peace
would be wiser, because she might then descend the mountain in perfect
safety. So now she sits sewing and making things no man understands
the use of. She showed me the blouse she has made for you. Now, that
is the best medicine for her sick brain. They're great women, these
two. If we must have women about, we're in luck to have women of their
quality."
"We are, indeed."
"I saw the women who follow the road as it creeps across the plains.
They're pitiful to see. If these had been like them, we'd have been
obliged to take them in just the same, but Lord be merciful to them,
I'm glad they're not on my mountain." Larry shook his ponderous,
grizzled head and turned again to his packages. "Since they love to
sew, they may be making things for themselves next. Look you! Here is
silk for gowns, for women love adornment, the best of them."
Harry paused, his arms full of wood with which he was replenishing the
fire, and stared in amazement, as Larry unrolled a mass of changeable
satin wherein a deep cerise and green coloring shifted and shimmered
in the firelight. He held the rich material up to his own waist and
looked gravely down on the long folds that dropped to the floor and
coiled about his feet. "I told you we're to live like lords and ladies
now. Man! I'd like to see Amalia in a gown of this!"
Harry dropped his wood on the fire and threw back his head and
laughed. He even lay down on the floor to laugh, and rolled about
until his head lay among the folds of satin. Then he sat up, and
taking the material between his fingers felt of it, while the big man
looked down on him, gravely discomfited.
"And what did you bring for Madam Manovska?"
"Black, man, black. I'm no fool, I tell you. I know what's discreet
for an elderly lady." Then they gravely and laboriously folded
together the yards of gorgeous satin. "And I'd have been glad of your
measure to get you the suit of clothes you're needing. Lacking it, I
got one for myself. But for me they're a bit too small. You'll maybe
turn tailor and cut them still smaller for yourself. Take them, and if
they're no fit, you'll laugh out of the other corner of your mouth."
The two men stood a moment sheepishly eying each other, while Harry
held the clothes awkwardly in his hands.
"I--I--did need them." He choked a bit, and then laughed again.
"So did I need them--yours and mine, too." Larry held up another suit,
"See here. Mine are darker, to keep you from thinking them yours. And
here are the buckskins for hunting. I used to make them for myself,
but they had these for sale, and I was by way of spending money, so I
bought them. Now, with the blouses the women have made for you, we're
decent."
All at once it dawned on Harry what a journey the big man had made,
and he fairly shouted, "Larry Kildene, where have you been?"
"I rode like the very devil for three days. When once I was started, I
was crazed to go--and see--Then I reached the end of the road from the
coast this way. Did you know they're building the road from both ways
at once? I didn't, for I never went down to get news of the cities,
and they might have put the whole thing through without my even
knowing of it, if you hadn't tumbled in on me and told me of it.
"It stirred me up a bit. I left my horse in charge of one I thought I
might trust, and then took a train and rode over the new rails clean
through to San Francisco, and there I groveled around a day or two,
taking in the ways of men. They're doing big things. Now that the two
oceans are to be united by iron rails, great changes will come like
the wind,--the Lord knows when they will end! Now, the women will be
wanting us to eat, I'm thinking, and I'm not ready--but eat we must
when the hour comes, and we've done nothing this whole morning but
stand here and talk."
Thus Larry grumbled as they tramped down to the cabin through the
snow, with the rolls of silk under his arm, and the silver plates in
his hand, while Harry carried the sack of coffee and the paper for
Amalia. As they neared the cabin the big man paused.
"Take these things in for me, Harry. I--I--left something back in the
shed. Drop that coffee and I'll fetch it as I come along."
"Now, what kind of a lie would you call that, sir, since it's your
courage you've left?"
"Let be, let be. Can't you see I'm going back after it?"
So Harry carried in the gifts and Larry went back for his "courage"
and donned his new suit of clothes to help him carry it, and then came
walking in with a jovial swagger, and accepted the mother's thanks and
Amalia's embrace with a marvelous ease, especially the embrace, with
which he seemed mightily pleased.