MRS. MALONE OPENS HER MOUTH.
“Let the world slide, let the world go;
A fig for care, and a fig for woe!
If I can’t pay, why I can owe.”
--HEYWOOD.
“Mother,” said George, after a truly eloquent pause, “why don’t you
send Cuckoo to school? her accent is frightful, and----”
“I know, I know,” interposed Mrs. Malone, laying down her work, with
a dismal sigh. “I am afraid she must strike you as ill-mannered and
pert; Julia thought so, too; but then she told a whole room full of
visitors that Julia was coming as soon as she had put in her new teeth;
the child is a great help to me in the house, and remarkably open and
truthful, as you may notice.”
“Yes, the very densest must admit _that_, but the naked truths she
introduces so gleefully are not always pleasant additions to a family
circle.”
“Perhaps not--perhaps she is too outspoken; she ought to go to school.
We must think it over, but in these hard times, George, I don’t know
how we are to afford the expense.”
“But I always understood that Major Malone had his land in his own
hands.”
“I am sorry to say he has, but farming is not his forte. We are always
short of money. I cannot think how it is!”
She knew but too well how it was. The ready money received for oats,
barley, and young stock, went straight into the Major’s yawning
pockets, and then mysteriously evaporated! How could she divulge
to her son that his stepfather had lost seven hundred pounds at the
Curragh, and nearly as much at Cork Park races; that his wine merchant
and tailor were raving for their money; that the servants were owed a
year’s wages; that she blushed to meet the baker’s wife, and was afraid
to enter the post office.
“How is Denis getting on, mother?” asked George, after a pause.
“I really do not know,” she replied with evident reluctance. “Dr.
Moran thinks he has abilities; he is fond of surgery, and you know,
ever since he was quite a boy, he has always killed our pigs; he says
himself that his next examination is absurdly easy.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“You see he has such high spirits, poor fellow,” continued his doting
parent, taking up arms for her darling, against something intangible in
his elder brother’s voice. “He is so young and spirited. It’s hard to
be tied down to books and loathsome disecting-rooms, when he is such a
splendid shot, and so fond of hunting and fishing. He is very sorry now
that he ever decided to be a doctor; he says he ought to have gone into
the army like you.”
“He can still be an army doctor.”
“So he can,” sighed Mrs. Malone, once more resuming her needle. “Well,
we must think it over.”
George leant his elbow on the mantel-piece, and looked at her
attentively. How different from the golden-haired angel of his
childhood! How aged and thin, and worn she had become during these last
five years!
“Mother,” he said abruptly, “you are looking ill and worried; what is
the matter? Have you any trouble on your mind?”
“Yes, George, to tell the truth I have; but I am not going to share it
with you. So don’t ask me. You have been only too generous--the best
of sons--and if I have seen but little of you of late, nor seemed a
real mother to you, I have never forgotten you day and night, and when
I heard that you were so ill, I cannot tell you what I suffered, or
describe my feelings.”
(The Major’s feelings were those of complacent anticipation; if George
died unmarried, his income of five hundred a year lapsed to his mother
for her life.)
“Are you quite sure that the sea voyage has set you up? And _tell_ me,
dear, do you wear flannel next to your skin?” gazing up into his face
with an expression of intense anxiety.
“Do I look like an invalid?” he returned with an evasive smile. “I am
as right as a trivet now. I was well before we reached Suez. Never mind
me, but tell me all about Denis,” and leaning towards her, he said:
“Your trouble is about _him_, is it not?”
“George, you must be a wizard. How could you guess? Well, you are
right; it _is_ about him. His college expenses are frightful, and his
tailor’s bill is incredible.”
“I should not have supposed that he spent much on his clothes,”
remarked his brother gravely.
“But he does, and there is a long account at his grocer’s--he
breakfasts in his rooms--for tea and sugar, and raisins, and
candles--such _quantities_ of candles, but he will study at night.”
(Miserable Mrs. Malone! for candles, read whisky, for sugar, porter,
for tea, gin). “I really dare not show them to his father,” and she put
a ragged lace handkerchief to her eyes, and wept.
“Perhaps, mother, you had better show them to _me_,” suggested George.
“No, no, you are far too liberal. You have little enough as it is,” she
sobbed. “I am past help,” casting her thoughts over all their debts,
their accumulating debts in Dublin, Ballingoole, and at the county
bank. “You might as well try to bale the sea with a tea-spoon as to
help _me_.”
“But if I may not help my own mother, whom may I help?” he urged
eagerly. “I have been living at a cheap little up country station,
where I had no way of spending rupees, and I have a good balance at
Cox’s. I can let you have a cheque for three hundred pounds at once.”
“Oh, George, I am ashamed to take it,” she whimpered, drawing him
towards her, and throwing her arms round his neck. “You make me feel
like a guilty woman; you make me feel like a thief.”
“Mother, you must never say that to _me_. Besides, you forget that I
brought you home no presents. I was too hurried to look for things in
Bombay, and I am sure you can lay out the money far more sensibly than
I should have done, in trashy curiosities.”
(This three hundred pounds was part of a sum that he had set aside for
his trip home; he had had visions of a couple of clever hunters, of
renting a small shooting-box, of a round of the London theatres, and a
trip to Paris and Nice.)
“Is it true that your Uncle Godfrey is going to make you his heir?”
she asked, as she dried her eyes and brightened up a little; “I heard
something about it from old Miss Holroyd.”
“No, he offered me a large allowance if I would cut the Service and
marry.”
“And what did you say, George? I hope you promised to think it over.”
“I thanked him, and declined. I have enough for myself. I have no idea
of marrying, and I mean to stick to the Service, as long as it will
stick to me.”
“If you ever _do_ marry, dear, I hope you will get a good wife.
Marriage is a great lottery, and there are many blanks----”
One of these blanks now walked into the room in the shape of Major
Malone, followed by a tray of light refreshments, also by Cuckoo,
red-eyed, but tranquil.
George poured out a glass of wine, and carried it to his mother,
whilst Cuckoo helped herself generously to macaroons, remarking, as
she did so: “Denis says that sherry is _poison_--eighteen shillings
a dozen--don’t you touch it; it’s only kept for visitors; we never
have supper like this when we are alone. These are lovely macaroons,”
speaking with her mouth full. “Cleary, the grocer, grumbled about
giving them; he is owed _such_ a bill, and he says----”
“Cuckoo,” roared her father, turning on her a countenance charged with
fury, “I have told you once before to-night to hold your tongue. Upon
my word, Lucy, I believe that girl is possessed of some devil. I shall
pack her off to a reformatory one of these days, I swear I shall. As
to Cleary, the grocer,” now blustering and helping himself to a stiff
tumbler of highly-coloured whisky and water, “he is uncommonly proud of
my custom, and thankful to have it. It was my father who first set him
going, and without the Malones of Bridgetstown he would be in a very
poor way.” (Thanks to the Malones of Bridgetstown, he _was_ in a very
poor way.)
The Major had a notion that tradespeople actually considered his orders
a high compliment, and fully equivalent to cash, and when he strutted
into a shop, be it tailor’s, saddler’s, or grocer’s, he selected
largely of the best. He did not comprehend self-denial, nor why _he_
should lack anything that was furnished to men of ten times his means.
Yet when creditors timidly ventured to ask for their little account,
he considered it a most impertinent liberty, as if they were begging
for _his_ money. He was not at all sensitive about debt; he owed bills
for years to his wine merchant and tailor, and had not the most remote
intention of paying them. Ready cash could be laid out so much more
pleasantly and satisfactorily. Besides, when wine has been drunk,
and coats worn threadbare, is it not a cruel hardship to have your
immediate attention requested to a very stiff account?
Cuckoo took shelter behind the chair of her elder brother, and
whispered to him, as she munched her macaroons, that “if anyone ought
to be sent to a reformatory, it was Denis; he was out now, smoking in
the harness room, with Casey, the jockey, and Mooney, the sweep.”
Soon after this refection the family retired to rest. George had the
luxury of a fire in his room, and sat before it for a long time, buried
in thought.
What a home this was! His mother a mere heart-broken household drudge;
his sister a mischievous, razor-tongued little savage; his brother--he
was beginning to fear that Denis, of whom his mother had written such
glowing accounts, was neither more nor less than an idle scapegrace;
and, as to Major Malone--he was Major Malone.
Before the mistress of the house removed her unwonted finery, she got
an envelope and pencil, and hurriedly jotted down her most pressing
debts. The butcher’s bill was £209. Would £80 stop Mrs. Maccabe’s
mouth? The baker was owed £75, and one of Denis’ most dangerous
creditors was clamouring for a hundred “on the nail.” There would be
no margin for Cuckoo’s new outfit, nor for the sealskin jacket for
herself, at which George had hinted. This three hundred would be a mere
drop in the ocean. George must write her a larger cheque. Yes! poor
woman, her finer feelings were blunted by distressing and disgraceful
shifts; the iron entered into her soul when she evaded Miss Bolland,
and cringed to Mrs. Maccabe--terrible Mrs. Maccabe! George was well
off; he had no ties, and but few expenses; and, in spite of all her
tears and deprecations, she was prepared to despoil her eldest born, to
shield and succour Denis.
“Lucy,” said the Major, looking through his dressing-room door, tie in
hand, “do you think that fellow would back a bill for me? Eh! what?
what?”
“No, indeed, Major, I am certain he would not,” she returned
indignantly.
“What have you got on that paper there? Eh, show.”
“Bills; debts; we owe so much money that I am ashamed to walk through
the town. Cleary, the grocer, sent up to-day, and, as to Mrs. Maccabe,
I tremble when I see her.”
“Pooh! So does everyone; you are not uncommon in that, the old
termagant! I say, is that son of yours going to put his hand in his
pocket? What’s the use of a rich fellow like that, if he won’t help his
mother. Eh! what? what?”
“He is not rich, far from it; he believes that I have my jointure of
four hundred a year; he does not know that I sold my life interest in
it years ago.”
“I hope you impressed upon him that times were bad; I will go bail you
cried; it’s about the only thing you are good at,” he concluded with a
savage sneer.
“He has promised me a cheque for three hundred pounds,” said Mrs.
Malone coldly.
“By Jove! then I will go halves!”
“No, indeed, it’s little, it’s not half enough. Do you know that we owe
Kane, the baker, seventy-five pounds, and he is a poor man too.”
“Bosh! I’m a poor man; let these cormorants wait. They _must_; debts of
honour come first, and I owe Dunne, of Jockey Hall, a hundred pounds,
which will have to be paid at once.”
“A bet?”
“Yes, a bet,” he answered, with a defiant scowl.
“Tom Malone,” she said, tearing the envelope slowly as she spoke, “do
you ever think what my life is? Do you know how often I wish I were
dead? Do you suppose, if George Holroyd had lived, that I would be the
poor, mean, unhappy wretch that I am?”
“There, don’t give me any more of that sort of stuff; you know the old
proverb. Eh! what? Never marry a widow, unless her first husband was
_hanged_. I have no doubt that if George the First was the cool-headed,
fastidious, fine gentlemen his son is, he would have been devilish sick
of you long ago. Mind one thing, I must have that hundred pounds this
week; that chap is well off, times are hard. Why, I am actually smoking
a pipe, and drinking cheap Scotch whisky! You are his mother, you have
a strong claim on him. So don’t be afraid of opening your mouth.” And
with this injunction, he entered his dressing-room and shut the door.
One scene more before the night closes. Let us take a peep at Belle
Redmond, as she sits over her bedroom fire, with a small looking-glass
in her hand, carefully examining first her teeth, then her eyelashes.
She has been building fine castles in the air, ever since Juggy, at
the lodge, announced that “a strange gentleman, in a grey ulster, had
passed on a hack car, about six o’clock.”
“He won’t come and call to-morrow,” said Belle to herself. “No, but
after to-morrow we must always have a good fire in the drawing-room,
and I shall wear my brown dress, and see that Eliza is ready to answer
the door. Betty must make a cake. Oh, dear, I hope he will be better
than that oaf, Denis! And have some life and go in him, for I shall
do my best to marry him, no matter how hideous he is. Another winter
here would finish me. I should certainly be found hanging from the
baluster one fine morning. How Eliza would scream! But she would not
cut me down. No! she hates me,” and she smiled at her reflection in the
mirror. “Yes,” she said, with a nod to herself, “I am as handsome and
as irresistible as ever. And to this young Holroyd, fresh from dowdy,
withered women in India, I shall seem divine.”
Then she laid aside her mirror, and, resting her chin on her hand,
gazed into the fire, with an expression of unusual contentment in
her dissatisfied dark eyes. Here is an opportunity to sketch Belle’s
portrait, as she sits thus staring meditatively into the red turf
sods. She inherits her dark eyes, her excitable disposition, and her
volcanic spirit, from her grandmother, a French Canadian; and ever
since she was a pretty and precocious--though somewhat sallow--infant,
she has absolutely ruled her mother, who never attempted to contradict
her wishes, nor to restrain her unusually fiery temper. What was
amusing petulance at three years of age, was ungovernable passion
at--well--twenty-nine. For each disastrous love affair, or social
disappointment, had served to increase the force of her most prominent
characteristic. She made no effort to control her furies before
inferiors, or in the bosom of her family, for she had an idea that,
as she was beautiful, she was absolved from being good! Fortunately
these domestic tornadoes were of short duration, and, whilst the storm
raged (and Belle raved, and stamped, and screamed) all the household
bent before it, as reeds in a strong gale. When it passed over, the
frantic madwoman of ten minutes previously, having gained her end,
was a kissing, weeping, coaxing slave. Mrs. Redmond spoke of these
visitations as “attacks on the nerves,” but the servants gave them a
totally different interpretation. Belle’s scenes were chiefly enacted
for the benefit of the home circle; but now and then there had been
disagreeable outbreaks in shops, in boarding-houses, and, above all,
at the rehearsals of private theatricals, after which, it had been the
painful office of her miserable mother to offer abject apologies, to
eat humble pie, and to fly the neighbourhood. Belle was undoubtedly out
of her element at Noone, a veritable swan upon a turnpike road. She
danced admirably, sang delightful little French songs, and acted with
such grace and _verve_ and real dramatic feeling, that spiteful people
hinted that she was a professional, whose temper had been the bane of
her engagements. But who wanted piquant chansons, or inimitable acting,
in dreary Ballingoole? They would have been respectively stigmatised
as French trash and tomfoolery; Belle pined for her former nomadic
existence, and detested her present respectable anchorage. She loved
the town and the gay haunts of fashion; loathed the country, and had a
true Frenchwoman’s abhorrence of wet fields, muddy roads, strong boots
and draggled petticoats. Although she only understood house-keeping
from a lady lodger’s point of view, to wit, hashes, cold mutton, and
poached eggs, she nevertheless eagerly seized the reins of government
on her arrival at Noone. Her restless spirit and maddening tongue
(and, they said, mean ways) soon drove the old servants wild--servants
accustomed to unlimited meat, unlimited tea, and unlimited leisure.
There was one tremendous scene of powerful domestic interest, and they
all gave warning, and departed “_en masse_.” After this catastrophe,
the keys were made over to Betty, who established a new régime--and a
great calm. Belle was unspeakably miserable; she had nothing to do;
no congenial society; nowhere to display her gay new hats. Far be it
from _her_, to run after beagles, to gather blackberries, or to visit
stupid, narrow-minded old ladies. She spent as much time from home as
possible, and, when at Noone, lay novel-reading in bed, or prowled
restlessly from room to room, from window to window, and filled in
the weary hours by combing her poodle, writing long letters, and
reorganising her wardrobe. Sometimes, in fine weather, she dressed
herself carefully, arrayed “Mossoo” in a pink ribbon, and strolled
along a road that led to an--alas!--distant garrison town, on the
meagre chance of meeting an officer who might drift thus far to shoot
or fish. If she encountered one or two in a sporting dog-cart, and if
they had stared very hard at the pretty, smartly dressed girl, and her
well-trimmed companion, Belle’s mission was accomplished; she was happy
for _that_ day.
* * * * *
The morning after George Holroyd’s arrival, Mrs. Malone had a tearful
and pathetic conversation with her son; and, as she sauntered, arm
in arm with him, round the wintry garden, she opened her mouth to
such an extent, that he was compelled to make his head-quarters at
Bridgetstown. There would be no spare cash for clever hunters, a trip
abroad, or even a little mixed shooting. Surely Belle Redmond’s star
was in the ascendant.