Book: The Foolish Lovers

S >> St. John G. Ervine >> The Foolish Lovers




"Mebbe you're right, ma," he said.

Mrs. MacDermott looked suspiciously at him. "You changed your mind very
quick," she said.

"I always change my mind quick," he replied.

They heard the noise of tapping overhead.

"That's your Uncle Matthew," said Mrs. MacDermott, rising from her
chair.

"I'll go," John exclaimed hastily. "It's mebbe me he wants!"

He ran quickly up the stairs and entered his Uncle's room.

"Yes, Uncle Matthew?" he said.

"I heard you all talking together," Uncle Matthew answered. "What's
happened?"

"Oh, nothing! My story's been refused. That's all."

Uncle Matthew put out his hand and took hold of John's. "Are you very
disappointed?" he said.

"Yes, I am. I made sure they'd take it!"

"There ought to have been a woman in it. You know, John, I told you
that. There was no love in that story, and people like to read about
love. That's natural. Sure, it's the beginning of everything!"

"I didn't know anything about it then, Uncle!..."

"No, but you do now ... a wee bit ... and you might have imagined it.
You'd never be your father's son, if you hadn't a heart brimful of
love. What else were you talking about?"

John told his Uncle of his proposal to go to London in search of
experience.

"Aye, you'll have to do that some day," his Uncle replied, "but there's
no hurry yet awhile. You'd better finish your schooling first, and you
could go on writing here 'til you get more mastery of it. You might try
to write a book, and then when it's done, you could go to London or
somewhere. I'd be sorry if you went just now!..."

"I'm not meaning to go yet, Uncle!"

"Very good, son. I'd like you to be here when I ... when!..."

He did not finish his sentence, but the pressure of his hand on John's
increased.

"Eh, John?" he said.

"Yes, Uncle Matthew!" John replied. He quickly changed the
conversation. "You're looking a lot better," he said.

Uncle Matthew smiled. "Oh, aye," he replied, "I feel a lot better, too.
I'll mebbe beat the doctor yet. He thinks I'm done for, but mebbe I'll
teach him different!"

"You will, indeed. And why wouldn't you? You're young yet!"

Uncle Matthew did not reply to this. He turned on his pillow and
glanced towards the dressing-table.

"Are you looking for anything?" John asked.

"Is there a book there?"

"No," John said. "Do you want one?"

"Your ma read a wee bit to me in the night, after you went to bed. I
thought mebbe you'd read a wee bit more to me. _Willie Reilly_, it
was."

"I'll get it for you," John replied, going to the door. He called to
his mother, and she told him that she had brought the book downstairs
with her.

"Wait a minute and I'll fetch it," she said.

She returned in a moment or two, carrying the book in her hand, and
mounted half-way up the staircase to meet him. She pointed to a place
in the book. "I read up to there to him in the night," she said. John
looked at his mother, as he took the book from her hands, and saw how
tired she looked.

"Did you not get any sleep at all, ma?" he asked with concern.

"I'm all right, son," she answered.

"No, you're not," he insisted. "You'll just go to your bed this minute
and lie down for a while!..."

"And the dinner to cook and all," she interrupted.

"Well, after your dinner then. You'll lie down the whole afternoon.
Uncle William and me'll get the tea ready, and we'll take it in turns
to look after Uncle Matthew!"

She stood on the step beneath him, looking at him with dark, tired
eyes, and then she put out her hand and touched him on the shoulder.
"You'll not leave me, John?" she pleaded.

"No, ma," he answered. "Not for a long while yet!"

She turned away from him and went down the stairs again.

John returned to his Uncle's room, and sat down by the side of the bed.
He opened the book and began to read of Willie Reilly and his Colleen
Bawn. Now and then he glanced at his Uncle and wondered at the
childlike and innocent look on his face. There was a strange simplicity
in his eyes ... not the simplicity of those who have not got
understanding, but of those who have a deep and unchangeable knowledge
that is very different from the knowledge of other men; and once again
John assured himself that while Uncle Matthew's behaviour might be
"quare" when compared with that of other people, yet it was not foolish
behaviour nor the behaviour of the feeble-minded: it was the conduct of
a man who responded immediately to simple and honest emotions, who did
not stop to consider questions of discretion or interest, but did the
thing which seemed to him to be right.

"What are you thinking of, Uncle Matthew?" he said suddenly, putting
down the book, for it seemed to him that his Uncle was no longer
listening.

"I was thinking I wouldn't have missed my life for the wide world!"
Uncle Matthew replied.

"After everything?" John asked.

"Aye, in spite of everything," said Uncle Matthew. "There's great value
in life ... great value!"

John picked up the book again, but he did not begin to read, nor did
Uncle Matthew show any signs that he wished the reading to be resumed.

"Our minds go this way and that way," Uncle Matthew went on, "and some
of us are not happy 'til we're away here and there!..."

"You were always wanting to be off after adventures yourself, Uncle
Matthew!"

"Aye, John, I was, and I never went. I've oftentimes thought little of
myself for that, but I'm wondering now, lying here, whether it wasn't a
great adventure to stop at home. I don't know! I don't know! But I'll
know in a wee while! John!"

"Yes, Uncle!"

"I wouldn't change places with the King of England, at this minute, not
for all the money in the mint and my weight in gold!"

"Why, Uncle Matthew?"

"Do you know why? Because in a wee while, I'll know all there is to
know, and he'll be left here knowing no more nor the rest of you. God
is good, John. He shares out his knowledge without favour to anyone.
The like of us'll know as much in the next world as the like of
them!..."



IV

When the sharper anxieties concerning Uncle Matthew had subsided,
John's mind was filled with thoughts of Maggie Carmichael. It seemed to
him to be impossible that any seven days in the history of the world
had been so long in passing as the seven days which separated him from
his next meeting with her. His work at the Ballyards National School
lost any interest it ever had for him: the pupils seemed to be at once
the stupidest and laziest and most aggravating children on earth.
Lizzie Turley completely lost her power to add two and one together and
make three of them. Strive as he might, he could not make her
comprehend or remember that two and one, when added together, did not
amount to five. There was even a dreadful day when she lost her power
to subtract.... Miss Gebbie, the teacher to whom he was most often
monitor, had always had hard, uncouth manners, but they became almost
intolerable before the seven days had passed by ... and it seemed
certain that there must be a crisis in her life and in his before the
clock struck three on Friday afternoon! If she complained again, he
said to himself, about the way in which he marked the children's
exercise books, he would tell her in very plain language what he
thought of her and her big bamboo-cane. When she slapped the children,
the corners of her mouth went down and her large lips tightened and a
cruel glint came into her eyes!...

It was only during the reading half-hour that his mind was at ease in
school that week, for then he could let his thoughts roam from
Ballyards to Belfast, and fill his eyes with visions of Maggie. The
droning voices of the children, reading "Jack has got a cart and can
draw sand and clay in it," were almost soothing, and it was sufficient
for supervision, if now and then, he would call out, "Next!" The child
who was reading would instantly stop, and the child next to her would
instantly begin....

It seemed to him that he had the clearest impressions of Maggie
Carmichael, and yet had also the vaguest impressions of her. He
remembered very distinctly that she had bright, laughing eyes, and that
her hair was fair, and that she had pretty teeth: white and even. He
had often read in books of the beauty of a woman's teeth, but he had
never paid much attention to them. After all, what was the purpose of
teeth? To bite. It was ridiculous, he had told himself, to talk and
write of beauty in teeth when all that mattered was whether they could
bite well or not.... But now, remembering the beauty of Maggie
Carmichael's mouth, he saw that the writers had done well when they
insisted on the beauty of teeth. Any sort of a good tooth would do for
biting and chewing, but there was something more than that to be said
for good, white, even teeth. If teeth were of no value otherwise than
for biting and chewing, false teeth were better than natural teeth!...
And false teeth were so hideous to look at; so smug, so self-conscious.
Aggie Logan had false teeth. So had Teeshie McBratney and Sadie
Cochrane. Things with pale gums!...

He had wanted to kiss Maggie Carmichael's teeth, so beautiful were
they. Just her teeth. It had been splendid to kiss her lips, but then
one always kissed lips. Men, according to the books, even kissed hair
and ears and eyes. He had read recently of a man who kissed a woman on
the neck, just behind the ear; and at the time he had thought that this
was a very queer thing to do. Love, he supposed, was responsible for a
thing like that. He could not account for it in any other way. He
understood _now_, of course. When a man loved a woman, every part
of her was very dear and beautiful to him, and to kiss her neck just
behind the ear was as exquisite as to kiss her lips. No one, in any of
the books he had read, had wished to kiss a woman's teeth. There were
still hidden joys in kissing ... and he had discovered one of them. He
would kiss Maggie's teeth on Saturday. He would kiss her lips, too, of
course, and her hair and her eyes and ears and the part of her neck
that was just behind her ear, but most of all he would kiss her
teeth!...

He thought that it was very strange that he should think so ardently of
kissing Maggie. He could have kissed Aggie Logan dozens of times, but
he had never had the slightest desire to kiss her. He remembered how
foolish he had thought her that night at the soiree when someone
proposed that they should play Postman's Knock. Aggie Logan had called
him out to the lobby. There was a letter for him, she said, with three
stamps on it. Three stamps! Did anyone ever hear the like of that? And
he was to go into the lobby and give her three kisses, one after the
other ... peck, peck, peck ... and then it would be his turn to call
for someone, and Aggie would expect him to call for her! ... Willie
Logan had called for a girl. He had a letter for her with fifty stamps
on it ... A great roar of laughter had gone up from the others when
they heard of the amount of the postage, and Willie was thought to be a
daring, desperate fellow ... until the superintendent of the Sunday
School said that there must be reason in all things and proposed a
limit of three stamps on each letter ... no person to be called for
more than twice in succession. Willie, boisterous and very amorous,
whispered to John that he did not care what limit they made ... no one
could tell how many extra stamps you put on your letter out in the
lobby....

John had not answered Aggie's call. He had contrived to get out of the
school-room without being observed, and Aggie had been obliged to call
for someone else. Kissing!... Kiss her!... Three stamps!... Peck, peck,
_peck_!...



V

Wednesday dragged itself out slowly and very reluctantly; Thursday was
worse than Wednesday; and Friday was only saved from being as bad as
Thursday by its nearness to Saturday. On the morrow, he would see
Maggie again. Many times during the week, he had debated with himself
as to whether he should write to her or not, but the difficulty of
knowing what to say to her, except that he loved her and was longing
for the advent of Saturday, prevented him front doing so. In any case,
it would be difficult to write to her without questions from his
mother, and if Maggie were to reply to him, there would be no end to
the talk from her. After all, a week was only a week. On Monday, a week
had seemed to be an interminable period of time, but on Friday, it had
resumed the normal aspect of a week, a thing with a definite and
reachable end. It was odd to observe how, as the week drew to its
close, the intolerable things became tolerable. Miss Gebbie seemed to
be a little less inhuman on Friday than she had been on Monday, and
Lizzie Turley marvellously recovered her power to add two and one
together and get the correct result. Beyond all doubt, he was in love.
There could not be any other explanation of his behaviour and his
peculiar impatience. That any man should conduct himself as he had done
during the week now ending, for any other reason than that he was in
love, was impossible. Why, he woke up in the morning, thinking of
Maggie, and he went to sleep at night, thinking of Maggie. He thought
of her when he was at school, and he thought of her in the street, in
the shop, in the kitchen, even in his Uncle Matthew's room. When it was
his turn to sit by Uncle Matthew's side, his mind, for more than half
the time, was in Belfast with Maggie. He had read more than a hundred
pages of _Willie Reilly_ to his Uncle, but he had not comprehended
one of them. He had been thinking exclusively of Maggie.

He wondered whether he would always be in this state of absorption.
Other people fell in love, as he knew, but they seemed to be able to
think of other things besides their love. Perhaps they were not so much
in love as he was! He began to see difficulties arising from this great
devotion of his to Maggie. It would be very hard to concentrate his
mind on a story if it were full of thoughts of her. He would probably
spoil any work he attempted to do, because his mind would not be on it,
but away with Maggie. In none of the books he had read, had he seen any
account of the length of time a pair of lovers took in which to get
used to each other and to adjust their affections to the ordinary needs
of life. He would never cease to love Maggie, of course, but he
wondered how long it would be before his mind would become capable of
thinking of Maggie and of something else at the same time ... or even
of thinking of something else without thinking of Maggie at all....



VI

His mother had looked dubiously at him when he talked of going to
Belfast on Saturday. She said that he ought not to leave home while his
Uncle Matthew was so ill, but Dr. Dobbs had given a more optimistic
opinion on the sick man's condition, and so, after they had argued over
the matter, she withdrew her objection. Uncle William had insisted that
John ought to go up to the city for the sake of the change. The lad had
had a hard week, what with his school work and his writing and his
attention to Uncle Matthew, and the change would be good for him. "Only
don't miss the train this time," he added to John.

Maggie met him outside the theatre. He had not long to wait for her,
and his heart thrilled at the sight of her as she came round Arthur's
Corner.

"So you have come," she said to him, as she shook hands with him.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" he answered.

"Oh, well," she replied, "you never know with fellows! Some of them
makes an appointment to meet you, and you'd think from the way they
talk about it that they were dying to meet you; and then when the time
comes, you might stand at the corner 'til your feet were frozen to the
ground, but not a bit of them would turn up. I'd never forgive a boy
that treated me that way!"

"I'm not the sort that treats a girl that way," said John.

"Oh, indeed you could break your word as well as the next! Many's a
time I've give my word to a fellow and broke it myself, just because I
didn't feel like keeping it. But it's different for a girl nor it is
for a fellow. There's no harm in a girl disappointing a fellow. I hear
this piece at the Royal is awfully good this week. It's about a girl
that nearly gets torn to pieces by a mad lion. I don't know whether I
like that sort of piece or not. It seems terrible silly, and it would
be awful if the hero come on a minute or two late and the girl was ate
up fornent your eyes!"

John laughed. "There's not much danger of that," he replied.

There were very few people waiting outside the Pit Door, and so they
were able to secure good seats with ease. "The best of coming in the
daytime," John said, "is you have a better chance of the front row than
you have at night!"

She nodded her head. "But it's better at night," she answered. "A piece
never seems real to me in the daylight."

"Where'll we go to-night?" he said to her.

"Oh, I can't go with you to-night again," she exclaimed, taking a
chocolate from the box which he had bought for her.

"Why?"

"I have another appointment!..."

"Break it," he commanded.

"I couldn't do that!..."

"Oh, yes, you could," he insisted. "You told me yourself you'd
disappointed fellows many's a time!"

"I daresay I did, but I can't break this one," she retorted.

Suspicion entered his mind. "Is it with another fellow?" he asked.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," she said.

"Is it?" he demanded.

"And what if it is?"

"I don't want you to go out with anybody else but me!"

She ate another chocolate. "Have one?" she said, passing the box to
him. He shook his head moodily. "Are you going to do what I ask or are
you not?" he said.

"Don't be childish," she replied. "I've promised a friend to go to a
concert to-night, and I'll have to go. That's all about it!"

"Is it a fellow?"

"Mebbe it is and mebbe it's not!" she teased.

"You know I'm in love with you!" She laughed lightly, and he bent his
head closer to her. "Listen, Maggie," he went on, "I know I only met
you for the first time last Saturday, but I'm terrible in love with
you. Listen! I want to marry you, Maggie!..."

She burst out laughing.

"Don't make a mock of me," he pleaded.

She turned to look at him. "What age are you?" she demanded.

"I'm near nineteen," he answered.

"And I'm twenty-two," she retorted. "Twenty-two past, I am. Four years
older nor you!..."

"That doesn't matter," he insisted.

"It wouldn't if the ages was the other way round ... you twenty-two and
me nineteen!"

"It doesn't matter what way they are. It's not age that matters: it's
feeling!"

"You'll feel different, mebbe, when you're a bit older. What would
people say if I was to marry you now, after meeting you a couple of
times, and you four years younger nor me?"

"It doesn't matter what they'd say," he replied. "Sure, people are
always saying something!"

She ruminated! "I like going out with you well enough, and you're a
queer, nice wee fellow, but it's foolish talk to be talking of getting
married. What trade are you at?"

"I'm a monitor," he answered. "I'm in my last year!..."

"You're still at the school," she said.

"I'm a monitor," he replied, insisting on his status.

"Och, sure that's only learning. When in the earthly world would you be
able to keep a wife?"

"I'm going to write books!..."

"What sort of books?"

"Story books," he said.

"Have you writ any yet?"

"No, but I wrote a short story once!"

She looked at him admiringly. "How much did you get for it?" she asked.

"I didn't get anything for it," he replied. "They wouldn't take it!"

She remained silent for a few moments. Then she said, "Your prospects
aren't very bright!"

"But they'll get brighter," he said. "They will. I tell you they will!"

"When?" she asked.

"Some day," he answered.

"Some day may be a long day in coming," she went on. "I might have to
wait a good while before you were able to marry me. Five or six years,
mebbe, and then I'd be getting on to thirty, John. You'd better be
looking out for a younger girl nor me!"

"I don't want anybody else but you," he replied.



VII

When the play was over, they walked arm in arm towards the restaurant
where she was employed. "I promised Mrs. Bothwell we'd have our tea
there," Maggie said to John. "It put her in a sweet temper, the thought
of having two customers for certain. She'll mebbe give up that place.
It's not paying her well. She wasn't going to give me the time off at
first, but I told you were my cousin up from the country for the
day!..."

"But I'm not your cousin," John objected.

"That doesn't matter. Sure, you have to tell a wee bit of a lie now and
again, or you'd never get your way at all. And it saves bother and
explaining!"

They crossed High Street and were soon at the foot of the stairs
leading up to Bothwell's Restaurant. "Mind," said Maggie in a whisper,
"you're my cousin!"

He did not speak, but followed her up the stairs and into the
restaurant where she introduced him to a plain, stoutly-built, but
cheerless woman who came from the small room into the large one as they
entered it. There was one customer in the room, but he finished his tea
and departed soon after Maggie and John arrived. In a little while, she
and he were eating their meal. John politely asked Mrs. Bothwell to
join them, but she declined.

She sat at a neighbouring table and talked to them of the play.

"I don't know when I was last at a theatre," she said, "and I don't
know when I'll go again. I always say to myself when I come away,
'Well, that's over and my money's spent and what satisfaction have I
got for it?' And when I think it all out, there doesn't seem to be any
satisfaction. You've spent your money, and the play's over, and that's
all. It seems a poor sort of return!'"

"You might say that about anything," John said. "A football match
or ... or one of these nice wee cookies of yours!"

"Oh, indeed, you might," Mrs. Bothwell admitted. "Sure, there's no
pleasure in the world that's lasting, and mebbe if there were we
wouldn't like it. You pay your good money for a thing, and you have it
a wee while, and then it's all over, and you have to pay more money for
something else. Or mebbe you have it a long while, only you're not
content with it. That's the way it always is. There's very little
satisfaction to be got out of anything. Look at the Albert Memorial!
That looks solid enough, but there's people says it'll tumble to the
ground one of these days with the running water that's beneath it!"

Maggie took a big bite from a cookie. "Oh, now, there's satisfaction in
everything," she said, "if you only go the right way about getting it
and don't expect too much. I always say you get as much in this world
as you're able to take ... and it's true enough. I know I take all in
the way of enjoyment that I can put my two hands on. There's no use in
being miserable, and it's nicer to be happy!"

"You're mebbe right." said Mrs. Bothwell. "But you can't just be
miserable or happy when you like. I can't anyway!"

"You should try," said Maggie.

Mrs. Bothwell went to the small room and did not return. John was glad
that her dissatisfaction with the universe did not make her oblivious
of the fact that Maggie and he were content enough with each other's
company and did not require the presence of a third party.

He leant across the table and took hold of one of Maggie's hands.
"You've not answered my question yet?" he said.

"What question?" she said.

"About going out with me," he replied.

"I'll go to the Royal with you next Saturday," she said.

"Ah, but for good! I mean it when I say I want to marry you!..."

"You're an awful wee fool," she exclaimed, drawing her hand from his
and slapping him playfully.

"Fool!"

"Yes. I thought at first you were having me on, but I think now you're
only a wee fool. But I like you all the same!"

"Am I a fool for loving you?" he demanded.

"Oh, no, not for that, but for knowing so little!"

"Marry me, Maggie," he pleaded.

"Wheesht," she said, "Mrs. Bothwell will hear you!..."

"I don't care who hears!..."

"But I do," she interrupted. "You're an awful one for not caring.
You've said that more nor once to-day!" She glanced at the clock. "I'll
have to be going soon," she said.

"No, not yet awhile!..."

"But I will. I'll be late if I stop!..."

She began to draw on her gloves as she spoke.

"Well, when will I see you again?" he asked.

"Next Saturday if you like!..."

"Can I not see you before? I could come up to Belfast on Wednesday!..."

"I'm engaged on Wednesday," she said.

"But!"

"Och, quit butting," she retorted. "I'll see you on Saturday and no
sooner. Pay Mrs. Bothwell and come on!..."



VIII

She insisted on leaving him at the Junction, and he moodily watched her
climbing into a tram. She waved her hand to him as the tram drove off,
and he waved his in reply. And then she was gone, and he had a sense of
loss and depression. He stared gloomily about him. What should he do
now? He might go to the Opera House or to one of the music-halls or he
might just walk about the streets....

He thought of what Mrs. Bothwell had said earlier in the day. "There's
very little satisfaction in anything!"

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