The Foolish Lovers

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He went along High Street towards Castle Place, and as he walked along,
he regarded each woman and girl that approached him with interest.

"That one's nice-looking!" he said of a girl, and "That one's ugly!" he
said of another. He wondered why it was that all the older women of the
working-class were so misshapen and lacking in good looks, when so many
of the girls of the working-class were shapely and pretty. Mr.
Cairnduff had told him that Belfast girls were prettier than London
girls. "London girls aren't pretty at all," Mr. Cairnduff had said.
"You'd walk miles in London before you'd see a pretty girl, but you
wouldn't walk ten yards in Belfast before you'd meet dozens!" And yet,
all those pretty working-girls grew into dull, misshapen, displeasing
women. "It's getting married that does it, I suppose," he said to
himself. "They were all nice once, but they married and grew ugly!"

He did not look long at the ugly and misshapen women. His eyes quickly
searched through the crowds of passers-by for the pretty girls, and at
them he looked with eagerness.

"There's no doubt about it," he said to himself, "girls are nice to
look at!"

He found a restaurant in the street off High Street. He climbed up some
stairs, and then, pushing a door open, entered a large room, at the
back of which was a smaller room. A girl was standing at a window,
looking out on to the street, but she turned her head when she heard
him entering. She smiled pleasantly as he sat down, and came forward to
take his order.

"It's turned out a brave day after all," she said.

He said "Aye" and smiled at her in return. She had thick, fair hair,
and he remembered Bassanio's description of Portia:

_And her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece._

He had a curious desire to talk to the girl about the play he had just
seen, and before he gave his order, he glanced about the room. She and
he were the only persons in it.

"You don't seem to be very busy," he said.

"Och, indeed, we're not," she replied. "We seldom are on a Saturday.
Mrs. Bothwall ... her that owns the place ... thought mebbe some
football fellows might come here for their tea after the matches so's
they needn't go home before starting for the Empire or the Alhambra:
but, sure, none of them ever comes. We might as well be shut for the
custom we get!"

He ordered his tea, and she went to the small room at the back of the
large room to prepare it. He thought it would be a good plan to ask the
girl if she would care to have her tea with him, but a sudden shyness
prevented him from doing so, and he was unable to say more than "Thank
you" when she put the teapot by his side. There was plenty for two on
the table, he said to himself: a loaf and a bap and some soda-farls and
a potato cake and the half of a barn-brack and butter and raspberry
jam. He looked across the room to where the girl was again looking out
of the window. He liked the way she stood, with one hand resting on her
hip and the other on her cheek. He could see that she had small feet
and slender ankles, and while he looked at her, she rubbed her foot
against her leg and he saw for a moment or two the flash of a white
petticoat....

"I was at the Royal the day!" he called to her.

She turned round quickly. "Were you?" she said. "Was it good?"

"It was grand. I enjoyed it the best," he answered.

She came towards him and sat down at a table near to his. "What piece
was it you saw?" she asked. "It's Benson's Company, isn't it?"

"Yes. I saw _Romeo and Juliet_."

"Oh, that's an awful sad piece. I cried my eyes out one year when I saw
it!"

"It's a great play," John said.

"I suppose you often go?" she went on.

"Last Saturday was the first time I ever went to a theatre. I saw
_The Merchant of Venice_. I'll go every Saturday after this, when
there's a good piece on. I'm going again to-night to see _Julius
Caesar!_"

"I'd love to see that piece!"

"Would you?"

"Aye, indeed I would. I'm just doting on the theatre. The last piece I
saw was _The Lights of London_. It was lovely."

"I never saw that bit," John answered. "You see I live in Ballyards and
I only come up to town on Saturdays."

"By your lone?" she asked.

He nodded his head. He poured out his tea, and then began to spread
butter on a piece of soda-farl.

"I'd be awful dull walking the streets by myself," she said, watching
him as he did so. "I'm a terrible one for company. I can't bear being
by myself!"

"Company's good," he said. "Have you had your tea yet?"

"I'll be having it in a wee while!"

"I wish you'd have it with me!" He spoke hesitatingly.

"Oh, I couldn't!" she exclaimed.

"Sure, what's to hinder you?" His voice became bolder.

"Oh, I couldn't. I couldn't really!..."

"You might as well have it with me as have it by yourself. And there's
nobody'll see you. Where's Mrs. Bothwell?"

"She's away home with a headache!..."

"Then you're all by yourself here!" She nodded her head. "What time do
you shut?" he went on.

"Half-six generally, but Mrs. Bothwell said I'd better shut at six the
night!"

He took a cup and saucer and a knife and plate from an adjoining table
and put them down opposite his own.

"Come on," he said, "and have your tea!"

"Och, I couldn't," she protested weakly.

He poured out some of the tea for her, "I suppose you take milk and
sugar?" he said.

"You're a terrible fellow," she murmured admiringly, and he could see
that her eyes were shining with pleasure.

"Draw up to the table," he replied.

She hesitated for a little while, and then she sat down. "This is not
very like the thing," she murmured.

"It doesn't matter whether it is or not," he replied. "What'll you
have ... bread or soda-farl?"

She helped herself.

"You know," he said, "I was thinking it would be a good plan for the
two of us to go to the theatre to-night!"

"The two of us," she exclaimed. "Me and you!"

"Aye! Why not?"

She put down her cup and laughed. "I never met anybody in my life that
made so much progress in a short time as you do," she said. "What in
the earthly world put that notion into your head?"

"There's no notion about it," he exclaimed. "I'm asking you plump and
plain will you come to the theatre with me to-night!..."

"But it wouldn't be like the thing at all to go to the theatre with a
boy that I never saw before and never heard tell of 'til this minute. I
don't even know your name!..."

"John MacDermott," he said.

"Are you a Catholic?"

"No. I'm a Presbyterian."

"It's a Catholic name," she mused. "I know a family by the name of
MacDermott, and they're desperate Catholics. They live over in
Ballymacarrett. Do you know them?"

"I do not. There never was a person in our family was a Catholic ...
not that we have mind of. Will you come with me?"

"Ooh, I couldn't!"

"I'll not take 'No' for an answer!" he said, "and I'll not put another
bite in my mouth 'til you say 'Yes.' D'you hear me?"

"You've an awful abrupt way of talking," she replied.

"What's abrupt about it?" he demanded.

"Well, queer then!" she said.

"I see nothing abrupt or queer about it. Are you coming or are you
not?"

"As if you were used to getting what you wanted, the minute you wanted
it," she went on, disregarding his question and intent on explaining
the queerness of his speech. "I'd be afeard to be _your_ wife,
you'd be such a bossy man!"

"Ah, quit!" he said. "Will you come?"

"I might!..."

"Will you?"

"Well, perhaps!..."

"Will you or will you not?"

"You're an awful man," she protested.

"Will you come?"

"All right, then," she replied, "but!..."

"I'll have some more tea," said John. He looked round the room while
she poured the tea into his cup. "Are there any more cakes or buns?" he
asked.

"Yes, would you like some?"

"Bring a plate full," he said. "Bring some with sugar on the top and
jam in the middle!"

"Florence cakes?"

"Aye!"

"You've a sweet tongue in your head!" She went to the small room as she
spoke.

"I have," he exclaimed. "And I daresay you have, too!"

IV

"You never told me your name," he said, when she returned with the
plate of cakes.

"Give a guess!" she teased.

He looked at her for a moment. "Maggie!" he said.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know," he answered. "You look like a Maggie. What's your
other name?"

"Carmichael!"

"Maggie Carmichael!" he exclaimed. "It's a nice name!"

"I'm glad you like it," she said.

V

He sat back in his chair while she went to prepare for the theatre. How
lucky it was that he had asked his Uncle William for more money that
morning "in case I need it!" If he had not done so, he would not have
been able to offer to take Maggie to the theatre.... They would go in
by the Early Door. There was certain to be a crowd outside the ordinary
door on a Saturday night. What a piece of luck it was that he had
chosen to take his tea in this place instead of the restaurant to which
he usually went. Mrs. Bothwell's headache, too, that was a piece of
luck, for him, although not, perhaps, for her. He liked the look of
Maggie. He liked her bright face and her laugh and her beautiful,
golden hair. What was that bit again?

_In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair and fairer than that word
Of wondrous virtue...._

and then again:

_...and her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece._

Maggie came out of the small room, ready for the street, and he sat and
watched her as she shut the door behind her.

"I believe I'm in love," he said to himself. "I believe I am!"

"Are you ready?" he said aloud.

"I've only to draw the blinds and then lock the door!" she replied.

"I'll draw them for you," he said, going over to the windows and
drawing down the blinds as he spoke. "Did you ever see _The Merchant
of Venice_?" he asked when he had done so.

"No," she said.

"There's a bit in it that makes me think of you," he went on.

"Oh, now, don't start plastering me," she exclaimed gaily.

"I mean it," he said, and he quoted the lines about Portia's sunny
locks.

"That's poetry." she said.

"It is!" he replied.

"It's queer and nice!"

She opened the door leading to the stairs, and then went back to the
room to turn out the light. The room was in semi-darkness, save where a
splash of yellow light from the staircase fell at the doorway.

He turned towards her as she made her way to the door, and put out his
hand to her. She took hold of it, and as she did so, he caught her
quickly to him and drew her into his arms and kissed her soft, warm
lips.

"You're an awful wee fellow," she said, freeing herself from his
embrace and smiling at him.

He did not answer her, but his heart was singing inside him. _I love
her. I know I love her. I love her. I love her. I know I love her._

They went down the stairs together, and as they emerged into the
street, he put his arm in hers and drew, her close to him. Almost he
wished that they were not going to the theatre, that they might walk
like this, arm in arm, for the remainder of the evening. He could still
feel the warmth of her lips on his, and he wished that they could go to
some quiet place so that he might kiss her again. But he had asked her
to go to the theatre, and he did not wish to disappoint her. They
entered the theatre by the Early Door, and sat in the middle of the
front row of the pit. There was a queer silence in the theatre, for the
ordinary doors had not yet opened, and the occasional murmur of a voice
echoed oddly. John put his arm in Maggie's and wound his fingers in
hers, and felt the pressure of her hand against his hand. When the
ordinary doors of the theatre were opened and the crowd came pouring
in, he hardly seemed aware of the people searching for good seats.
Maggie had tried to withdraw her hand from his when she heard the noise
of the people hurrying down the stone steps, but he had not released
her, and she had remained content. And so they sat while the theatre
quickly filled. Presently an attendant with programmes and chocolates
came towards them, and he purchased a box of chocolates for her.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said, making the polite protest.

"I've always heard girls are fond of sweeties," he replied.

He put the box of chocolates in her lap, and opened the programme and
handed it to her.

"It's a long piece," she said, "with a whole lot of acts and scenes in
it. That's the sort of piece I like ... with a whole lot of changes in
it!"

"Do you?" he said.

"Yes. I came here one time to see a piece that was greatly praised in
the _Whig_ and the _Newsletter_, and do you know they used
the same scene in every act! I thought it was a poor miserly sort of a
play. The bills said it was a London company, but I don't believe that
was true. They were just letting on to be from London. They couldn't
have had much money behind them when they couldn't afford more nor the
one scene, could they!"

"Mebbe you're right," he answered.

The members of the orchestra came into the theatre, and after a while
the music began. The lights in the theatre were diminished and then
were extinguished, and the curtain went up. John snuggled closer to
Maggie.

VI

He was scarcely aware of the performance on the stage, so aware was he
of the nearness of Maggie. He heard applause, but he did not greatly
heed it. He was in love. He had never been in love before, and he had
always thought of it as something very different from this, something
cold and austere and aloof, and very dignified ... not at all like this
warm, intimate, careless thing. He slipped his hand from Maggie's and
slowly put his arm round her waist. She did not resist him, and when he
drew her more closely to him so that their heads were nearly touching,
she yielded to him without demur. He could feel her heart beating where
his hand pressed against her side, and he heard the slow rise and fall
of her breath as she inhaled and exhaled. He could not get near enough
to her. He wanted to draw her head down on to his shoulder, to put both
his arms about her, to feel again his lips on her lips....

He started suddenly. Someone was tapping him, on the shoulder. He
turned round to meet the gaze of an elderly, indignant woman who was
seated immediately behind him.

"Sit still," she said in a loud whisper. "I can't see the stage for you
two ducking your heads together!"

VII

He took his arm away from Maggie's waist, and edged a little away from
her. He felt angry and humiliated. He told himself that he did not care
who saw him putting his arm about Maggie's waist, but was aware that
this was not true, that he deeply resented being overlooked in his
love-making. He did not wish anyone to behold him in this intimate
relationship with Maggie, and he was full of fury against the woman
behind him because she had seen him fondling her. For of course the
woman knew that he had his arm about Maggie ... and now her neighbours
would know, too. The whole theatre would know that he had been
embracing the girl!... Well, what if they did know? Let them know!
There was no harm in a fellow putting his arm round a girl's waist. It
was a natural thing for a fellow to do, particularly if the girl were
so pretty and warm and loving as Maggie Carmichael. The woman herself
had no doubt had a man's arm round her waist once upon a time. He did
not care who knew!... All the same!... No, he did not care!... He
slipped his hand into Maggie's hand again, and then quickly withdrew
it. She was holding a sticky chocolate in her fingers!...

He lost all interest in the play now. It would be truer, perhaps, to
say that he had not begun to be interested in it, and now that he tried
to follow it, he could not do so. His mind constantly reverted to the
indignant woman behind him. He imagined her looking, first this way and
then that, in her efforts to see the stage, getting angrier and more
angry as she was thwarted in her desire, and then, in her final
indignation, leaning forward to tap on his shoulder and beg him to keep
his head apart from Maggie's so that she might conveniently see the
stage. His sense of violated privacy became stronger. His love for
Maggie, for he accepted it now as a settled fact, was not a thing for
prying eyes to witness: it was a secret, intimate thing in which she
and he alone were concerned. He hated the thought that anyone else in
the theatre should know that Maggie and he were sweethearts, newly in
love and warm with the glow of their first affection. And then, when he
had slipped his hand back into hers, he had encountered a sticky
chocolate! While he was burning with feeling for her and with
resentment against the old woman's intrusion into their love affair,
Maggie had been chewing chocolate quite unconcernedly. In that crisis
of their love, she had remained unmoved. When he had released her hand,
she had simply put it into the box of chocolates and taken out a sticky
sweet and had eaten it with as little emotion as if he had not been
present at all, as if his ardent, pressing arm had not been suddenly
withdrawn from her waist because of that angry intruder into their
happiness. She had taken his hand when he gave it to her, and had
released it again when he withdrew it, without any appearance of desire
or reluctance. He had imagined that she would take his hand eagerly and
yield it up unwillingly, that she would try to restrain him when he
endeavoured to take his hand away from hers ... but she had not done
so.

Perhaps she did not love him as he loved her. Perhaps she did not love
him at all. After all, he had met her for the first time about three
hours earlier in the evening. Only three hours ago! It was hard to
believe that he had not loved her for centuries, had not often felt her
heart beating beneath the pressure of his hand, had not frequently put
his lips to her lips and been enchanted by her kisses. Why, he had only
kissed her once. Only once! Once only!... He looked at her as she sat
by his side, gazing intently at the stage. He could see a protuberance
in her cheek, made by a piece of chocolate, and as he looked at her, it
seemed to him to be a terrible thing that this girl did not love him.
His love had gone out to her, quickly, insurgently and fully, and
perhaps she thought no more of him than she might think of any chance
friend who offered to take her to see a play. She might have spent many
evenings in this very theatre with other men. Had she not told him that
afternoon that she hated to be alone! He had put his arm about her
waist in a public place and had been humiliated for doing so, but
nothing of this had meant much to Maggie. She was quite willing to let
him embrace her ... perhaps she thought that she ought to allow him to
hug her as a return for the treat at the theatre ... or perhaps she
liked to feel a man's arm about her waist and did not much care who the
man might be. Some girls were like that. Willie Logan had told him that
Carrie Furlong was the girl of any fellow who liked to walk up the road
with her. She did not care with whom she went; all that she cared about
was that she should have some boy in her company. She would kiss
anybody.

Was Maggie Carmichael like that? Would she kiss this one or that one,
just as the mood took her?... Oh, no, she could not be like that. It
was impossible for him to fall in love with a girl who distributed
kisses as carelessly and impassionately as a boy distributes handbills.
He felt certain that he could not fall in love with a girl of that
sort, that some instinct in him would prevent him from going so. Other
fellows might make a mistake of that kind ... Willie Logan, for
example ... but a MacDermott could not make one. Maggie must be in love
with him ... she must have fallen in love with him as suddenly as he had
fallen in love with her ... otherwise she could not have consented so
readily to accompany him to the theatre. When he had taken her in his
arms and kissed her, she had yielded to him so naturally, as if she had
been in his arms many times before!... Perhaps, though, the ease with
which she had yielded to him denoted that she had had much
experience!... Oh, no, no! No, no! She was his girl, not anybody else's
girl. He could not have her for a sweetheart, if she shared her love
with other men. He must have her entirely to himself!...

Oh, what a torturing, doubt-raising, perplexing thing this Love was! A
few hours ago he had known nothing whatever of it ... had merely
imagined cold, austere, wrong things about it ... and now it had hold
of him and was hurting him. Every particle of his mind was concentrated
on this girl by his side ... a stranger to him. He knew nothing of her
except her name and that she was employed as a waitress in a
restaurant. She was a stranger to him ... and yet a fierce,
unquenchable love for her was raging in his heart. Each moment, the
flames of his passion increased in strength. When he looked away from
her, he could see her in his mind's eye. Each of the players on the
stage looked like Maggie.... And there she was, all unaware of this
strong emotion in him, placidly sitting in her seat, gazing at the
actors! Do women feel love as strongly as men do? he asked himself as
he looked at her, and as he did so she turned, her head to him,
conscious perhaps of his stare, and when her eyes met his in the
glowing dusk of the theatre, she smiled, and, seeing her smile, he
forgot his doubt and remembered only the great joy of loving her.

VIII

He insisted on taking her to her home, although she stoutly declared
that this was unnecessary. She lived at Stranmillis, she said, and
the journey there and back would make him miss his train; but he swore
that he had plenty of time, and would not listen to her dissuasions.
When they reached the terminus at the Botanic Gardens, she tried to
insist that he should return to town in the tram by which they had come
out, but he said that he must walk with her for a while. She would not
let him accompany her to the door of her home ... he must leave her at
a good distance from it ... and to this he agreed, for he knew what the
etiquette of these matters is. He put his arm in hers, again drawing
her close to him, and, listening to her laughter, he walked in gladness
by her side. It was she who stopped. "I'll say 'Good-night' to you
here," she said.

"Not yet," he replied.

"You'll miss your train," she warned him.

He did not heed her warning, but drew her into the shadow and held her
tightly to him.

"Don't!" she stammered, but could not speak any more because of the
strength of his kisses.

Very long he held her thus, his arms tightly round her and her lips
closebound to his, and then with a great sigh of pleasure, he released
her.

"You're a desperate fellow," she said, half scared, and she laughed a
little.

She glanced about her for a moment. "I must run now," she said, holding
out her hand.

"Not yet," he said again.

"Oh, but I must. I must!" she insisted. "Good-night!"

He took her hand. "Good-night," he replied, but did not let her hand
go.

She laughed nervously. "What's wrong with you?" she said.

"I ... I'm in love with you, Maggie!" he murmured, almost
inarticulately.

Her laughter lost its nervousness. "You're a boy in a hurry and a
half!" she said.

"I know. Kiss me, Maggie!"

She held up her face to him. "There, then!" she said.

He kissed her again, and then again, and yet again.

"You're hurting me," she exclaimed ruefully.

"It's because I love you so much, Maggie!" he said.

"Well, let me go now!..." She stood away from him. "You have me all
crumpled up," she said. "I'll be a terrible sight when I get in!
Anybody'd think you'd never kissed a girl before in your life!"

"I haven't," he replied.

"You what?"

"I haven't. I've never kissed any other girl but you!"

"You don't expect me to believe a yarn like that?" she said.

"It's the God's truth," he answered.

"Well, nobody'd think it from the way you behave!"

He regarded her in silence for a few moments. Then he said, "Have you
ever kissed anyone before?"

"I'm twenty-two." she replied.

He had not thought of her age, but if he had done so, he would not have
imagined that she was more than nineteen.

"What's that got to do with it?" he asked.

"A lot," she replied. "You don't think a girl as nice-looking as me has
reached my age without having kissed a fellow, do you?"

"Then you have kissed someone else?"

"I've kissed dozens," she said. "Good-night, John!"

She turned and ran swiftly from him, laughing lightly as she ran, and
for a second or two, he stood blankly looking after her. Then he called
to her, "Wait, Maggie, wait a minute!" and ran after her.

She stopped when she heard him calling, and waited for him to come up
to her.

"When'll I see you again?" he said.

"Oh, dear knows!" she replied.

"Will you come to the theatre with me next Saturday?"

"I might!"

"Will you get the day off, and we'll go in the afternoon and evening,
too!"

"I mightn't be let," she said. "Mrs. Bothwell mightn't agree to it!"

"Ask her anyway!..."

"I will, then. Good-night, John!"

He snatched at her hand. "Listen, Maggie," he said.

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