The Foolish Lovers

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

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"There's a lot in that," he said to himself. "I'll go home," he
continued. "There's no pleasure in mouching round the town by
yourself!"

He got into a tram and was soon at the railway station. On the
platform, a little way in front of him, he saw Willie Logan, flushed
and excited, with two girls, one on either side of him. Willie had an
arm round each girl's waist.

"That fellow's getting plenty of fun anyway," John said, as he climbed
into an empty carriage. He did not wish to join Willie's party. He knew
too well what Willie was like: a noisy, demonstrative fellow,
indiscriminately amorous. "Nearly every girl's worth kissing," Willie
had said to him on one occasion. "If you can't get your bit of fun with
one woman, sure you can get it with another!"

Willie, in the carriage, would kiss one girl, John knew, and then would
turn and kiss the other, "just to show there's no ill will." He might
even invite John to kiss them in turn ... so that John might not feel
uncomfortable and "out of it." He would lie back in the carriage, his
big face flushed and his eyes bright with pleasure, an arm round each
of his companions, and when he was not kissing them, he would be
bawling out some song, or, at stations, hanging half out of the window
to chaff the porters and the station-master. "Get all you can," he
would say, "and do without the rest!"

But John was not a promiscuist: he was a monopolist. He put the whole
of his strength into his love for one woman, and he demanded a similar
singleness of devotion from her. His mind was full of Maggie, but he
felt that she had cast him out of her mind the moment that the tram
bore her out of his sight.

"I'll make her want me," he said, tightening his fists. "I'll make her
want me 'til she's heartsore with wanting!"

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

I

Uncle Matthew died three days later. He slipped out of life without
ostentation or murmur. "The MacDermotts are not afeard to die," he had
said to John at the beginning of his illness, and in that spirit he had
died. In the morning, he had asked Mrs. MacDermott to look for _Don
Quixote_ in the attic and bring it to him, and she had done so. He
had tried to read the book, but it was too heavy for him--his strength
was swiftly going from him--and it had fallen from his hands on to the
quilt and then had rolled on to the floor.

"I can't hold it," he murmured.

"Will I read it to you?" she said to him.

"Yes, if you please!" he said.

It was a badly-bound book, printed in small, eye-tormenting type,
and it was difficult to hold; but she made no complaint of these
things, and for an hour or so, she read to Uncle Matthew. She put
the book down when his breathing denoted that he was asleep, but
she did not immediately go from the room. She sat for a time, looking
at the delicate face on the pillow, and then she picked the book
up again and began to examine it, turning the pages over slowly,
reading here and reading there, and examining the illustrations closely.
There was a puzzled look on her face, and the flesh, between her
eyebrows was puckered and deeply lined. She put the book down on
her lap and looked intently in front of her, as if she were considering
some problem. She picked the book up again, and once more turned over
the pages and examined the pictures; but she did not appear to find
any solution of her problem as she did so, for she put the book down
on the dressing-table and left it there. She bent over the sleeping
man for a few moments, listening to his breathing, and then she went
out of the room leaving the door ajar.

And while she was downstairs, Uncle Matthew died. He had not wakened
from his sleep. He seemed to be exactly in the same position as he was
when she left the room. He was not breathing ... that was all. She
called to Uncle William, and he came quickly up the stairs.

"Is anything wrong?" he said anxiously.

"Matt's dead!" she replied.

He stood still.

"Shut the shop," she said, "and send for John and the doctor!"

He did not move.

She touched him on the shoulder. "Do you hear me, William?"

He started. "Aye," he said, "I hear you right enough!"

But he still remained in the room, gazing blindly at his brother. Then
he went over to the bed and sat down and cried.

"Poor William!" said Mrs. MacDermott, putting her arms around him.

II

John wrote to Maggie Carmichael to tell her of his Uncle's death. It
would not be possible for him to keep his engagement with her on the
following Saturday. She sent a thinly-written note of sympathy to him,
telling him that she would not expect to see him for a while because of
his bereavement. "_You'll not be in the mood for enjoying yourself at
present,_" she wrote, "_and I daresay you would prefer to stay at
home at present. I expect you'll miss your Uncle terribly!--_"

Indeed, he did miss his Uncle terribly!

There was a strange quietness in the house before the day of the
burial, which was natural, but it was maintained after Uncle Matthew
had been put in the grave where John's father lay. Uncle William's
quick, loud voice became hushed and slow and sometimes inaudible, and
Mrs. MacDermott went about her work with few words to anyone. John had
come on her, an hour or two before the coffin lid was screwed down,
putting a book in Uncle Matthew's hands. He saw the title of it ...
_Don Quixote_ ... and he said to her, "What are you doing, ma?"
She looked up quickly and hesitated. "Nothing!" she answered, and
suddenly aware that she did not wish to be observed, he went away and
left her alone. It seemed to him afterwards that she resented his
knowledge of what she had done ... that she looked at him sometimes as
if she were forbidding him ever to speak of it ... but she did not talk
of it. She spoke as seldom as Uncle William did, and it seemed to John
that the voice had been carried out of the house when Uncle Matthew had
been carried to the graveyard. He felt that he could not endure the
oppression of this silence any longer, that he must, speak to someone,
and, in his search for comfort, his mind wandered in search of Maggie
Carmichael with intenser devotion than he had ever experienced before.
If only Uncle Matthew were alive, John could talk to him of Maggie.
Uncle Matthew would listen to him. Uncle Matthew always had listened to
him. He had never shown any impatience when John had talked to him of
this scheme and that scheme, and he would not have mocked his love for
Maggie. How queer a thing it was that Uncle Matthew who had seemed to
be the least important person in the house should have so ... so
stifled the rest of them by his death!

Uncle William, who bore the whole burden of maintaining the family,
mourned for Uncle Matthew as if he had lost his support; and Mrs.
MacDermott began to talk, when she talked at all, of the things that
Matt had liked. Matt liked this and Matt liked that ... and yet she had
seemed not merely to disregard Uncle Matthew when he was alive, but
actually to dislike him. Uncle Matthew must have had a stronger place
in the house than any of them had imagined. John could not bear to go
to the attic now, although he wished to turn over the books which were
now his. It was in the attic that Uncle Matthew had found most of his
happiness, in the company of uncomplaining, unreproachful books, and
the memory of that happiness had drawn John to the attic one day when
he most missed his Uncle. He had handled the books very fondly, turning
over pages and pausing now and then to read a passage or two ... and
while he had turned the pages of an old book with faded, yellow leaves,
he had found a cutting from a Belfast newspaper. It contained a report
of the police proceedings against Uncle Matthew, and it was headed,
STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF A BALLYARDS MAN!... John hurriedly put the book
down and went out of the room. He had not shed a tear over Uncle
Matthew. He did not wish to cry over him. He felt that Uncle Matthew
would like his mourners to have dry eyes ... but it was hard not to cry
when one read that bare, uncomprehending account of Uncle Matthew's
chivalrous act. _Strange_ behaviour, the reporter named it, when
every instinct in John demanded that it should be called _noble_
behaviour. Was a man to be called a fool because his heart compelled
him to perform an act of simple loyalty?... _Strange behaviour_!
John seized the cutting and crumpled it in his hand. Then he
straightened it out again and tore it in pieces. Were people so poor in
faith and devotion that they could not recognise the nobility of what
Uncle Matthew had done? And for that act of goodness, Uncle Matthew had
gone to his grave under stigma. "Poor sowl," they said in Ballyards,
"it's a merciful release for him. He was always quare in the head!"

John could not stay in the house with his memories of Uncle Matthew,
and so he went for walks along the shores of the Lough, to Cubbinferry
and Kirklea or turning coastwards, towards Millreagh and Holmesport;
but there was no comfort to be found in these walks. He returned from
them, tired in body, but unrested in mind. He tried to write another
story, but he had to put the pen and ink and paper away again, and he
told himself that he had no ability to write a story. Wherever he went
and whatever he did, the loss of Uncle Matthew pressed upon him and
left him with a sense of impotence, until at last, his nature, weary of
its own dejection, turned and demanded relief. And so he set his
thoughts again on Maggie Carmichael, and each day he found himself,
more and more, thinking of her until, after a while, he began to think
only of her. He had written to her a second time, but she had not
answered his letter. He remembered that she had protested against her
incompetence as a correspondent. "I'm a poor hand at letter-writing,"
she had said laughingly. She could talk easily enough, but she never
knew what to put in a letter, and anyhow it was a terrible bother to
write one. A letter would be a poor substitute for her, he told
himself. He must see her soon. Mourning or no mourning, he would go to
Belfast on the next Saturday and would see her. It would not be
possible for him to take her to a theatre, but she and he could go for
a long walk or they could sit together in the restaurant and talk to
each other. This loneliness and silence was becoming unendurable: he
must get away from the atmosphere of loss and mourning into an
atmosphere of life and love. Uncle Matthew would wish him to do that.
He felt certain that Uncle Matthew would wish him to do that. Uncle
Matthew would hate to think of his nephew prowling along the roads in
misery and suffering when his whole desire had been that he should have
opportunity and satisfaction. He had bequeathed his property and his
money "to my beloved nephew John MacDermott," and John had been deeply
moved by the affection that glowed through the legal phraseology of the
will. It was not yet known how much money there would be, for Mr.
McGonigal, the solicitor, had not completed his account of Uncle
Matthew's affairs; but the amount of it could not be very large. That
was immaterial to John. What mattered to him was that his Uncle's love
for him had never flickered for a moment, but had shone steadily and
surely until the day of his death.

"I never told anyone but him about Maggie," John thought. "I'm glad I
told him ... and I know he'd want me to go to her now!"

And so, late on Friday evening, he resolved that he would go to Belfast
on the following day. He sent a short note to Maggie, addressing it to
the restaurant, in which he told her that he would call for her on
Saturday. He begged that she would go for a walk with him. "_We might
go to the Cave Hill_," he wrote, "_and be back in plenty of time
for tea!_"

III

He crossed the Lagan in the ferry-boat, so impatient was he to get
quickly to Maggie, but when he reached the restaurant, Maggie was not
there. He stood in the doorway, looking about the large room, but there
was no one present, for it was too early yet for mid-day meals. Maggie
was probably engaged in the small room at the back of the restaurant
and would presently appear. It was Mrs. Bothwell who came to answer his
call.

"Oh, good morning!" he said, trying to keep the note of disappointment
out of his voice.

"Good morning," she answered.

"It's a brave day!"

"It's not so bad," she grudgingly admitted.

"Is ... is Maggie in?" he asked.

"In!" she exclaimed, looking at him with astonishment plain on her
face.

"Yes. Isn't she in? She's not sick or anything, is she?" he replied
anxiously.

"Oh, dear bless you, no! She's not sick," Mrs. Bothwell said. "Do you
mean to say you don't know where she is?"

"No, I ... I don't, Mrs. Bothwell!" There was a note of apprehension in
his voice. "I thought, she'd be here!"

"But haven't you been to the house?"

"No," he answered. "I've just arrived from Ballyards this minute.
What's wrong, Mrs. Bothwell!"

"There's nothing wrong that I know of. Only I don't understand you not
knowing about it. Why aren't you at the church?"

"Church!"

"Aye. Sure, I'd be there myself only I can't leave the shop. I'm glad
she's getting a fine day for it anyway!"

John touched her on the arm. "I don't understand what you're talking
about, Mrs. Bothwell," he said. "What's happening!"

"Didn't you know she's being married the day on a policeman?..."

"Married!" he exclaimed incredulously.

"Aye. She's been going with him this long while back, and now that he's
been promoted ... they've made him a sergeant ... they've got married.
She's done well for herself. How is it you didn't know about it, and
you and her such chums together?"

"Did I hear you saying she's getting married the day?" he murmured,
gazing at her in a stupefied fashion.

"That's what. I keep on telling you," she replied, "only you don't pay
no heed to me. I thought you were her cousin!..."

"No, I'm not her cousin," he answered. "I was ... I was going with her.
That's all. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Bothwell!"

"Oh, it's no bother at all. She must have been having you on, for the
banns was up at St. George's this three weeks!..."

"St. George's!" he repeated.

"Aye, these three weeks. She had a fancy to be married in St. George's
Church, for all it's a ritualistic place, and people says they're going
fast to Popery there. But I don't wonder at her, for it's quare and
nice to see the wee boys in their surplices, singing the hymns!..."

He interrupted her. "Three weeks ago," he said, as if calculating.
"That must have been soon after I met her for the first time. I met her
here in this room, Mrs. Bothwell. I'd been to the Royal to see a play,
and I came in here for my tea, and I struck up to her for I liked her
look!..."

"Oh, she's a nice enough looking girl is Maggie, though looks is not
everything," Mrs. Bothwell interjected.

"She never told me!..."

"Oh, well, if it comes to that, you never told her anything about
yourself, did you?" Mrs. Bothwell demanded. "I suppose she thought you
were just a fellow out for a bit of fun, and she might as well have a
bit of fun, too!"

"But I wasn't out for fun," he exclaimed. "I was in earnest!"

"That's where you made your mistake," said Mrs. Bothwell. "I'm sorry
for you, but sure you're young enough not to take a thing like that to
heart, and she's not the only girl in the world by a long chalk. By the
time you're her age, she'll have a child or two, and'll mebbe be
feeling very sorry for herself ... and you'll have the world fornent
you still! A young fellow like you isn't going to let a wee thing like
that upset you?"

"It isn't a wee thing, Mrs. Bothwell. It's a big thing," he insisted.

"Och, sure, everything's big looking 'til you see something bigger. One
of these days you'll be wondering what in the earthly world made you
think twice about her!"

He turned away from her and moved towards the door, but suddenly he
remembered the letter which he had written to Maggie on the previous
evening.

"Did a letter for her come this morning?" he said, turning again to
Mrs. Bothwell. "I wrote to her last night to tell her I was coming up
the day!"

"One did come," she answered. "I put it in the kitchen, intending to
re-address it when I had a minute to spare. I'll go and get it. I
suppose you don't want it sent on to her now?"

"No, I don't. It was only to tell her I'd meet her here!"

"Well, I'll bring it to you then." She went into the kitchen and
presently returned, carrying John's letter in her hand. "Is this it?"
she said. "It's got the Ballyards postmark on it."

He took it from her. "Yes, that's it," he replied, tearing it in
pieces. "Could I trouble you to put it in the fire," he said, handing
the torn paper to her.

"It's no trouble at all," she answered, taking the pieces from him.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bothwell!" he said.

"Well, good morning to you!"

He opened the door and was about to pass out of the restaurant when she
spoke to him again.

"I wouldn't let a thing like that upset me if I was you," she said.
"Sure, what's one girl more nor another girl! You'll get your pick and
choice before long. A fine fellow like you'll not go begging for
nothing!"

"I'm not letting it upset me," he said, "but it'll be the queer girl
that'll make a fool of me in a hurry!"

"That's the spirit,'"' said Mrs. Bothwell.

IV

He walked down the stairs and into the street in a state of fury. He
had been treated as if he were a corner-boy.

Willie Logan, who was any girl's boy, could not have been treated so
contemptuously as he, who had never cared for any other girl, had been
treated. She had married a policeman ... _a peeler!_ She might as
well have married a soldier or a militia-man. A MacDermott had been
rejected in favour of a peeler! She had gone straight from his embraces
to the embraces of a policeman ... a common policeman. She had refused
to meet him on a Wednesday, he remembered, because, probably, she had
engaged to meet the peeler on that evening. He would be off duty then!
While she was yielding her lips to John, she was actually engaged to be
married to ... to a policeman! By heaven!...

What a good and fortunate thing it was that he had not spoken of her to
anyone except to Uncle Matthew! If anyone were to know that a
MacDermott had fallen in love with a girl who had preferred to marry a
peeler ... _a peeler_, mind you! ... they would split their sides
laughing. What a humiliation! What an insufferable thing to have
happened to him! That was your love for you! That was your romance for
you! ... Och! Och, och!! This was a lesson for him, indeed. No more
love or romance for him. Willie Logan could run after girls until the
soles dropped off his boots, but John MacDermott would let the girls do
the running after him in future. No girl would ever get the chance
again to throw him over for ... for a _peeler!_ If that was their
love, they could keep their love!...

He walked about the town until, after a while, he found himself at the
Theatre Royal. Still raging against Maggie, he paid for a seat in the
pit. He had forgotten that he was in mourning, and he remembered only
that he was a jilted lover, a MacDermott cast aside for a policeman. He
sat through the first act of the play, without much comprehension of
its theme. Then in the middle of the second act, he heard the heroine
vowing that she loved the hero, and he got up and walked out of the
theatre.

"I could write a better play than that with one hand tied behind my
back," he said to himself. "Her and her love!"

He walked rapidly from the theatre, conscious of hunger, for he had
omitted to get a meal before going into the theatre, but he was
unwilling to forego the pleasure of starving himself as a sign of his
humiliation. He made his way towards Smithfield and stopped in front of
a bookstall. A couple of loutish lads were fingering a red-bound book
as he approached the stall, and he heard them tittering in a sneaky,
furtive fashion as he drew near. The owner of the stall emerged from
the back of his premises, and when they saw him, they hurriedly put the
book down and walked away. John glanced at it and read the title on the
cover: The Art of Love by Ovid.

"Love!" he exclaimed aloud. "Ooo-oo-oo!"

The streets were full of young men and women intent on an evening's
pleasure, and as he hurried away from Smithfield Market towards the
railway station, he received bright glances from girls who were willing
to make friends with him. He scowled heavily at them, and when they
looked away to other men, he filled his mind with sneers and bitter
thoughts. A few hours before, these young girls would have seemed to
him to be very beautiful and innocent, but now they appeared to him to
be deceitful and wicked. Each evening, he told himself, these girls
came out of their houses in search of "boys" whom they lured into
love-making, teasing and tormenting them, until at last they tired of them
and sent them empty away. That was your love for you! Uncle Matthew had
dreamed of romantic love, and John had set out to find it, and behold,
what was it! A girl's frolic, a piece of feminine sport, in which the
girl had the fun and the boy had the humiliation and pain. Maggie could
go from him, her lips still warm with his kisses, to her policeman ...
and take kisses from him! There might be other hoaxed lovers ... if she
had one, why not have two or three or four ... and his kisses might
have meant no more to her than the kisses of half-a-dozen other men.
Well, he had learned his lesson! No more love for him....

He crossed the Queen's Bridge, and when he reached the station, he came
upon Willie Logan, moodily gazing at the barriers which were not yet
open. John, undesirous of society, nodded to him and would have gone
away, but Willie suddenly caught hold of his arm.

"I want to speak to you a minute, John!" he said thickly.

The smell of drink drifted from him.

"What about?" John answered sourly.

"Come over here 'til a quiet place," Willie said, still holding John's
arm, and drawing him to a seat at the other end of the station. "Sit
here 'til the gates is open," he added, as he sat down.

"Is there anything up?" John demanded.

"Aye," Willie replied in a bewildered voice. "John, man, I'm in
terrible trouble!"

"Oh!"

"Sore disgrace, John. I don't know what my da and ma'll say to me at
all when they hear about it. Such a thing!..."

"Well, what is it?"

"Do you know a wee girl called Jennie Roak?" John shook his head. "Her
aunt lives in Ballyards ... Mrs. Cleeland!..."

"Oh, yes. Is that her aunt?"

"Aye. Well, me an' her has been going out together for a wee while
past, and she says now she's goin' to have a child!"

John burst into laughter.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Willie demanded angrily.

"I was thinking it doesn't matter whether it's one girl or a dozen
you're after, you'll get into bother just the same!"

"Aye, but what am I to do, John? I'll have to tell the oul' fella, and
he'll be raging mad when he hears about it. He's terrible against that
sort of thing, and dear knows I'm an awful one for slipping into
trouble. I can not keep away from girls, John, and that's the God's
truth of it. And I've been brought up as respectable as anybody.
Jennie's in an awful state about it!"

"I daresay," said John.

"She says I'll have to marry her over the head of it, but sure I don't
want to get married at all ... not yet, anyway. I don't know what to
do. I'll have to tell the oul' lad and he'll have me scalded with his
tongue. I suppose I'll have to marry her. It's a quare thing a fella
can't go out with a girl without getting into bother. I wish to my
goodness I had as much control over myself as you have!"

"Control!" said John.

"Aye. You'll never get into no bother!"

"Huh!" said John.

The barriers were opened, and Willie and John passed through on to the
platform, and presently seated themselves in a carriage.

"This'll be a lesson to me," said Willie, lying back against the
cushions of the carriage. "Not to be running after so many girls in
future!"

John did not make any answer to him. He let his thoughts wander out of
the carriage. He had loved Maggie Carmichael deeply, and she had served
him badly; and Willie Logan, who treated girls in a light fashion, was
complaining now because one girl had loved him too well. And that was
your love for you! That was the high romantical thing of which Uncle
Matthew had so often spoken and dreamed...

He came out of his thoughts suddenly, for Willie Logan was shaking him.

There was a glint in Willie Logan's eye!...

"I say, John," he said, "come on into the next carriage! There's two
quare nice wee girls just got in!"

"No," said John.

"Ah, come on," Willie coaxed.

"No," John almost shouted.

"Well, stay behind then. I'll have the two to myself," Willie
exclaimed, climbing out of the carriage as he spoke.

"That lad deserves all he gets," John thought.

V

His mother called to him as he passed through the kitchen on his way to
the attic where his Uncle Matthew's books were stored.

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