Part 10 (1/2)

So Brien of the O'Brien nation strode across the path and sat down by the side of a hedge--

”The first man that pa.s.ses this way,” said he, ”will give me his clothes, or I'll strangle him.”

The seraph Cuchulain walked over to him--

”I will take the clothes of the second man that pa.s.ses,” said he, and he sat down.

BRIGID

(AFTER THE IRISH)

Do not marry, Breed, asth.o.r.e!

That old man whose head is h.o.a.r As the winter, but instead Mate with some young curly-head; He will give to you a child, He will never leave your side, And at morning when you wake Kiss for kiss will give and take.

I wish that I had died, I do, Before I gave my love to you; Love so lasting that it will While I live be with you still: And for it what do I get?

Pain and trouble and regret, The terrors of the aspen-tree Which the wind shakes fearfully.

If this country could be seen As it ought--then you had been Living in a castle grand With the ladies of the land: The friend and foe, the gael and gall, Would be cheering, one and all, For yourself, and, this is true, I would be along with you.

You promised, 'twas a lie, I see, When you said you'd come to me At the sheep-cote; I was there, And I whistled on the air, And I gave our settled call-- But you were not there at all!

There was nothing anywhere But lambs and birds and sunny air

When it is dark you pa.s.s me by, And when the sun is in the sky You pa.s.s me also--night or day You look away, you walk away!

But if you would come to me, And say the word of courtesy, I would close the door, and then I'd never let you out again.

But do not marry, Breed, asth.o.r.e!

That old man; his heart is h.o.a.r As his head is: you can see Winter gripping at his knee: His eyes and ears are blear and dim, How can you expect of him To see or hear or pleasure you Half as well as I would do?

THREE YOUNG WIVES

I

She was about to be a mother for the second time, and the fear which is the portion of women was upon her. In a little while she would be in the toils, and she hated and feared physical pain with a great hatred and a great fear. But there was something further which distressed her.

She was a soft, babyish creature, downy and clinging, soft-eyed and gentle, the beggar folk had received gifts at her hand, the dogs knew of her largesse. Men looked on her with approval, and women liked her.

Her husband belonged to the type known as ”fine men,” tall, generously-proportioned, with the free and easy joviality which is so common in Ireland. He was born a boy and he would never grow out of that state. The colour of his hair or the wrinkles on his cheek would not have anything to do with his age, for time was powerless against the richness of his blood. He would still be a boy when he was dying of old age; but if protestations, kisses and homage were any criterion then the fact that he loved his wife was fixed beyond any kind of doubt.

But he did not love her.--He was as changeable as the weather of his country. Swift to love he was equally swift to forget. His pa.s.sions were of primitive intensity, but they were not steadfast. He clutched with both hands at the present and was surprised and irritated by the fact that he could in nowise get away from the past: the future he did not care a rap about. n.o.body does: there is, indeed, no such thing as the future, there is only the possibility of it, but the past and the present are facts not to be gotten away from. What we have done and what we are doing are things which stamp us, mould us, live with us and after us: what we will do cannot be counted on, has no part in us, has only a problematical existence, and can be interfered with, hindered, nullified or amplified by the thousand unmanageable accidents of futurity.

He had married thanking G.o.d from a full heart for His goodness, and believing implicitly that he had plucked the very Flower of Womanhood, and the Heart of the World, and, maybe, he had.--There are many Flowers of Womanhood, all equally fragrant, and the Heart of the World can beat against the breast of any man who loves a woman.

Some time previously their little boy had contracted small-pox, and his mother, nursing him, took it from him. When they recovered her beauty was gone. The extraordinary bloom which had made her cheek a shrine to wors.h.i.+p and marvel at was destroyed for ever, while, by a curious chance, the boy was unmarked.

Now the only love which he had to give was a physical love. He did not love a woman, he loved the husk. Of the woman herself he knew nothing and cared less. He had never sought to know his wife, never tried to pierce beneath her beauty and discover where the woman lived and what she was like at home. Indeed, he knew less of his wife than his servants did, and by little and little she had seen how the matter stood. She had plucked the heart from his mystery and read him to the bones, while remaining herself intact. But she held him still, although by the most primitive and fragile of bonds, by the magnetism of her body, the s.h.i.+ning of her eyes, the soft beauty of her cheeks; and, behold! she was undone. The disease had stamped on her face, and, in the recoil, had stamped on her husband's love.