She was now close to him, and she seemed to be preparing for one stupendous pounce which would mean annihilation to Paddy. Her lean hands were thrust out, with the fingers crooked, and it seemed to me that her fingers were very long. In despair Paddy changed his tune and addressed her.
“Ah, now, alanna. Sure the kind lady would be for doing no harm? Be easy, now, acushla.”
But these tender appeals had no effect. Suddenly she pounced. Paddy roared, and sprang backward with splendid agility. He seized a chair.
Now I am quite sure that before he came to England Paddy had never seen a chair, although it is true that at some time in his life he may have had a peep through a window into an Irish gentleman’s house, where there might be a chair if the King’s officers in the neighbourhood were not very ambitious and powerful. But Paddy handled this chair as if he had seen many of them. He grasped it by the back and thrust it out, aiming all four legs at the Countess. It was a fine move. I have seen a moderately good swordsman fairly put to it by a pack of scoundrelly drawers who assailed him at all points in this manner.
“An you come on too fast,” quavered Paddy, “ye can grab two legs, but there will be one left for your eye and another for your brisket.”
However she came on, sure enough, and there was a moment of scuffling near the end of the bed out of my sight. I wriggled down to gain another view, and when I cautiously lifted an edge of the valance my eyes met the strangest sight ever seen in all England. Paddy, much dishevelled and panting like a hunt-dog, had wedged the Countess against the wall. She was pinioned by the four legs of the chair, and Paddy, by dint of sturdily pushing at the chair-back, was keeping her in a fixed position.
In a flash my mind was made up. Here was the time to escape. I scrambled quickly from under the bed. “Bravo, Paddy!” I cried, dashing about the room after my sword, coat, waistcoat, and hat. “Devil a fear but you’ll hold her, my bucko! Push hard, my brave lad, and mind your feet don’t slip!”
“If your honour pleases,” said Paddy, without turning his eyes from his conquest, “’tis a little help I would be wishing here. She would be as strong in the shoulder as a good plough-horse and I am not for staying here for ever.”
“Bravo, my grand lad!” I cried, at last finding my hat, which had somehow gotten into a corner. From the door I again addressed Paddy in encouraging speech. “There’s a stout-hearted boy for you! Hold hard, and mind your feet don’t slip!”
He cast a quick agonized look in my direction, and, seeing that I was about basely to desert him, he gave a cry, dropped the chair, and bolted after me. As we ran down the corridor I kept well in advance, thinking it the best place in case the pursuit should be energetic. But there was no pursuit. When Paddy was holding the Countess prisoner she could only choke and stammer, and I had no doubt that she now was well mastered by exhaustion.
Curiously there was little hubbub in the inn. The fact that the Countess was the rioter had worked in a way to cause people to seek secluded and darkened nooks. However, the landlord raised his bleat at me. “Oh, sir, such a misfortune to befall my house just when so many grand ladies and gentlemen are here.”
I took him quietly by the throat and beat his head against the wall, once, twice, thrice.
“And you allow mad ladies to molest your guests, do you?” said I.
“Sir,” he stuttered, “could I have caused her to cease?
“True,” I said, releasing him. “But now do as I bid you and quickly. I am away to London. I have had my plenty of you and your mad ladies.”
We started bravely to London, but we only went to another and quieter inn, seeking peace and the absence of fear. I may say we found it, and, in a chair before a good fire, I again took my comfort. Paddy sat on the floor, toasting his shins. The warmth passed him into a reflective mood.
“And I know all I need of grand ladies,” he muttered, staring into the fire. “I thought they were all for riding in gold coaches and smelling of beautiful flowers, and here they are mad to be chasing Irishmen in inns. I remember old Mag Cooligan fought with a whole regiment of King’s troops in Bantry, and even the drums stopped beating, the soldiers were that much interested. But, sure, everybody would be knowing that Mag was no grand lady, although Pat Cooligan, her brother, was pig-killer to half the country-side. I am thinking we were knowing little about grand ladies. One of the soldiers had his head broke by a musket because the others were so ambitious to destroy the old lady, and she scratching them all. ’Twas long remembered in Bantry.”
“Hold your tongue about your betters,” said I sharply. “Don’t be comparing this Mag Cooligan with a real Countess.”
“There would be a strange similarity any how,” said he. “But, sure, Mag never fought in inns, for the reason that they would not be letting her inside.”
“Remember how little you are knowing of them, Paddy,” said I. “’Tis not for you to be talking of the grand ladies when you have seen only one, and you would not be knowing another from a fish. Grand ladies are eccentric, I would have you to know. They have their ways with them which are not for omadhauns like you to understand.”
“Eccentric, is it?” said he. “I thought it would be some such devilment.”
“And I am knowing,” said I with dignity, “of one lady so fine that if you don’t stop talking that way of ladies I will break your thick skull for you, and it would matter to nobody.”
“’Tis an ill subject for discussion, I am seeing that,” said Paddy. “But, faith, I could free Ireland with an army of ladies like one I’ve seen.”
“Will you be holding your tongue?” I cried wrathfully.
Paddy began to mumble to himself,—”Bedad, he was under the bed fast enough without offering her a stool by the fire and a small drop of drink which would be no more than decent with him so fond of her. I am not knowing the ways of these people.”
In despair of his long tongue I made try to change the talking.
“We are off for London, Paddy. How are you for it?”
“London, is it?” said he warily. “I was hearing there are many fine ladies there.”
For the second time in his life I cuffed him soundly on the ear.
“Now,” said I, “be ringing the bell. I am for buying you a bit of drink; but if you mention the gentry to me once more in that blackguard way I’ll lather you into a resemblance to your grandfather’s bones.”
After a pleasant evening I retired to bed leaving Paddy snug asleep by the fire. I thought much of my Lady Mary, but with her mother stalking the corridors and her knowing father with his eye wide open, I knew there was no purpose in hanging about a Bath inn. I would go to London, where there were gardens, and walks in the park, and parties, and other useful customs. There I would win my love.
The following morning I started with Paddy to meet Jem Bottles and travel to London. Many surprising adventures were in store for us, but an account of these I shall leave until another time, since one would not be worrying people with too many words, which is a great fault in a man who is recounting his own affairs.
CHAPTER XV
As we ambled our way agreeably out of Bath, Paddy and I employed ourselves in worthy speech. He was not yet a notable horseman, but his Irish adaptability was so great that he was already able to think he would not fall off so long as the horse was old and tired.
“Paddy,” said I, “how would you like to be an Englishman? Look at their cities. Sure, Skibbereen is a mud-pond to them. It might be fine to be an Englishman.”
“I would not, your honour,” said Paddy. “I would not be an Englishman while these grand — But never mind; ’tis many proud things I will say about the English considering they are our neighbours in one way; I mean they are near enough to come over and harm us when they wish. But any how they are a remarkable hard-headed lot, and in time they may come to something good.”
“And is a hard head such a qualification?” said I.
Paddy became academic. “I have been knowing two kinds
of hard heads,” he said. “Mickey McGovern had such a hard skull on him no stick in the south of Ireland could crack it, though many were tried. And what happened to him? He died poor as a rat. ’Tis not the kind of hard head I am meaning. I am meaning the kind of hard head which believes it contains all the wisdom and honour in the world. ’Tis what I mean. If you have a head like that, you can go along blundering into ditches and tumbling over your own shins, and still hold confidence in yourself. ’Tis not very handsome for other men to see; but devil a bit care you, for you are warm inside with complacence.”
“Here is a philosopher, in God’s truth,” I cried. “And where were you learning all this? In Ireland?”
“Your honour,” said Paddy firmly, “you yourself are an Irishman. You are not for saying there is no education in Ireland, for it educates a man to see burning thatches and such like. One of them was my aunt’s, Heaven rest her!”
“Your aunt?” said I. “And what of your aunt? What have the English to do with your aunt?”
“That’s what she was asking them,” said Paddy; “but they burned her house down over a little matter of seventeen years’ rent she owed to a full-blooded Irishman, may the devil find him!”
“But I am for going on without an account of your burnt-thatch education,” said I. “You are having more than two opinions about the English, and I would be hearing them. Seldom have I seen a man who could gain so much knowledge in so short a space. You are interesting me.”
Paddy seemed pleased. “Well, your honour,” said he confidentially, “’tis true for you. I am knowing the English down to their toes.”
“And if you were an Englishman, what kind of an Englishman would you like to be?” said I.
“A gentleman,” he answered swiftly. “A big gentleman!” Then he began to mimic and make gestures in a way that told me he had made good use of his eyes and of the society of underlings in the various inns. “Where’s me man? Send me man! Oh, here you are! And why didn’t you know I wanted you? What right have you to think I don’t want you? What? A servant dead? Pah! Send it down the back staircase at once and get rid of it. Bedad!” said Paddy enthusiastically, “I could do that fine!” And to prove what he said was true, he cried “Pah!” several times in a lusty voice.
“I see you have quickly understood many customs of the time,” said I. “But ’tis not all of it. There are many quite decent people alive now.”
“’Tis strange we have never heard tell of them,” said Paddy musingly. “I have only heard of great fighters, blackguards, and beautiful ladies, but sure, as your honour says, there must be plenty of quiet decent people somewhere.”
“There is,” said I. “I am feeling certain of it, although I am not knowing exactly where to lay my hand upon them.”
“Perhaps they would be always at mass,” said Paddy, “and in that case your honour would not be likely to see them.”
“Masses!” said I. “There are more masses said in Ireland in one hour than here in two years.”
“The people would be heathens, then?” said Paddy, aghast.
“Not precisely,” said I. “But they have reformed themselves several times, and a number of adequate reformations is a fine thing to confuse the Church. In Ireland we are all for being true to the ancient faith; here they are always for improving matters, and their learned men study the Sacred Book solely with a view to making needed changes.”
“’Tis heathen they are,” said Paddy with conviction. “I was knowing it. Sure, I will be telling Father Corrigan the minute I put a foot on Ireland, for nothing pleases him so much as a good obstinate heathen, and he very near discourses the hair off their heads.”
“I would not be talking about such matters,” said I. “It merely makes my head grow an ache. My father was knowing all about it; but he was always claiming that if a heathen did his duty by the poor he was as good as anybody, and that view I could never understand.”
“Sure, if a heathen gives to the poor, ’tis poison to them,” said Paddy. “If it is food and they eat it, they turn black all over and die the day after. If it is money, it turns red-hot and burns a hole in their hand, and the devil puts a chain through it and drags them down to hell, screeching.”
“Say no more,” said I. “I am seeing you are a true theologian of the time. I would be talking on some more agreeable topic, something about which you know less.”
“I can talk of fishing,” he answered diffidently. “For I am a great fisherman, sure. And then there would be turf-cutting, and the deadly stings given to men by eels. All these things I am knowing well.”
“’Tis a grand lot to know,” said I, “but let us be talking of London. Have you been hearing of London?”
“I have been hearing much about the town,” said Paddy. “Father Corrigan was often talking of it. He was claiming it to be full of loose women, and sin, and fighting in the streets during mass.”
“I am understanding something of the same,” I replied. “It must be an evil city. I am fearing something may happen to you, Paddy, — you with your red head as conspicuous as a clock in a tower. The gay people will be setting upon you and carrying you off. Sure there has never been anything like you in London.”
“I am knowing how to be dealing with them. It will be all a matter of religious up-bringing, as Father Corrigan was saying. I have but to go to my devotions, and the devil will fly away with them.”
“And supposing they have your purse?” said I. “The devil might fly away with them to an ill tune for you.”
“When they are flying away with my purse,” he replied suggestively, “they will be flying away with little of what could be called my ancestral wealth.”
“You are natural rogues,” said I, “you and Jem Bottles. And you had best not be talking of religion.”
“Sure a man may take the purse of an ugly old sick monkey like him, and still go with an open face to confession,” rejoined Paddy, “and I would not be backward if Father Corrigan’s church was a mile beyond.”
“And are you meaning that Father Corrigan would approve you in this robbery?” I cried.
“Devil a bit he would, your honour,” answered Paddy indignantly. “He would be saying to me: ‘Paddy, you limb of Satan, and how much did you get?’ I would be telling him. ‘Give fifteen guineas to the Church, you mortal sinner, and I will be trying my best for you,’ he would be saying. And I would be giving them.”
“You are saved fifteen guineas by being in England, then,” said I, “for they don’t do that here. And I am thinking you are traducing your clergy, you vagabond.”
“Traducing?” said he. “That would mean giving them money. Aye, I was doing it often. One year I gave three silver shillings.”
“You’re wrong,” said I. “By ‘traducing’ I mean speaking ill of your priest.”
“‘Speaking ill of my priest’?” cried Paddy, gasping with amazement. “Sure, my own mother never heard a word out of me!”
“However,” said I, “we will be talking of other things. The English land seems good.”
Paddy cast his eye over the rainy landscape. “I am seeing no turf for cutting,” he remarked disapprovingly, “and the potatoes would not be growing well here. ’Tis a barren country.”
At nightfall we came to a little inn which was ablaze with light and ringing with exuberant cries. We gave up our horses and entered. To the left was the closed door of the taproom, which now seemed to furnish all the noise. I asked the landlord to tell me the cause of the excitement.
“Sir,” he answered, “I am greatly honoured to-night. Mr. O’Ruddy, the celebrated Irish swordsman, is within, recounting a history of his marvellous exploits.”
“Indeed!” said I.
“Bedad!” said Paddy.
CHAPTER XVI
Paddy was for opening his mouth wide immediately, but I checked him. “I would see this great man,” said I to the landlord, “but I am so timid by nature I fear to meet his eagle eye. Is there no way by which we could obser
ve him in secret at our leisure?”
“There be one way,” remarked the landlord after deliberation. I had passed him a silver coin. He led us to a little parlour back of the taproom. Here a door opened into the tap itself, and in this door was cut a large square window so that the good man of the inn could sometimes sit at his ease in his great chair in the snug parlour and observe that his customers had only that for which they were paying. It is a very good plan, for I have seen many a worthy man become a rogue merely because nobody was watching him. My father often was saying that if he had not been narrowly eyed all his young life, first by his mother and then by his wife, he had little doubt but what he might have been engaged in dishonest practices sooner or later.
A confident voice was doing some high talking in the taproom. I peered through the window, but at first I saw only a collection of gaping yokels, poor bent men with faces framed in straggly whiskers. Each had a pint pot clutched with a certain air of determination in his right hand.
Suddenly upon our line of vision strode the superb form of Jem Bottles. A short pipe was in his mouth, and he gestured splendidly with a pint pot. “More of the beer, my dear,” said he to a buxom maid. “We be all rich in Ireland. And four of them set upon me,” he cried again to the yokels. “All noblemen, in fine clothes and with sword-hilts so flaming with jewels an ordinary man might have been blinded. ‘Stop!’ said I. ‘There be more of your friends somewhere. Call them.’ And with that—”
“‘And with that’?” said I myself, opening the door and stepping in upon him. “‘And with that’?” said I again. Whereupon I smote him a blow which staggered him against the wall, holding his crown with both hands while his broken beer-pot rolled on the floor. Paddy was dancing with delight at seeing some other man cuffed, but the landlord and the yokels were nearly dead of terror. But they made no sound; only the buxom girl whimpered.
“There is no cause for alarm,” said I amiably. “I was only greeting an old friend. ’Tis a way I have. And how wags the world with you, O’Ruddy?”
Complete Works of Stephen Crane Page 73
