Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: A Gray Eye or So. In Three Volumes—Volume I by Moore Frank Frankfort
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page
Ebook has 868 lines and 36927 words, and 18 pages
"That's all very well as a story," said Edmund; "but you see we were talking on the subject of the advantages of the higher education of woman."
"True for you, sir," said Brian. "And if the Widdy MacDermott had been born with eddication would she have let her childer to sleep with the cow?"
"Harold," said Edmund, "there are many side lights upon the general question of the advantages of culture in women."
"And the story of the Widdy MacDermott is one of them?" said Harold.
"When I notice that gentlemen that come out in the boat with me begin to talk on contentious topics, I tell them the story of how the Widdy MacDermott's cabin was wrecked," said Brian.
DON'T you think," remarked Edmund, the next day, as the boat drifted under the great cliffs, and Brian was discharging with great ability his normal duty of resting on his oars. "Don't you think that you should come to business without further delay?"
"Come to business?" said Harold.
"Yes. Two days ago you lured me out in this coracle to make a communication to me that I judged would have some bearing upon your future course of life. You began talking of Woman with a touch of fervour in your voice. You assured me that you were referring only to woman in the abstract, and when I convinced you--I trust I convinced you--that woman in the abstract has no existence, you got frightened--as frightened as a child would be, if the thing that it has always regarded as a doll were to wink suddenly, suggesting that it had an individuality, if not a distinction of its own--that it should no longer be included among the vague generalities of rags and bran. Yesterday you began rather more boldly. The effects of education upon the development of woman, the probability that feeling would survive an intimate acquaintance with Plato in the original. Why not take another onward step today? In short, who is she?"
Harold laughed--perhaps uneasily.
"I'm not without ambition," said he.
"I know that. What form does your ambition take? A colonial judgeship, after ten years of idleness at the bar? A success in literature that shall compensate you for the favourable criticisms of double that period? The ownership of the Derby winner? An American heiress, moving in the best society in Monte Carlo? A co-respondency in brackets with a Countess? All these are the legitimate aspirations of the modern man."
"Co-respondency as a career has, no doubt, much to recommend it to some tastes," said Harold. "It appears to me, however, that it would be easy for an indiscreet advocate to over-estimate its practical value."
"You haven't been thinking about it?"
"You see, I haven't yet met the countess."
"What, then, in heaven's name do you hope for?"
"Well, I would say Parliament, if I could be sure that that came within the rather narrow restrictions which you assigned to my reply. You said 'in heaven's name.'"
"Parliament! Parliament! Great Powers! is it so bad as that with you?"
"I don't say that it is. I may be able to get over this ambition as I've got over others--the stroke oar in the Eight, for instance, the soul of Sarasate, the heart of Miss Polly Floss of the Music Halls. Up to the present, however, I have shown no sign of parting with the surviving ambition of many ambitions."
"I don't say that you're a fool," said the man called Edmund. He did not speak until the long pause, filled up by the great moan of the Atlantic in the distance and the hollow fitful plunge of the waters upon the rocks of the Irish shore, had become awkwardly long. "I can't say that you're a fool."
"That's very good of you, old chap."
"No; I can't conscientiously say that you're a fool."
"Again? This is becoming cloying. If I don't mistake, you yourself do a little in the line I suggest."
"What would be wisdom--comparative wisdom--on my part, might be idiotcy--"
"Comparative idiotcy?"
"Sheer idiotcy, on yours. I have several thousands a year, and I can almost--not quite--but I affirm, almost, afford to talk honestly to the Working man. No candidate for Parliament can quite afford to be honest to the Working man."
"And the Working man returns the compliment, only he works it off on the general public," said Harold.
"No woman is quite frank in her prayers--no politician is quite honest with the Working man."
"Well. I am prepared to be not quite honest with him too."
"You may believe yourself equal even to that; but it's not so easy as it sounds. There is an art in not being quite honest. However, that's a detail."
"I humbly venture so to judge it."
"The main thing is to get returned."
"The main thing is, as you say, to get the money."
"The money?"
"Perhaps I should have said the woman."
"The woman? the money? Ah, that brings us round again in the same circle that we traversed yesterday, and the day before. I begin to perceive."
"I had hope that you would--in time."
"I shouldn't wonder if we heard the Banshee after dark," said the Third.
"You are facing things boldly, my dear Harold," said Edmund.
"What's the use of doing anything else?" inquired Harold. "You know how I am situated."
"I know your father."
"That is enough. He writes to me that he finds it impossible to continue my allowance on its present scale. His expenses are daily increasing, he says. I believe him."
"Too many people believe in him," said Edmund. "I have never been among them."
"But you can easily believe that his expenses are daily increasing."
"Oh, yes, I am easily credulous on that point. Does he go the length of assigning any reason for the increase?"
"It's perfectly preposterous--he has no notion of the responsibilities of fatherhood--of the propriety of its limitations so far as an exchange of confidences is concerned. Why, if it were the other way--if I were to write to tell him that I was in love, I would feel a trifle awkward--I would think it almost indecent to quote poetry--Swinburne--something about crimson mouths."
"I dare say; but your father--"
"He writes to tell me that he is in love."
"In love?"
"Yes, with some--well, some woman."
"Some woman? I wonder if I know her husband." There was a considerable pause.
Brian pointed a ridiculous, hooked forefinger toward a hollow that from beneath resembled a cave, half-way up the precipitous wall of cliffs.
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page