Read Online Bold Sons of Erin by Owen Parry, Ralph Peters - Free Book Online
Authors: Owen Parry, Ralph Peters
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addled her nature.
“But it’s only that I don’t feel my wife should be associated in any manner with—”
“Oh, don’t you now? Aren’t you the king of the castle, gone for months then coming home to give commands to all your humble servants?”
“You mustn’t compromise yourself, my dearest. Don’t you understand—”
“I understand that many’s the husband from high up the hill who does not think himself above visiting Mrs. Walker’s boarding house. Many a man to whom you bow and scrape.”
“‘Bow and scrape’ I do not, Mary. And is it a ‘boarding house’ now, that sink of evil Mrs. Walker runs?”
“Call it what you will. She pays her bills.”
“But Mary . . . were the ladies of this town to learn that she patronized your—”
“Oh, the lot you know, Abel. As long as they can have credit, they’d have their dresses made by Satan himself and give him a kiss for the asking. Nasty little sneaks they are, nine out of ten, and they make me ashamed of the female race itself. Stealing from their husband’s pockets to pay for their scrap of lace! They’re worse tarts, the half of them, than any girl who works for Dolly Walker.”
“Mary!”
I must have looked a fright to freeze the esquimaux, for she softened in an instant. Then she reached out and took me by the hand. Women with child are changeable, and husbands must be forbearing.
“Oh, Abel, I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . sometimes you live in a fairyland in the clouds, where everyone tells the truth and reads the Bible. Life isn’t like that.”
She almost called a tear into my eye. I know life is not like that, see. I know it all too well. It is only that I yearn to believe in goodness. After all that I have seen of the world. I long to believe in rectitude and kindness. Even if it means I play pretend. Perhaps it comes from growing up an orphan—although my Mary’s father, the Reverend Mr. Griffiths, took me in and fed me for a time. A hard man he was, with the sternness of St. John the Baptist, but none of the gentle love of Jesus Christ. Thereafter, I learned much of life in India.
I did not weep, but my wife did, all unexpected. She took me in her arms, almost as if I were her child as well as her husband.
“Oh, my dear,” she whispered. “I’ve never known a man so strong and so fragile.”
“I did not know you had known so many men.”
“You know what I am saying. Do not pretend with me.”
“Well, I am not made of glass, that I will tell you.”
“Nor am I,” my Mary said. “Look you, Abel. We have made a start in life, although we started late. And life with you is all I ask of Heaven. But we have a son, and another child coming”—she placed my hand upon her swelling person—“and they must be provided for. If . . . if anything should happen to you . . .” Another jewel escaped my darling’s eye. “You wouldn’t want me to be one of those poor women lining up outside Mr. Potts’s office in the mornings, would you? Begging for him to help them apply for a pension? With their husbands dead and buried far from home, and the widows left bare of a penny for a loaf?”
Twas I who did the holding now. She was frail as a crystal glass on a ledge.
“Do not worry,” I told her. “For I am a bad penny and will always turn up.”
She wept.
“I will always come back to you, my darling,” I assured her.
“That’s what every one of them tells his wife. Don’t you know that?”
“But we are different, see. And you will not be rid of me so easily. A war is not enough to keep me from you.”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“Laughing I am not.” Oh, I loved the smell of her. Wherever she might be would be my home.
“I’m so afraid, Abel. Afraid you’ll be gone forever. That you’ll leave John and the baby and me alone. I don’t know what I’d do, after waiting so long.”
“And there is Fanny. She is our daughter now.”
Mary stiffened, putting an inch between us. “She is welcome to
“But it’s only that I don’t feel my wife should be associated in any manner with—”
“Oh, don’t you now? Aren’t you the king of the castle, gone for months then coming home to give commands to all your humble servants?”
“You mustn’t compromise yourself, my dearest. Don’t you understand—”
“I understand that many’s the husband from high up the hill who does not think himself above visiting Mrs. Walker’s boarding house. Many a man to whom you bow and scrape.”
“‘Bow and scrape’ I do not, Mary. And is it a ‘boarding house’ now, that sink of evil Mrs. Walker runs?”
“Call it what you will. She pays her bills.”
“But Mary . . . were the ladies of this town to learn that she patronized your—”
“Oh, the lot you know, Abel. As long as they can have credit, they’d have their dresses made by Satan himself and give him a kiss for the asking. Nasty little sneaks they are, nine out of ten, and they make me ashamed of the female race itself. Stealing from their husband’s pockets to pay for their scrap of lace! They’re worse tarts, the half of them, than any girl who works for Dolly Walker.”
“Mary!”
I must have looked a fright to freeze the esquimaux, for she softened in an instant. Then she reached out and took me by the hand. Women with child are changeable, and husbands must be forbearing.
“Oh, Abel, I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . sometimes you live in a fairyland in the clouds, where everyone tells the truth and reads the Bible. Life isn’t like that.”
She almost called a tear into my eye. I know life is not like that, see. I know it all too well. It is only that I yearn to believe in goodness. After all that I have seen of the world. I long to believe in rectitude and kindness. Even if it means I play pretend. Perhaps it comes from growing up an orphan—although my Mary’s father, the Reverend Mr. Griffiths, took me in and fed me for a time. A hard man he was, with the sternness of St. John the Baptist, but none of the gentle love of Jesus Christ. Thereafter, I learned much of life in India.
I did not weep, but my wife did, all unexpected. She took me in her arms, almost as if I were her child as well as her husband.
“Oh, my dear,” she whispered. “I’ve never known a man so strong and so fragile.”
“I did not know you had known so many men.”
“You know what I am saying. Do not pretend with me.”
“Well, I am not made of glass, that I will tell you.”
“Nor am I,” my Mary said. “Look you, Abel. We have made a start in life, although we started late. And life with you is all I ask of Heaven. But we have a son, and another child coming”—she placed my hand upon her swelling person—“and they must be provided for. If . . . if anything should happen to you . . .” Another jewel escaped my darling’s eye. “You wouldn’t want me to be one of those poor women lining up outside Mr. Potts’s office in the mornings, would you? Begging for him to help them apply for a pension? With their husbands dead and buried far from home, and the widows left bare of a penny for a loaf?”
Twas I who did the holding now. She was frail as a crystal glass on a ledge.
“Do not worry,” I told her. “For I am a bad penny and will always turn up.”
She wept.
“I will always come back to you, my darling,” I assured her.
“That’s what every one of them tells his wife. Don’t you know that?”
“But we are different, see. And you will not be rid of me so easily. A war is not enough to keep me from you.”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“Laughing I am not.” Oh, I loved the smell of her. Wherever she might be would be my home.
“I’m so afraid, Abel. Afraid you’ll be gone forever. That you’ll leave John and the baby and me alone. I don’t know what I’d do, after waiting so long.”
“And there is Fanny. She is our daughter now.”
Mary stiffened, putting an inch between us. “She is welcome to
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