“Aw, well then, you couldn’t do it, Doctor dear, for you’ve niver been in love. Shure, there’s no heart till ye!” answered the Irishman, and took another pinch of snuff with a flourish.
........................
Flamingo-like in her bright-coloured, figured gown, with a wild flower in her hair and her gray curls dancing gently at her temples, a little old lady trotted up and down the big sitting-room of Slow Down Ranch, talking volubly and insistently. One ironically minded would have said she chirruped, for her words came out in not unmusical, if staccato, notes, and she shook her shrivelled, ringed fingers reprovingly at a stalwart young man.
Once or twice, as she seemed to threaten him with what the poet called “The slow, unmoving finger of scorn,” he giggled. It was evident that he was at once amused and troubled. This voice had cherished and chided him all his life, and he could measure accurately what was behind it. It was a wilful voice. It had the insistance which power gives, and to a woman—or to most women—power is either money or beauty, since, in the world as it is, office and authority are denied them. Beauty was gone from the face of the ancient dame, but she still had much money, and, on rare occasions, it gave her a little arrogance. It did so now as she admonished her beloved son, who at any time would have renounced fortune, or hope of fortune, for some wilful idea of his own. A less sordid modern did not exist.
He was not very effective in the contest of tongue between his mother and himself. As the talk went on he foresaw that he was to be beaten; yet he persisted, for he loved a joy-wrangle, as he called it, with his mother. He had argued with her many a time, just to see her in a harmless passion, and note how the youth of her came back, giving high colour to the wrinkled face, and how the eyes shone with a brightness which had been constant in them long ago. They were now quarrelling over that ever-fruitful cause of antagonism—the second woman in the life of a man. Yet, strange to say, the flamingo-like Eugenie Guise, was fighting for the second woman, not against her.
“I’ll say it all again and again and again till you have sense, Orlando,” she declared. “Your old mother hasn’t lived all these years for nothing. I’m not thinking of you; I’m thinking of her.” She pointed towards the door of another room, from which came sounds of laughter—happy laughter—in which a man’s and a woman’s voices sounded. “On the day she comes into this house—and that’s the day after to-morrow—I shall go. I’ll stand at the door and welcome you, and see you have a good wedding-breakfast and that it all goes off grand, then I shall vanish.”
Orlando made a helpless gesture of the hand. “Well, mother, as I said, it will make us both unhappy—Louise as much as me. You and I have never been parted except for a few weeks at a time, and I’m sure I don’t know how I could stand it.”
“Rather late to think about it,” the other returned. “You can’t have two women spoiling you in one house and being jealous of each other—oh, you needn’t toss your fingers! Even two women that love each other can’t bear the competition. Just because I love her and want her to be happy, off I go to your Aunt Amelia to live with her. She’s poor, and I’ll still have someone to boss as I’ve bossed you. I never knew how much I loved Amelia till she got sick last year when everything terrible was happening here. I’m going, Orlando—
Two birds hopping on one branch
Would kill the joy of Slow Down Ranch—
“There, I made that up on the moment. It’s true, even if it is poetry.”