THE BORROWED LOVER
BY L. FRANK TOOKER
Author of “Kerrigan’s Christmas Sermon,” “Under Rocking Skies,” etc.
’TIS this way with women,” declared Kerrigan: “some of thim will desave ye, and some will not, but ye will niver know which till ut ’s done; for they’re all alike in the use of their eyes and tongues, and the proof of the puddin’ ’s in the ’atun’. Mind thot, laad.”
It was Sunday morning, and Kerrigan was leaning over the rail, looking dreamily off across the waste of piled lumber to the spires and roofs of the city. The sun shone brightly; the yellow flood of the river lipped softly the barnacled piles of the wharf; the hush of the Sabbath lay over all. Nicolao had just gone over the side of the vessel for an all-day outing; but he turned at Kerrigan’s warning. He waved his hand airily.
“Tha’ ’s alla right,” he replied. “Eet ees the gamble, yas—what yo’ expec’. So-long! Adios!”
“Staay where ye arre,” commanded Kerrigan, sternly. “I’m goun’ wid ye. ’Tis a guardeen ye waant, ye light-mind child of misfortune. Wait till I change me clothes.”
Twenty minutes later they crossed the wharf and passed cityward, something of Kerrigan’s grandfatherly air of protection dropping away at every step.
“’Tis good to be young,” he said; “I mind I was young wance mesilf. Where are ye goun’, laad?”
“I hava the friend,” Nicolao replied; “his name is Porfirio—Portuguese, weeth the nice shop, nice fam’ly, nice daughter, yo’ know.”
“I do,” said Kerrigan, significantly; “ye’d niver go ilse. I’ll attind ye for yer own safety. ’Tis on me mind.”
At the crossing they boarded a trolley, for the sun was hot and Nicolao in haste; and going well forward, they seated themselves in the car. As Kerrigan glanced down to return the change of his fare to his pocket, he saw two hands meekly folded in the lap of the woman who sat at his left. The hands held a breviary and a handkerchief. He glanced up at the face of the holder—the fresh Irish face of a young woman.
He sighed and looked away; he knew not why, but for an instant it gave him a desolate feeling of homesickness. Then Nicolao began to talk, and Kerrigan forgot the girl.
But presently she left the car, and as she rose to her feet, he saw a handkerchief flutter to the floor. He leaned forward quickly, and, picking it up, hurried after his neighbor; but others had risen between them, and she had reached the street and was stepping up to the curb when he touched her arm.
“Ye dropped it,acushla,” he said, and turning quickly, she glanced at his outstretched hand.
“Then ’twas a miracle,” she said, “and belongs to the church, not to me.” She held up her own hand, in which safely reposed the breviary and the handkerchief. Kerrigan stared.
“Wid me two eyes I saw it drop as ye got up,” he declared.
“I had but one,” replied the girl. “Are your two eyes strong enough to see that I’ve got it still? And you’ve lost your car.”
“I’ve lost more—me good name,” Kerrigan said. “I’ve stolen the handkerchief.”
“Then you’d better pray for repentance,” she advised. “I’ll give you a hint: the church is before you. Good-by, and thank you—for nothing.” Laughing, she hurried away up the steps of the church.
Kerrigan hesitatingly watched her go, then walked to a side porch and sat down.
“I’ll tak’ the hint to this extint,” he muttered, and patiently waited through the hour of service; but as the audience streamed forth at the close he returned to the main door and stood watching.
But suddenly he felt a touch on his arm and heard a voice say:
“I’ll be going home now.”
Startled, he looked down into the face of the girl. It was very demure, though flushed.
“Ah, ’tis ye thot’s repinted—of yer haard heart,” he said.“Ye’ve come back to tell me so.”
“I’ve repented of naught but my sins,” she replied, “and a hard heart is not one of them. But I’d borrow you for a little, if you have nothing better to do.”
“I’ll have nothing better to do all through purgatory, which will be hiven to me if ye’re wid me,” he replied. “And there’s another miracle.”
She laughed.
“I’d not care to keep you so long.”
“Thin I’ll get me hell first, which is wrong,” he answered sadly. “I tho’t ye were orthodox.”
“I’m—” She pressed his arm in warning as a man passed them rapidly, turning to look back into their faces. He was weazen, middle-aged, with a wry face.
“That’s the reason for borrowing you,” she explained in a low voice.
“Thot’s not a reason; ut’s an apology,” Kerrigan said tartly. “Ut’s a monkey, not a mon.”
“He’s always hanging about,” she replied. “My father and mother favor him; he’s got money.”
“Ut’s a curse,” Kerrigan declared solemnly.
“So the rich tell me,” said the girl with a laugh.
“I’m rich mesilf while I have ye,” he said.
“You’re only borrowed,” she warned him. “Are you a masterful man?”
“I’m meek as Moses,” he assured her. “A child could lade me.”
“Oh, then you won’t do at all!” she cried. “I thought you were masterful by your looks. My father and mother are meek, but set in their ways, and I’m tired of it. Now, a man who’d knock me about andthem—”
“Ye waant me to knock thim about—yer father and mither?”
“I want them to think you would,” she corrected him. “’T would be good for them. But of course you’d not do it; you’d only be soft-spoken and blarneying.”
“I’m as gintle as a cow by nature,” he assured her; “but I’d sell me birthright to plaze ye. Now tak’ me home wid ye and prove ut.”
“’T is worth trying,” she replied. “You’ll stay to dinner? I’ve taken to you, you know.”
“I accipt both the dinner and the compliment,” he answered, “and thank ye kindly for both.”
In the porch of their small house near the wall of the cemetery of the city her father and mother sat waiting as they entered the gate.
“My friend, Mr.——” The girl hesitated.
“Kerrigan—Thomas Kerrigan,” that gentleman said promptly.
“My father and mother,” continued the girl. “Reilly’s their name. The gentleman was very kind. He lost his car to return my handkerchief.”
Her father, a weather-beaten little man, looked Kerrigan over coolly as he nodded.
“Faith!” he said at last, “I’m thinkin’ he’s likely to lose his supper before he returns it; he’s got it in his hand yet.”
The girl laughed.
“It was not mine, you know,” she explained.
“I don’t see the joke,” her father said irritably. “What’s all the stir, Kate?”
“Ye’ll see ut in time,” Kerrigan replied with composure. “’T is like this: she liked me betther nor the bit of white rag, so she took me instid.”
“She was always greedy,” replied Reilly; “she’d take the biggest lump iv’ry time, not countin’ the quality.” He turned to his wife. “Do ye mind thot, Mary?”
“I don’t understand a’ the nonsince,” replied his wife, a meek little wisp of a woman. She rose and went into the house, followed by Kate.
Kerrigan was looking complacently about him, and now said:
“Ye have the cimetery handy, Reilly.”
“I need to,” the old man replied. “I worrk in it.”
“’T is the fine job,” declared Kerrigan. “Ye can feel all the time how much betther off ye are than yer neighbors. I doubt not ut makes ye consated.”
“There’s thim that are livin’ that make me feel the same,” Reilly said significantly. He glared at Kerrigan, who nodded.
“’T is a habit and grows on ye, like drinkun’,” Kerrigan declared. “What do ye do to cure ut?”
“I choose me own fri’nds mostly,” Reilly said tartly. “Belikes ye will take the hint.”
“I do,” replied Kerrigan.“’T is the raison ye worrk in the cimetery, I tak’ ut; the talk’s wan-sided. Ye’d like thot.”
Kate came out and, seeing her father glowering, sat down by Kerrigan, carelessly placing her hand on the back of his chair.
“My father has taken to you,” she said with a coquettish glance. “He’ll monopolize you. I’ll not see you at all. I’m fair green with the jealousy.”
“Good Lord!” sputtered the old man, and glared at her, but she seemed not to hear or see.
“We’ll go for a walk after dinner,” she went on—“in the cemetery. It’s the only place I can get you away from him; for he works there in the week, and he’d not like to spoil his holiday by seeing the place.”
“’T will be a sore thing to part from him,” answered Kerrigan, “for we’re like brithers alriddy, barrun’ the size of us and the looks; but I’d not like to remind him of worrk, so we’ll go, as ye say.”
“’T is the nice, quiet place for young people,” Kate said and laughed. “You’ll find them all about, walking arm and arm, and sitting on the benches in the shade, hand in hand. They’ll not notice us at all.”
“Thin we’ll not notice thim,” answered Kerrigan, with good-natured generosity; but Reilly rose up and stormed into the house, slamming the door.
He ate his dinner rapidly and in silence, and left the table long before the others, and when, ready for their walk, Kate and Kerrigan appeared in the porch, he sat there grim and silent, wearing his coat and hat.
Kate showed her surprise.
“Why, Father, have you the chill?” she asked anxiously. “Are you cold?”
“Wan worrd more, me girl, and I’ll fetch ye a clip on the side of the head, old as ye are,” Reilly said savagely.
“You’d never do the like of such a queer thing,” she exclaimed—“never. And you know me Tom would not stand for that at all. Would you?” She looked trustingly up into Kerrigan’s face.
“’T would hurt me more nor him to tak’ a little, small mon across me knee,” Kerrigan replied, “but ’t would be both me duty and right. But he’s only jokun’, me dear. He’s laughun’ in his sleeve this minut’.”
Reilly eyed him with a look of ferocity.
“Tin years younger, ye lump,” he said, “and small as I am, I’d fetch ye the mate of it over the jaw, big as ye are.”
“Hiven be thanked for the tin years, thin!” exclaimed Kerrigan, piously.
“Yes, Heaven be thanked!” echoed Kate. “’T would be a sore thing for a loving girl to see her old father in the hands of a strong man. You’ll always be tender to him, won’t you?”
“Always,” promised Kerrigan—“tender, but firm.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I knew you would. But good-by, Father.”
“Ye can’t go,” snapped Reilly. “Into the house wid yez!”
“What!” she cried. “And me of age, and earning me living these five years!” She threw back her head and walked toward the gate, with her father following after.
“Thin I’ll go wid yez, ye ungrateful girl,” Reilly declared.
“Thin take me ither arm,” said Kerrigan, with a solicitous air; but Reilly stepped back, waving him off.
“Go on, ye lump!” he commanded.
“Aye, ye know best,” Kerrigan agreed. “’T is more like a marriage procission yer way.”
Kate laughed.
“For shame,” she cried, “to talk of marriage so soon! I’ve known you but four hours.”
“What’s time to the lovun’ hearrt thot knows uts own mate?” asked Kerrigan.
“True,” she replied; “it’s nothing at all.”
“If ye’ve no respict for yer owld father, ye hussy,” Reilly hissed close at her ear, “think shame to yersilf for the bowldniss of yez.”
“To think you’d put the black name of boldness on your own daughter!” Kate cried, turning angrily. “I’ll not listen to you.” She flounced up the road.
Reilly followed. He passed into the cemetery behind them and stubbornly kept near; but as they turned into an avenue of live-oaks, he caught sight of a slender young man who stood in a path and watched Kate and Kerrigan go by. Reilly beckoned to him, and the young man came hesitatingly forward.
“And how are ye the day?” Reilly said genially, and extended his hand. In manifest surprise the young man shook hands and said:
“Well, Mr. Reilly, as the world goes. And how are you?”
“Fine, Michael,” Reilly replied, “though troubled a small bit.” He glanced ahead at the pair, who had not looked back. The young man’s eyes also followed them.
“Aye, it’s the world’s way,” he agreed with a somber air. “It’s up and down with us all.”
“It is, Michael Cassidy,” replied Reilly. “But I’ve not seen ye for the long time.”
As Michael had been forbidden to come to the house, he deemed it politic to make no reply. His silence left Reilly at a loss, and presently he said with a melancholy shake of the head:
“It’s God’s truth, as they say, that a mon niver knows what’s good for him.”
Michael looked at him inquiringly.
“Are you speaking of yourself, Mr. Reilly?” he asked.
“I am,” Reilly confessed. “Here was I keepin’ a fine lad like yersilf from me house, and who should me daughter bring into it but thot big lump yon! Bedad! he fills the whole place!”
“Lord keep us all!” exclaimed Michael.
“’T is well said, Michael Cassidy,” replied Reilly. “’T is the bitter, true worrd.”
“But not past mending, Mr. Reilly,” Michael said with a sly glance. “’T is only to let me come back and send the lump flying.”
“Flyin’ is it?” exclaimed Reilly, wrathfully. “Faith! he flies like a tree.”
“’T is your own house,” Michael replied. “You have only to say the word go. I know how it sounds myself.”
“Have I? ’T is all ye know. I give him a couple or three hints of the same, and he was for takin’ me over his knee—me, the father of me own daughter. And what did she do but egg him on!”
“Aye, that’s bad.”
“It is so.”
“If you could manage to let him do it,” Michael said thoughtfully, “and then call the police for assault, you’d have him fine. ’T would shame Kate. ’T would be bad for him.”
“Would it?” Reilly said with scorn. “And how would it be for me in me owld age to be taken across a mon’s knee? Tell me thot.”
Michael snickered, but quickly changed his snicker to a cough under Reilly’s wrathful look.
“You’re right, Mr. Reilly,” he said soberly; “’t would make angels weep.”
“I’d not distress the howly wans to thot extint,” Reilly declared. He was silent a moment, then said with a brightening face: “If you’d pass a scrappy worrd wid him yersilf, Michael, and take a clip or two of his fist, belikes Kate would take pity on ye and—”
“The pity of a woman is a poor tale,” Michael replied hastily. “Has Kate taken a liking to him?”
“A liking to him, is it!” exclaimed Reilly. “She makes me fair blush for her bowldniss.”
“Then she’s given me up, and it’s no use at all,” Michael said with a groan.
“Well, if she’s given ye up, ye’ve nothing to lose by me plan,” argued Reilly. “She might take ye back.”
“And be where I was before,” objected Michael, “and that was nowhere at all, with you against me. That’s the plain word between friends, Mr. Reilly, and no harm meant.”
“But all that’s done and gone, as I told ye,” Reilly irritably replied. “I’m for ye now, Michael. ’T is her pity that’s the only way to win her now.”
“Faith! I think I’d get it,” answered Michael, dolefully; “the man’s as broad as a house.”
“Well, if it comes to the blows bechune ye,” Reilly said, “just grapple wid him, and I’ll give him a little small clip on the back of the head wid me stick.” He gripped his cane hard as he added grimly: “Bedad! I’ll put me heart in it, and that’s no lie. Now come on and try me plan.”
But Michael still held back.
“What’s changed you all at once?” he asked. “You never liked me.”
“That lump,” said Reilly. “He’ll marry her out of hand before their walk’s over if ye do not stop him.”
“And if I do stop him, will I have her myself?” Michael asked.
“Ye will,” Reilly promised. “I’ve passed me worrd.”
“Then God be with us all, and here goes!” said Michael.
They quickened their pace and caught up with the pair, and Kate, looking back, stopped.
“I thought you’d forgotten us, Father,” she said with a laugh. “And is it Mr. Cassidy with you, the great stranger!” She introduced him to Kerrigan as a “friend of the family,” and they walked on together, Reilly straggling on ahead, leading the way toward his tool-house, in a lonely part of the cemetery.
“It’s the long time since you’ve been to see us, Mr. Cassidy,” Kate said at last.
“It is,” Michael replied. “The place is fairly overrun. It’s the queer lot you have hanging about.”
“Overrun, do you say!” exclaimed Kate. “There’s not been a soul there in weeks.”
Michael laughed disagreeably.
“It’s not an hour since I saw this wind-bag come out of the door,” he replied in a loud voice. Then he put his hand to his mouth, saying softly: “When you strike, strike quick and hard, Mr. Kerrigan. I’d like to have it over. And look out for the old man’s stick.” Kerrigan grinned.
Kate, on Kerrigan’s left, had not heard the aside, and she grew pale. She leaned forward now to say sweetly:
“And how are your father and mother—Michael? Are they well?”
“They are,” Michael answered; “but a bit low in spirit. I’d take it kindly if you’d parade the big monkey you’ve got with you before their gate. Belikes it would hearten them up; they’re fond of a show.”
They heard Reilly chuckle.
“Aye, Michael’s the b’y,” he muttered, and gripped his stick hard.
Kerrigan stopped short.
“We’ll go now,” he said stiffly.
“With all my heart,” retorted Michael, and turned back. But Kate caught Kerrigan’s arm, pulling him forward.
“Would you leave a girl in the middle of a walk to go following after a joker like Michael?” she cried. “Sure, he was always up to his tricks. It’s some little, small joke on his father, the poor old man. I’ll have naught to do with it.”
The two men stood glaring at each other, the grimness of Kerrigan’s face being lighted, however, as he stood with his back to Kate, by a sly wink.
“Is ut a joke?” he demanded.
“Would you call the lady a liar?” Michael asked hotly. “She says it’s a joke; and if she says it’s one, it is, even if it isn’t. Are your manners as awry as your face?”
“I niver quarrel before ladies, but we’ll take a walk soon and try to match faces,” Kerrigan said significantly.
“You couldn’t please me more if you asked me to your wake,” Michael airily replied.
“Oh, Father, there’s your little workhouse,” nervously called Kate. “I left something in it when I brought you your dinner-pail Thursday. I’ll get it now, if you have your key, though I’m thinking you’ve forgotten it, as usual.”
“I niver forget it,” retorted Reilly; and to prove his contention, led the way to the tool-house.
It was a stout little stone house with a strong door, and as Reilly opened it, he stepped in, looking back at the others with a sour smile.
“Forget it, did I?” he snapped. “Now, where did ye l’ave what ye left?”
“I hid it on top of that shelf—a little, small box,” Kate said. “Will you reach it down, Mr. Kerrigan? You’re as tall as the house yourself, and ’t will not trouble you, like these small men.”
Kerrigan stepped into the room, and in a flash she closed the door and locked it.
“Now, Michael, run, if you love me!” she exclaimed. “Do you think I want to see you murdered before my eyes? Your courage is two sizes too big for your body.”
But Michael did not move.
“Better be murdered than see you making love to that brute,” he said doggedly. “I’ll see it out now.”
She caught him by the shoulders and tried to push him away.
“But it’s not making love, Michael dear,” she replied. “It was just to stir father.” She explained in a word, with Michael’s face gradually relaxing in a grin.
“Well, you’ve stirred him all right,” he said; “he wants you to marry me now. We’ll do it at once before he changes his mind.”
“In a hurry like this!” she cried.“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“All right,” he replied, and seated himself on the door-step. “Then I’ll stay and be murdered.”
For a moment Kate stood irresolute, wringing her hands.
“Oh, what shall I do!” she murmured.
“I told you—marry me now,” he replied. He went to her, and, taking her hands, said quickly: “I’ve the license; I’ve had it for weeks. It would be the fine thing, wouldn’t it, to have it found like that on my dead body?”
“I think I should die of shame,” she confessed. “It would hardly seem decent.”
“It’s the true word you say, Katie dear. You see, there’s nothing left but to use it.”
“Sure, it would make me feel like a widow, and me not yet a wife,” she said. “I’ll go, Michael. It’s all that’s left for us now. Hurry.”
INSIDEthe barred window Kerrigan and her father saw them hasten away. Her father chuckled.
“She fooled ye,” he said, for Kerrigan had not found the box.
“She did,” Kerrigan agreed. He seated himself on a stool and looked about him complacently. “Ye’ve the nice little shop for wet weather,” he went on.
“For anny weather,” Reilly replied. He had suddenly become genial, and he began to talk of his work. “Thirty years I’ve worked here,” he said at the close, “and I’ve put by a little against me owld age. And now Kate will marry, and there’s wan trouble liss off me mind. Michael’s a good b’y.”
“He is,” Kerrigan agreed with great heartiness. “Did ye hear him blackguarrdun’ me to me face as bowld as ye plaze? Me hearrt warrmed to the laad.”
“Aye, and he fooled ye well; they both did,” said Reilly, and chuckled.
“They did,” answered Kerrigan. “And now I’m like a hin in a coop; but I’m not alone.”
For a moment Reilly looked at him, and then a shadow crossed his face.
“Ye take it aisy,” he said suspiciously.
“Ut’s me way,” replied Kerrigan. “I’m a sedenthary mon by nature, though I’m slightly out of practice, though ut all comes back. I’ll shmoke now.” He took his pipe from his pocket and leisurely began to fill it.
“But ye lost the girl,” Reilly told him.
“Can I lose what I niver had or waanted?” Kerrigan asked. “I don’t know.”
“It was not an hour since ye were all but marryin’ her before me eyes,” snapped Reilly. “What of that?”
“I was borrowed only,” exclaimed Kerrigan.
“And what do ye mane?” demanded Reilly.
“’T was what Katie said,” answered Kerrigan. “We were standun’ before the church whin up edged a red-headed little old mon, and says she to me, ‘May I borrow ye for a bit?’ ‘Sure,’ says I. And she borrowed me to get rid of the mon, and now she’s borrowed anither to get rid of you and me. Sure, she’s the bright wan.”
Reilly was staring straight ahead, piecing the broken patches of truth together. Suddenly he looked up.
“And nayther of ye meant nothing at all by all the love-talk?”
“Nothing at all,” answered Kerrigan.
“Thin she’s a desateful hussy,” cried Reilly, angrily. “She’s made me ate me own worrds through fear of ye. I said young Cassidy should niver have her, and now she’s made me fair’ throw him at her, as if he was the last mon on God’s earth! Ye can’t trust a woman at all.”
“Sometimes ye can and sometimes ye cannot,” amended Kerrigan, “but ye niver know which ut is till ut’s too late.”
“It’s the true worrd,” agreed Reilly. He sighed, then added not without a touch of pardonable pride: “Well, she’s no fool, and she’s me own daughter. There’s something in that.”
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