the straggling village looked much the same, the same pigs and turkeys rooted and strutted, the same stinging turf-smoke came from the doors and windows (save from one or two cabins unroofed by the castle tyrant), the same weeds grew in the potato-patches, the same old men in patched brogues pulled their caubeens from their heads and their dudeens from their mouths, as she went past, half-consciously studying the humours for stage reproduction. it was hard for her to remember she wasn't "the quality" in london, or that the half-and-half existed simultaneously with these beloved woods and waters. in only one particular was the village changed. golf links had been discovered near it, a club-house had sprung up and the peasants found themselves enriched by the employment of their gossoons as caddies. the o'keeffes were prospering equally--thanks to her subsidies--although she hadn't yet bought them back their castle. "all's for the best in the greenest of isles," she told herself, as she sat basking in family affection.
and yet the wave of melancholia refused to ebb. indeed, it swelled and grew blacker. the remedy seemed to intensify the disease; a holiday but gave her time to possess her soul, and brood upon its stains, her childhood's scene but enabled her to measure the realities of her achievement against the visions of girlhood. life seemed too hopeless, too absurd. to amuse the gross adult, to instruct the innocent child--what did it all mean to her own life? she was tired of doing, she wanted to _be_ something; something for herself. she was always observing, imitating, caricaturing, but what was _she_? a nothing, a phantasm, an emptiness.
"eileen avourneen," said her mother, suddenly. "i wish you were married."
eileen opened her eyes. "dear heart, is this another offer from the castle?" and she laughed gently.
mrs. o'keeffe's fingers played uneasily with her bosom's cross. "no, but i should feel happier about you. it--it settles people."
"it certainly does," eileen laughed, and her celebrated ditty, "the marriage settlement," flashed upon her. "oh, dear," and her laugh changed to a sigh. "the marriages i see around me!"
"what! isn't mrs. lee carter happy?"
eileen flushed. "i shouldn't like to be in her shoes," she said evasively.
"officers seem to make the best husbands," said mrs. o'keeffe.
"because they are so much away?" queried eileen, with a vague memory of her lieutenant doherty.
that night the melancholia was heavy as a nightmare, without the partial unconsciousness of sleep. this blackness must be "the horrors" she had heard women of her stage-world speak of. she wanted to spring out of bed, to run to her mother's room. but that would have meant hysteric confession, so she bit her lips and stuck her nails into the sheet. perhaps suicide would be simplest. she was nothing; it would not even be blowing out a light. no, she _was_ something, she was a retailer of gross humours, a vile sinner; it might be kindling more than a light, an eternal flame. "child of mary," indeed! she deserved to be strangled with her white ribbon. and she exaggerated everything with that morbid mendacity of the confessional.
two days later she went for a walk along the springy turf of the valley. the sun shone overhead, but from her spirit the mist had not quite lifted. suddenly a small white ball came scudding towards her feet. she looked round and saw herself amid little flags sticking in the ground. distant voices came to her ear.
"this must be the new game that's creeping in from scotland," she thought. "perhaps i ought to have a song ready if ever it catches on. ah, here comes one of the young fools--i'll watch him--"
he came, clothed as in a grey skin that showed the beautiful modelling of his limbs. his face glowed.
"ouida's apollo," she thought, but in the very mockery she trembled, struck as by a lightning shaft. the blackness was sucked up into fire and light. "am i in the way?" she said with her most bewitching smile.
he raised his hat. "i was afraid you might have been struck."
"perhaps i was," she could not help saying.
"oh, gracious, are you hurt?" his voice was instantly caressing.
"do i look an object for ambulances?"
he smiled dazzlingly. "you look awfully jolly." later eileen remembered how she had taken this reply for a line of poetry.
a week later the hon. reginald winsor, younger brother of an english earl, was teaching eileen golf.
it had been a week of ecstasy.
she thought of reginald the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning and dreamed of him all night.
now she knew what her life had lacked--to be caught up into another's personality, to lose one's petty individuality in--in what? surely not in a larger; she couldn't be so blind as that. in what then? ah, yes, in nature. he was gloriously elemental. he wasn't himself. he was the masculine. yes, that was the correlative element her being needed. the mere manliness of his pipe made its aroma in his clothes adorable. or was it his big simplicity, in which she could bury all her torturing complexity? oh, to nestle in it and be at rest. yet she held him at arm's length. when they shook hands her nerves thrilled, but she was the colder outwardly for very fear of herself.
on the ninth day he proposed.
eileen knew it would be that day. lying in bed that morning, she found herself caught by her old impersonal whimsy. "i'm a fever, and on the ninth day of me the man comes out in a rash proposal." ah, but this time she was in a tertian, too. what a difference from those other proposals--proper or improper. her mind ran over half a dozen, with a touch of pity she had not felt at the time. poor bob maper, poor jolly jack jenkins, if it was like this they felt! but was it her fault? no man could say she had led him on--except, perhaps, the hon. reginald, and towards him her intentions were honourable, she told herself smiling. but the jest carried itself farther and more stingingly. could he make an "honourable" she told herself her? ah, god, was she worthy of him, of his simple manhood? and would he continue proposing, if she told him she was nelly o'neill? and what of his noble relatives? no, no, she must not run risks. she was only eileen o'keeffe, she had never left ireland save for the convent. the rest was a nightmare. how glad she was that nobody knew!
the proposal duly took place in a bunker, while eileen was whimsically vituperating her ball. the fascination of her virginal _diablerie_ was like a force compelling the victim to seize her in his arms after the fashion of the primitive bridegroom. however the poor honourable refrained, said boldly, "try it with this," and under pretence of changing her golfsticks possessed himself of her hand. for the first time his touch left her apathetic.
"now it is coming," she thought, and suddenly froze to a spectator of the marionette show. as the hon. reginald went through his performance, she felt with a shudder of horror over what brink she had nearly stepped. the man was merely a magnificent animal! she, with her heart, her soul, her brain, mated to that! like a convict chained to a log. not worthy of him forsooth! "there's a gulf between us," she thought, "and i nearly fell down it." and the half-and-half rose before her, clamouring, pungent, deliciously seductive.
"dear mr. winsor," she listened with no less interest to her own part in the marionette performance, "it's really too bad of you. just as i was getting on so nicely, too!"
"is that all you feel about--about our friendship?"
"all? didn't you undertake to teach me golf? i haven't the faintest desire not to go on ... as soon as we have escaped from this wretched bunker. come! did you say the niblick?"
reginald's manners were too good to permit him to swear, even at golf.
"one's body is like an irish mud-cabin," eileen reflected. "it shelters both a soul and a pig."
