"Mr. Kelver," said the Signora, "you are very young."
I hinted--it was one of those rare occasions upon which gallantry can be combined with truth--that I found myself in company.
The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head.
"Age," said the O'Kelly, "is a matter of feeling. Kelver, may ye never be as old as I am feeling now."
"As _we_ are feeling," corrected the Signora. "Kelver," said the O'Kelly, pouring out a third glass of champagne, "we want ye to promise us something."
"It will make us both happier," added the Signora.
"That ye will take warning," continued the O'Kelly, "by our wretched example. Paul, in this world there is only one path to possible happiness. The path of strict--" he paused.
"Propriety," suggested the Signora.
"Of strict propriety," agreed the O'Kelly. "Deviate from it," continued the O'Kelly, impressively, "and what is the result?"
"Unutterable misery," supplied the Signora.
"Ye think we two have been happy here together," said the O'Kelly.
I replied that such was the conclusion to which observation had directed me.
"We tried to appear so," explained the Signora; "it was merely on the outside. In reality all the time we hated each other. Tell him, Willie, dear, how we have hated each other."
"It is impossible," said the O'Kelly, finishing and putting down his glass, "to give ye any idea, Kelver, how we have hated each other."
"How we have quarrelled!" said the Signora. "Tell him, dear, how we have quarrelled."
"All day long and half the night," concluded the O'Kelly.
"Fought," added the Signora. "You see, Mr. Kelver, people in--in our position always do. If it had been otherwise, if--if everything had been proper, then of course we should have loved each other. As it is, it has been a cat and dog existence. Hasn't it been a cat and dog existence, Willie?"
"It's been just hell upon earth," murmured the O'Kelly, with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the fire-stove ornament. Deadly in earnest though they both were, I could not repress a laugh, their excellent intention was so obvious. The Signora burst into tears.
"He doesn't believe us," she wailed.
"Me dear," replied the O'Kelly, throwing up his part with promptness and satisfaction, "how could ye expect it? How could he believe that any man could look at ye and hate ye?"
"It's all my fault," cried the little woman; "I am such a wicked creature. I cannot even be miserable when I am doing wrong. A decent woman in my place would have been wretched and unhappy, and made everybody about her wretched and unhappy, and so have set a good example and have been a warning. I don't seem to have any conscience, and I do try." The poor little lady was sobbing her heart out.
When not shy I could be sensible, and of the O'Kelly and the Signora one could be no more shy than of a pair of robin redbreasts. Besides, I was really fond of them; they had been very good to me.
"Dear Miss Beltoni," I answered, "I am going to take warning by you both."
She pressed my hand. "Oh, do, please do," she murmured. "We really have been miserable--now and then."
"I am never going to be content," I assured her, "until I find a lady as charming and as amiable as you, and if ever I get her I'll take good care never to run any risk of losing her."
It sounded well and pleased us all. The O'Kelly shook me warmly by the hand, and this time spoke his real feelings.
"Me boy," he said, "all women are good--for somebody. But the woman that is good for yerself is better for ye than a better woman who's the best for somebody else. Ye understand?"
I said I did.
At eight o'clock precisely Mrs. Peedles arrived--as Flora MacDonald, in green velvet jacket and twelve to fifteen inches of plaid stocking.
As a topic fitting the occasion we discussed the absent Mr. Peedles and the subject of deserted wives in general.
"A fine-looking man," allowed Mrs. Peedles, "but weak--weak as water."
The Signora agreed that unfortunately there did exist such men: 'twas pitiful but true.
"My dear," continued Mrs. Peedles, "she wasn't even a lady."
The Signora expressed astonishment at the deterioration in Mr. Peedles' taste thus implied.
"I won't go so far as to say we never had a difference," continued Mrs. Peedles, whose object appeared to be an impartial statement of the whole case. "There may have been incompatability of temperament, as they say. Myself, I have always been of a playful disposition--frivolous, some might call me."
The Signora protested; the O'Kelly declined to listen to such aspersion on her character even from Mrs. Peedles herself.
Mrs. Peedles, thus corrected, allowed that maybe frivolous was too sweeping an accusation: say sportive.
"But a good wife to him I always was," asserted Mrs. Peedles, with a fine sense of justice; "never flighty, like some of them. I challenge any one to accuse me of having been flighty."
We felt we should not believe any one who did, and told her so.
Mrs. Peedles, drawing her chair closer to the Signora, assumed a confidential attitude. "If they want to go, let 'em go, I always say," she whispered loudly into the Signora's ear. "Ten to one they'll find they've only jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.
One can always comfort oneself with that."
There seemed to be confusion in the mind of Mrs. Peedles. Her virtuous sympathies, I gathered, were with the Signora. Mr. O'Kelly's return to Mrs. O'Kelly evidently manifested itself in the light of a shameful desertion. Having regard to the fact, patent to all who knew him, that the poor fellow was sacrificing every inclination to stern sense of duty, such view of the matter was rough on him. But philosophers from all ages have agreed that our good deeds are the whips with which Fate punishes us for our bad.
"My dear," continued Mrs. Peedles, "when Mr. Peedles left me I thought that I should never smile again. Yet here you see me laughing away through life, just as ever. You'll get over it all right." And Mrs.
Peedles wiped away her tears and smiled upon the Signora; upon which the Signora commenced to cry again.
