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diff --git a/24155-0.txt b/24155-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7113df3 --- /dev/null +++ b/24155-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6204 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lady Bountiful, by George A. Birmingham + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Lady Bountiful + 1922 + +Author: George A. Birmingham + +Release Date: January 23, 2008 [EBook #24155] +Last Updated: October 4, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY BOUNTIFUL *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +LADY BOUNTIFUL + +By George A. Birmingham + +George H. Doran Company, Copyright 1922 + + + + +PART ONE + + + + +I. LADY BOUNTIFUL + +Society in the west of Ireland is beautifully tolerant. A man may do +many things there, things frowned on elsewhere, without losing caste. +He may, for instance, drink heavily, appearing in public when plainly +intoxicated, and no one thinks much the worse of him. He may be in debt +up to the verge of bankruptcy and yet retain his position in society. +But he may not marry his cook. When old Sir Tony Corless did that, he +lost caste. He was a baronet of long descent, being, in fact, the fifth +Corless who held the title. + +Castle Affey was a fine old place, one of the best houses in the county, +but people stopped going there and stopped asking Sir Tony to dinner. +They could not stand the cook. + +Bridie Malone was her name before she became Lady Corless. She was the +daughter of the blacksmith in the village at the gates of Castle Affey, +and she was at least forty years younger than Sir Tony. People shook +their heads when they heard of the marriage and said that the old +gentleman must be doting. + +“It isn’t even as if she was a reasonably good-looking girl,” said +Captain Corless, pathetically. “If she had been a beauty I could have +understood it, but--the poor old dad!” + +Captain Corless was the son of another, a very different Lady Corless, +and some day he in his turn would become Sir Tony. Meanwhile, having +suffered a disabling wound early in the war, he had secured a pleasant +and fairly well-paid post as inspector under the Irish Government. No +one, not even Captain Corless himself, knew exactly what he inspected, +but there was no uncertainty about the salary. It was paid quarterly. + +Bridie Malone was not good-looking. Captain Corless was perfectly right +about that. She was very imperfectly educated. She could sign her name, +but the writing of anything except her name was a difficulty to her. She +could read, though only if the print were large and the words were not +too long. + +But she possessed certain qualities not very common in any class. She +had, for instance, quite enough common sense to save her from posing as +a great lady. Sir Tony lost caste by his marriage. Bridie Malone did not +sacrifice a single friend when she became Lady Corless. She remained on +excellent terms with her father, her six younger sisters, and her four +brothers. She remained on excellent terms with everyone in the village. + +In the big house of which she became mistress she had her difficulties +at first. The other servants, especially the butler and the upper +housemaid, resented her promotion and sought new situations. Bridie +replaced them, replaced the whole staff with relatives of her own. + +Castle Affey was run by the Malone family. Danny, a young man who helped +his father in the forge, became butler. Sarah Malone, Susy Malone, and +Mollie Malone swept the floors, made the beds, and lit the fires. Bridie +taught them their duties and saw that they did them thoroughly. +Though she was Lady Corless, she took her meals with her family in +the servants’ hall and made it her business to see that Sir Tony was +thoroughly comfortable and well-fed. The old gentleman had never been so +comfortable in his life, or better fed. + +He had never been so free from worry. Bridie took over the management of +the garden and farm. She employed her own relatives. There was an ample +supply of them, for almost everyone in the village was related to the +Malones. She paid good wages, but she insisted on getting good work, +and she never allowed her husband to trouble about anything. + +Old Sir Tony found life a much easier business than he had ever found it +before. He chuckled when Captain Corless, who paid an occasional visit +to Castle Affey, pitied him. + +“You think I’m a doddering old fool,” he said, “but, by gad, Tony, the +most sensible thing I ever did in my life was to marry Bridie Malone! +If you’re wise you’ll take on your stepmother as housekeeper here and +general manager after I’m gone. Not that I’m thinking of going. I’m +seventy-two. You know that, Tony. But living as I do now, without a +single thing to bother me, I’m good for another twenty years--or thirty. +In fact, I don’t see why the deuce I should ever die at all! It’s worry +and work which kill men, and I’ve neither one nor the other.” + +It was Lady Corless’ custom to spend the evenings with her husband +in the smoking-room. When he had dined--and he always dined well--he +settled down in a large armchair with a decanter of whisky and a box of +cigars beside him. + +There was always, summer and winter, a fire burning on the open hearth. +There was a good supply of newspapers and magazines, for Sir Tony, +though he lived apart from the world, liked to keep in touch with +politics and the questions of the day. Lady Corless sat opposite him on +a much less comfortable chair and knitted stockings. If there was any +news in the village, she told it to him, and he listened, for, like many +old men, he took a deep interest in his neighbour’s affairs. + +If there was anything important or curious in the papers, he read it out +to her. But she very seldom listened. Her strong common sense saved her +from taking any interest in the war while it lasted, the peace, when it +was discussed, or politics, which gurgle on through war and peace alike. + +With the care of a great house, a garden, and eighty acres of land on +her shoulders, she had no mental energy to spare for public affairs of +any kind. Between half-past ten and eleven Sir Tony went to bed. He was +an old gentleman of regular habits, and by that time the whisky-decanter +was always empty. Lady Cor-less helped him upstairs, saw to it that +his fire was burning and his pyjamas warm. She dealt with buttons and +collar-studs, which are sometimes troublesome to old gentlemen who have +drunk port at dinner and whisky afterwards. She wound his watch for him, +and left him warm and sleeping comfortably. + +One evening Sir Tony read from an English paper a paragraph which caught +Lady Corless’ attention. It was an account of the means by which the +Government hoped to mitigate the evils of the unemployment likely to +follow demobilisation and the closing of munition works. An out-of-work +benefit of twenty-five shillings a week struck her as a capital thing, +likely to become very popular. For the first time in her life she became +slightly interested in politics. + +Sir Tony passed from that paragraph to another, which dealt with the +future of Dantzig. Lady Corless at once stopped listening to what he +read. She went on knitting her stocking; but instead of letting her +thoughts work on the problems of the eggs laid by her hens, and the +fish for Sir Tony’s dinner the next day, she turned over in her mind the +astonishing news that the Government actually proposed to pay people, +and to pay them well, for not working. The thing struck her as too good +to be true, and she suspected that there must be some saving clause, +some hidden trap which would destroy the value of the whole scheme. + +After she had put Sir Tony to bed she went back to the smoking-room and +opened the paper from which the news had been read. It took her some +time to find the paragraph. Her search was rendered difficult by the +fact that the editor, much interested, apparently, in a subject called +the League of Nations, had tucked this really important piece of news +into a corner of a back page. In the end, when she discovered what she +wanted, she was not much better off. The print was small. The words were +long and of a very unusual kind. Lady Corless could not satisfy herself +about their meaning. She folded the paper up and put it safely into a +drawer in the kitchen dresser before she went to bed. + +Next day, rising early, as she always did, she fed her fowls and set the +morning’s milk in the dairy. She got Sir Tony’s breakfast ready at +nine o’clock and took it up to him. She saw to it that Danny, who was +inclined to be lazy, was in his pantry polishing silver. She made it +clear to Sarah, Susy, and Molly that she really meant the library to +be thoroughly cleaned. It was a room which was never occupied, and the +three girls saw no sense in sweeping the floor and dusting the backs of +several thousand books. But their sister was firm and they had learnt to +obey her. + +Without troubling to put on a hat or to take off her working apron, Lady +Corless got on her bicycle and rode down to her father’s forge. She had +in her pocket the newspaper which contained the important paragraph. + +Old Malone laid aside a cart-wheel to which he was fitting a new rim and +followed his daughter into the house. He was much better educated than +she was and had been for many years a keen and active politician. He +took in the meaning of the paragraph at once. + +“Gosh!” he said. “If that’s true--and I’m not saying it is true; but, if +it is, it’s the best yet. It’s what’s been wanted in Ireland this long +time.” + +He read the paragraph through again, slowly and carefully. + +“Didn’t I tell you?” he said, “didn’t I tell everyone when the election +was on, that the Sinn Feiners was the lads to do the trick for us? +Didn’t I say that without we’d get a republic in Ireland the country +would do no good? And there’s the proof of it.” + +He slapped the paper heartily with his hand. To Lady Corless, whose mind +was working rapidly, his reasoning seemed a little inconclusive. It even +struck her that an Irish republic, had such a thing really come into +being, might not have been able to offer the citizens the glorious +chance of a weekly pension of twenty-five shillings. But she was aware +that politics is a complex business in which she was not trained. She +said nothing. Her father explained his line of thought. + +“If them fellows over in England,” he said, “weren’t terrible frightened +of the Sinn Feiners, would they be offering us the likes of that to keep +us quiet? Bedamn, but they would not. Nobody ever got a penny out of +an Englishman yet, without he’d frightened him first. And it’s the +Sinn Feiners done that. There’s the why and the wherefore of it to you. +Twenty-five shillings a week! It ought to be thirty shillings, so it +ought. But sure, twenty-five shillings is something, and I’d be in +favour of taking it, so I would. Let the people of Ireland take it, I +say, as an instalment of what’s due to them, and what they’ll get in the +latter end, please God!” + +“Can you make out how a man’s to get it?” said Lady Corless. + +“Man!” said old Malone. “Man! No, but man and woman. There isn’t a girl +in the country, let alone a boy, but what’s entitled to it, and I’d like +to see the police or anyone else interfering with them getting it.” + +“Will it be paid out of the post office like the Old Age Pensions?” said +Lady Corless. + +“I don’t know will it,” said her father, “but that way or some other way +it’s bound to be paid, and all anyone has to do is to go over to what +they call the Labour Exchange, at Dunbeg, and say there’s no work for +him where he lives. Then he’ll get the money. It’s what the young fellow +in that office is there for, is to give the money, and by damn if he +doesn’t do it there’ll be more heard about the matter!” + +Old Malone, anxious to spread the good news, left the room and walked +down to the public house at the corner of the village street. Lady +Corless went into the kitchen and found her three youngest sisters +drinking tea. They sat on low stools before the fire and had a black +teapot with a broken spout standing on the hearth at their feet. The +tea in the pot was very black and strong. Lady Corless addressed them +solemnly. + +“Katey-Ann,” she said, “listen to me now, and let you be listening too, +Onnie, and let Honoria stop scratching her head and attend to what I’m +saying to the whole of you. I’m taking you on up at the big house as +upper house-maid, Katey-Ann.” + +“And what’s come over Sarah,” said Katey-Ann. “Is she going to be +married?” + +“Never mind you about Sarah,” said Lady Corless, “but attend to me. +You’re the under-housemaid, Onnie, so you are, in place of your sister +Susy, and Honoria here is kitchen-maid. If anyone comes asking you +questions that’s what you are and that’s what you’re to say. Do you +understand me now? But mind this. I don’t want you up at the house, +ne’er a one of you. You’ll stay where you are and you’ll do what you’re +doing, looking after your father and drinking tea, the same as before, +only your wages will be paid regular to you. Where’s Thady?” + +Thady Malone was the youngest of the family. + +Since Dan became butler at Castle Affey, Thady had given his father such +help as he could at the forge. Lady Corless found him seated beside the +bellows smoking a cigarette. His red hair was a tangled shock. His face +and hands were extraordinarily dirty. He was enjoying a leisure hour or +two while his father was at the public house. To his amazement he found +himself engaged as butler and valet to Sir Tony Corless of Castle Affey. + +“But you’ll not be coming up to the house,” said Lady Corless, “neither +by day nor night. Mind that. I’d be ashamed for anyone to see you, so I +would, for if you washed your face for the Christmas it’s the last time +you did it.” + +That afternoon, after Sir Tony’s luncheon had been served, Danny, Sarah, +Susy and Molly were formally dismissed. Their insurance cards were +stamped and their wages were paid up to date. It was explained to them +at some length, with many repetitions but quite clearly, that though +dismissed they were to continue to do their work as before. The only +difference in their position was that their wages would no longer be +paid by Sir Tony. They would receive much larger wages, the almost +incredible sum of twenty-five shillings a week, from the Government. +Next day the four Malones drove over to Dunbeg and applied for +out-of-work pay at the Labour Exchange. After due inquiries and the +signing of some papers by Lady Cor-less, their claims were admitted. +Four farm labourers, two gardeners, and a groom, all cousins of Lady +Corless, were dismissed in the course of the following week. Seven young +men from the village, all of them related to Lady Corless, were formally +engaged. The insurance cards of the dismissed men were properly stamped. +They were indubitably out of work. They received unemployment pay. + +After that, the dismissal of servants, indoor and out, became a regular +feature of life at Castle Affey. On Monday morning, Lady Corless went +down to the village and dismissed everyone whom she had engaged the week +before. Her expenditure in insurance stamps was considerable, for she +thought it desirable to stamp all cards for at least a month back. +Otherwise her philanthropy did not cost her much and she had very little +trouble. The original staff went on doing the work at Castle Affey. +After three months every man and woman in the village had passed in and +out of Sir Tony’s service, and everyone was drawing unemployment pay. + +The village became extremely prosperous. New hats, blouses, and entire +costumes of the most fashionable kind were to be seen in the streets +every Sunday. Large sums of money were lost and won at coursing matches. +Nearly everyone had a bicycle, and old Malone bought, second hand, a +rather dilapidated motor-car. Work of almost every kind ceased entirely, +except in the big house, and nobody got out of bed before ten o’clock. +In mere gratitude, rents of houses were paid to Sir Tony which had not +been paid for many years before. + +Lady Corless finally dismissed herself. She did not, of course, resign +the position of Lady Corless. It is doubtful whether she could have got +twenty-five shillings a week if she had. The Government does not seem +to have contemplated the case of unemployed wives. What she did was to +dismiss Bridie Malone, cook at Castle Affey before her marriage. She had +been married, and therefore, technically speaking, unemployed for nearly +two years, but that did not seem to matter. She secured the twenty-five +shillings a week and only just failed to get another five shillings +which she claimed on the ground that her husband was very old and +entirely dependent on her. She felt the rejection of this claim to be an +injustice. + +Captain Corless, after a long period of pleasant leisure, found +himself suddenly called on to write a report on the working of the +Unemployment-Pay Scheme in Ireland. With a view to doing his work +thoroughly he hired a motorcar and made a tour of some of the more +picturesque parts of the country. He so arranged his journeys that he +was able to stop each night at a place where there was a fairly good +hotel. He made careful inquiries everywhere, and noted facts for the +enlightenment of the Treasury, for whose benefit his report was to be +drawn up. He also made notes, in a private book, of some of the more +amusing and unexpected ways in which the scheme worked. He found +himself, in the course of his tour, close to Castle Affey, and, being a +dutiful son, called on his father. + +He found old Sir Tony in a particularly good humour. He also found +matter enough to fill his private note-book. + +“No telling tales, Tony, now,” said the old man. “No reports about +Castle Affey to the Government. Do you hear me now? Unless you give me +your word of honour not to breathe what I’m going to tell you to anybody +except your friends, I won’t say a word.” + +“I promise, of course,” said Captain Corless. + +“Your step-mother’s a wonderful woman,” said Sir Tony, “a regular lady +bountiful, by Jove! You wouldn’t believe how rich everybody round here +is now, and all through her. I give you my word, Tony, if the whisky was +to be got--which, of course, it isn’t now-a-days--there isn’t a man +in the place need go to bed sober from one week’s end to another. They +could all afford it. And it’s your step-mother who put the money into +their pockets. Nobody else would have thought of it. Look here, you’ve +heard of this unemployment-pay business, I suppose?” + +“I’m conducting an inquiry about it at the present moment.” + +“Then I won’t say another word,” said Sir Tony. “But it’s a pity. You’d +have enjoyed the story.” + +“I needn’t put everything I’m told into my report,” said Captain +Corless. “A good deal of what I hear isn’t true.” + +“Well, then, you can just consider my story to be an invention,” said +Sir Tony. + +Captain Corless listened to the story. When it was finished he shook +hands with his father. + +“Dad,” he said, “I apologise to you. I said--There’s no harm in +telling you now that I said you were an old fool when you married the +blacksmith’s daughter. I see now that I was wrong. You married the only +woman in Ireland who understands how to make the most of the new law. +Why, everybody else in your position is cursing this scheme as the ruin +of the country, and Lady Corless is the only one who’s tumbled to the +idea of using it to make the people happy and contented. She’s a great +woman.” + +“But don’t tell on us, Tony,” said the old man. “Honour bright, now, +don’t tell!” + +“My dear Dad, of course not. Anyway, they wouldn’t believe me if I did.” + + + + + +II. THE STRIKE BREAKER + +The train was an hour-and-a-quarter late at Finnabeg. Sir James +McClaren, alone in a first-class smoking compartment, was not surprised. +He had never travelled in Ireland before, but he held a belief that time +is very little accounted of west of the Shannon. He looked out of the +window at the rain-swept platform. It seemed to him that every passenger +except himself was leaving the train at Finnabeg. This did not surprise +him much. There was only one more station, Dunadea, the terminus of +the branch line on which Sir James was travelling. It lay fifteen miles +further on, across a desolate stretch of bog. It was not to be supposed +that many people wanted to go to Dunadea. + +Sir James looking out of his window, noticed that the passengers who +alighted did not leave the station. They stood in groups on the platform +and talked to each other. They took no notice of the rain, though it was +very heavy. + +Now and then one or two of them came to Sir James’ carriage and peered +in through the window. They seemed interested in him. A tall young +priest stared at him for a long time. Two commercial travellers joined +the priest and looked at Sir James. A number of women took the place of +the priest and the commercial travellers when they went away. Finally, +the guard, the engine driver, and the station master came and looked in +through the window. They withdrew together and sat on a barrow at the +far end of the platform. They lit their pipes and consulted together. +The priest joined them and offered advice. Sir James became a little +impatient. + +Half an hour passed. The engine driver, the station master, and the +guard knocked the ashes out of their pipes and walked over to Sir James’ +compartment. The guard opened the door. + +“Is it Dunadea you’re for, your honour?” he said. + +“Yes,” said Sir James. “When are you going on?” + +The guard turned to the engine driver. + +“It’s what I’m after telling you,” he said, “it’s Dunadea the +gentleman’s for.” + +“It might be better for him,” said the engine driver, “if he was to +content himself with Finnabeg for this day at any rate.” + +“Do you hear that, your honour?” said the guard. “Michael here, says it +would be better for you to stay in Finnabeg.” + +“There’s a grand hotel, so there is,” said the station master, “the same +that’s kept by Mrs. Mulcahy, and devil the better you’ll find between +this and Dublin.” + +Sir James looked from one man to the other in astonishment. Nowadays the +public is accustomed to large demands from railway workers, demands for +higher wages and shorter hours. But Sir James had never before heard of +an engine driver who tried to induce a passenger to get out of his train +fifteen miles short of his destination. + +“I insist,” he said abruptly, “on your taking me on to Dunadea.” + +“It’s what I told you all along, Michael,” said the guard. “He’s a +mighty determined gentleman, so he is. I knew that the moment I set eyes +on him.” + +The guard was perfectly right. Sir James was a man of most determined +character. His career proved it. Before the war he had been professor +of economics in a Scottish University, lecturing to a class of ten or +twelve students for a salary of £250 a year. When peace came he was the +head of a newly-created Ministry of Strikes, controlling a staff of a +thousand or twelve hundred men and women, drawing a salary of £2,500 a +year. Only a man of immense determination can achieve such results. He +had garnered in a knighthood as he advanced. It was the reward of signal +service to the State when he held the position of Chief Controller of +Information and Statistics. + +“Let him not be saying afterwards that he didn’t get a proper warning,” + said the engine driver. + +He walked towards his engine as he spoke. The guard and the station +master followed him. + +“I suppose now, Michael,” said the guard, “that you’ll not be wanting +me.” + +“I will not,” said the engine driver. “The train will do nicely without +you for as far as I’m going to take her.” + +Sir James did not hear either the guard’s question or the driver’s +answer. He did hear, with great satisfaction, what the station master +said next. + +“Are you right there now?” the man shouted, “for if you are it’s time +you were starting.” + +He unrolled a green flag and waved it. He blew a shrill blast on his +whistle. The driver stepped into the cab of the engine and handled his +levers. The train started. + +Sir James leaned back in the corner of his compartment and smiled. The +track over which he travelled was badly laid and the train advanced by +jerks and bumps. But the motion was pleasant to Sir James. Any forward +movement of that train would have been pleasant to him. Each bump and +jerk brought him a little nearer to Dunadea and therefore a little +nearer to Miss Molly Dennison. Sir James was very heartily in love with +a girl who seemed to him to be the most beautiful and the most charming +in the whole world. Next day, such was his good fortune, he was to marry +her. Under the circumstances a much weaker man than Sir James would +have withstood the engine driver and resisted the invitation of +Mrs. Mulcahy’s hotel in Finnabeg. Under the circumstances even an +intellectual man of the professor type was liable to pleasant day +dreams. + +Sir James’ thoughts went back to the day, six months before, when he +had first seen Miss Molly Dennison. She had been recommended to him by +a friend as a young lady likely to make an efficient private secretary. +Sir James, who had just become Head of the Ministry of Strikes, wanted a +private secretary. He appointed Miss Dennison, and saw her for the +first time when she presented herself in his office. At that moment his +affection was born. It grew and strengthened day by day. Miss Molly’s +complexion was the radiant product of the soft, wet, winds of Connaugh, +which had blown on her since her birth. Not even four years’ work in +Government offices in London had dulled her cheeks. Her smile had the +fresh innocence of a child’s and she possessed a curious felicity +of manner which was delightful though a little puzzling. Her view of +strikes and the important work of the Ministry was fresh and quite +unconventional. Sir James, who had all his life moved among serious and +earnest people, found Miss Molly’s easy cheerfulness very fascinating. +Even portentous words like syndicalism, which rang in other people’s +ears like the passing bells of our social order, moved her to airy +laughter. There were those, oldish men and slightly less oldish women, +who called her flippant. Sir James offered her his hand, his heart, his +title, and a share of his £2,500 a year. Miss Molly accepted all four, +resigned her secretaryship and went home to her father’s house in +Dunadea to prepare her trousseau. + +The train stopped abruptly. But even the bump and the ceasing of noise +did not fully arouse Sir James from his pleasant dreams. He looked out +of the window and satisfied himself that he had not reached Dunadea +station or indeed any other station. The rain ran down the window +glass, obscuring his view of the landscape. He was dimly aware of a +wide stretch of grey-brown bog, of drifting grey clouds and of a single +whitewashed cottage near the railway line. He lit a cigarette and lay +back again. Molly’s face floated before his eyes. The sound of Molly’s +voice was fresh in his memory. He thought of the next day and the return +journey across the bog with Molly by his side. + +At the end of half an hour he awoke to the fact that the train was still +at rest. He looked out again and saw nothing except the rain, the bog, +and the cottage. This time he opened the window and put out his head. He +looked up the line and down it. There was no one to be seen. + +“The signals,” thought Sir James, “must be against us.” He looked again, +first out of one window, then out of the other. There was no signal in +sight. The single line of railway ran unbroken across the bog, behind +the train and in front of it. Sir James, puzzled, and a little wet, drew +back into his compartment and shut the window. He waited, with rapidly +growing impatience, for another half hour. Nothing happened. Then he saw +a man come out of the cottage near the line. He was carrying a basket +in one hand and a teapot in the other. He approached the train. He +came straight to Sir James’ compartment and opened the door. Sir James +recognised the engine driver. + +“I was thinking,” said the man, “that maybe your honour would be glad +of a cup of tea and a bit of bread. I am sorry there is no butter, but, +sure, butter is hard to come by these times.” + +He laid the teapot on the floor and put the basket on the seat in front +of Sir James. He unpacked it, taking out a loaf of home made bread, a +teacup, a small bottle of milk, and a paper full of sugar. + +“It’s not much to be offering a gentleman like yourself,” he said, “but +it’s the best we have, and seeing that you’ll be here all night and best +part of to-morrow you’ll be wanting something to eat.” + +Sir James gasped with astonishment. + +“Here all night!” he said. “Why should we be here all night? Has the +engine broken down?” + +“It has not,” said the driver. + +“Then you must go on,” said Sir James. “I insist on your going on at +once.” + +The driver poured out a cup of tea and handed it to Sir James. Then he +sat down and began to talk in a friendly way. + +“Sure, I can’t go on,” he said, “when I’m out on strike.” + +Sir James was so startled that he upset a good deal of tea. As Head of +the Ministry of Strikes he naturally had great experience, but he had +never before heard of a solitary engine driver going on strike in the +middle of a bog. + +“The way of it is this,” the driver went on. “It was giv out, by them +that does be managing things that there was to be a general strike on +the first of next month. You might have heard of that, for it was in all +the papers.” + +Sir James had heard of it. It was the subject of many notes and reports +in his Ministry. + +“But this isn’t the 1st of next month,” he said. + +“It is not,” said the driver. “It’s no more than the 15th of this month. +But the way I’m placed at present, it wouldn’t be near so convenient to +me to be striking next month as it is to be striking now. There’s talk +of moving me off this line and putting me on to the engine that does be +running into Athlone with the night mail; and it’s to-morrow the change +is to be made. Now I needn’t tell you that Athlone’s a mighty long way +from where we are this minute.” + +He paused and looked at Sir James with an intelligent smile. + +“My wife lives in the little house beyond there,” he said pointing out +of the window to the cottage. “And what I said to myself was this: If +I am to be striking--which I’ve no great wish to do--but if it must +be--and seemingly it must--I may as well do it in the convenientest +place I can; for as long as a man strikes the way he’s told, there can’t +be a word said to him; and anyway the 1st of next month or the 15th of +this month, what’s the differ? Isn’t one day as good as another?” + +He evidently felt that his explanation was sufficient and satisfactory. +He rose to his feet and opened the door of the compartment. +“I’m sorry now,” he said, “if I’m causing any inconvenience to a +gentleman like yourself. But what can I do? I offered to leave you +behind at Finnabeg, but you wouldn’t stay. Anyway the night’s warm +and if you stretch yourself on the seat there you won’t know it till +morning, and then I’ll bring you over another cup of tea so as you won’t +be hungry. It’s a twenty-four hour strike, so it is; and I won’t be +moving on out of this before two o’clock or may be half past. But what +odds? The kind of place Dunadea is, a day or two doesn’t matter one way +or another, and if it was the day after to-morrow in place of to-morrow +you got there it would be the same thing in the latter end.” + +He climbed out of the compartment as he spoke and stumped back through +the rain to his cottage. Sir James was left wondering how the people +of Dunadea managed to conduct the business of life when one day was +the same to them as another and the loss of a day now and then did not +matter. He was quite certain that the loss of a day mattered a great +deal to him, his position being what it was. He wondered what Miss Molly +Dennison would think when he failed to appear at her father’s house that +evening for dinner; what she would think--the speculation nearly drove +him mad--when he did not appear in the church next day. He put on an +overcoat, took an umbrella and set off for the engine driver’s cottage. +He had to climb down a steep embankment and then cross a wire fence. He +found it impossible to keep his umbrella up, which distressed him, for +he was totally unaccustomed to getting wet. + +He found the driver, who seemed to be a good and domesticated man, +sitting at his fireside with a baby on his knee. His wife was washing +clothes in a corner of the kitchen. + +“Excuse me,” said Sir James, “but my business in Dunadea is very +important. There will be serious trouble if----” + +“There’s no use asking me to go on with the train,” said the driver, +“for I can’t do it. I’d never hear the last of it if I was to be a +blackleg.” + +The woman at the washtub looked up. + +“Don’t be talking that way, Michael,” she said, “let you get up and take +the gentleman along to where he wants to go.” + +“I will not,” said the driver, “I’d do it if I could but I won’t have it +said that I was the one to break the strike.” + +It was very much to the credit of Sir James that he recognised the +correctness of the engine driver’s position. It is not pleasant to be +held up twenty-four hours in the middle of a bog. It is most unpleasant +to be kept away from church on one’s own wedding day. But Sir James +knew that strikes are sacred things, far more sacred than weddings. He +hastened to agree with the engine driver. + +“I know you can’t go on,” he said, “nothing would induce me to ask you +such a thing. But perhaps---” + +The woman at the washtub did not reverence strikes or understand the +labour movement. She spoke abruptly. + +“Have sense the two of you,” she said, “What’s to hinder you taking the +gentleman into Dunadea, Michael?” + +“It’s what I can’t do nor won’t,” said her husband. + +“I’m not asking you to,” said Sir James. “I understand strikes +thoroughly and I know you can’t do it. All I came here for was to ask +you to tell me where I could find a telegraph office.” + +“There’s no telegraphic office nearer than Dunadea,” said the engine +driver, “and that’s seven miles along the railway and maybe nine if you +go round by road.” + +Sir James looked out at the rain. It was thick and persistent. A strong +west wind swept it in sheets across the bog. He was a man of strong will +and great intellectual power; but he doubted if he could walk even seven +miles along the sleepers of a railway line against half a gale of wind, +wearing on his feet a pair of patent leather boots bought for a wedding. + +“Get up out of that, Michael,” said the woman, “And off with you to +Dunadea with the gentleman’s telegram. You’ll break no strike by doing +that, so not another word out of your head.” + +“I’ll--I’ll give you ten shillings with pleasure,” said Sir James, +“I’ll give you a pound if you’ll take a message for me to Mr. Dennison’s +house.” + +“Anything your honour chooses to give,” said the woman, “will be +welcome, for we are poor people. But it’s my opinion that Michael ought +to do it for nothing seeing it’s him and his old strike that has things +the way they are.” + +“To listen to you talking,” said the driver, “anybody would think I’d +made the strike myself; which isn’t true at all, for there’s not a man +in the country that wants it less than me.” + +Sir James tore a leaf from his note book and wrote a hurried letter to +Miss Dennison. The engine driver tucked it into the breast pocket of his +coat and trudged away through the rain. His wife invited Sir James to +sit by the fire. He did so gladly, taking the stool her husband had +left. He even, after a short time, found that he had taken the child on +to his knee. It was a persistent child, which clung round his legs and +stared at him till he took it up. The woman went on with her washing. + +“What,” said Sir James, “is the immediate cause of this strike?” + +“Cause!” she said. “There’s no cause, only foolishness. If it was more +wages they were after I would say there was some sense in it. Or if it +was less work they wanted you could understand it--though it’s more work +and not less the most of the men in this country should be doing. But +the strike that’s in it now isn’t what you might call a strike at all. +It’s a demonstration, so it is. That’s what they’re saying anyway. It’s +a demonstration in favour of the Irish Republic, which some of them +play-boys is after getting up in Dublin. The Lord save us, would nothing +do them only a republic?” + +Two hours later Sir James went back to his railway carriage. He had +listened with interest to the opinions of the engine driver’s wife on +politics and the Labour Movement. He was convinced that a separate and +independent Ministry of Strikes ought to be established in Dublin. His +own office was plainly incapable of dealing with Irish conditions. He +took from his bag a quantity of foolscap paper and set to work to draft +a note to the Prime Minister on the needs and ideas of Irish Labour. +He became deeply interested in his work and did not notice the passing +time. + +He was aroused by the appearance of Miss Molly Dennison at the door of +his carriage. Her hair, which was blown about her face, was exceedingly +wet. The water dripped from her skirt and sleeves of her jacket. Her +complexion was as radiant and her smile as brilliant as ever. + +“Hullo, Jimmy,” she said. “What a frowst! Fancy sitting in that poky +little carriage with both windows shut. Get up and put away your silly +old papers. If you come along at once we’ll just be in time for dinner.” + +“How did you get here,” said Sir James. “I never thought--. In this +weather--. How _did_ you get here?” + +“On my bike, of course,” said Molly. “Did a regular sprint. Wind behind +me. Going like blazes. I’d have done it in forty minutes, only Michael +ran into a sheep and I had to wait for him.” + +Sir James was aware that the engine driver, grinning broadly, was on the +step of the carriage behind Molly. + +“I lent Michael Dad’s old bike,” said Molly, “and barring the accident +with the sheep, he came along very well.” + +“What I’m thinking,” said the driver, “is that you’ll never be able to +fetch back against the wind that does be in it. I wouldn’t say but +you might do it, miss; but the gentleman wouldn’t be fit. He’s not +accustomed to the like.” + +“We’re not going to ride back,” said Molly. “You’re going to take us +back on the engine, with the two bikes in the tender, on top of the +coal.” + +“I can’t do it, miss,” said the driver. “I declare to God I’d be afraid +of my life to do it. Didn’t I tell you I was out on strike?” + +“We oughtn’t to ask him,” said Sir James. “Surely, Molly, you must +understand that. It would be an act of gross disloyalty on his part, +disloyalty to his union, to the cause of labour. And any effort we make +to persuade him---- My dear Molly, the right of collective bargaining +which lies at the root of all strikes----” + +Molly ignored Sir James and turned to the engine driver. + +“Just you wait here five minutes,” she said, “till I get someone who +knows how to talk to you.” + +She jumped out of the carriage and ran down the railway embankment. Sir +James and the engine driver watched her anxiously. “I wouldn’t wonder,” + said Michael, “but it might be my wife she’s after.” + +He was quite right. Five minutes later, Molly and the engine driver’s +wife were climbing the embankment together. + +“I don’t see,” said Sir James, “what your wife has to do with the +matter.” + +“By this time to-morrow,” said Michael, “you will see; if so be you’re +married by then, which is what Miss Molly said you will be.” + +His wife, with Molly after her, climbed into the carriage. + +“Michael,” she said, “did the young lady tell you she’s to be married +to-morrow?” + +“She did tell me,” he said, “and I’m sorry for her. But what can I do? +If I was to take that engine into Dunadea they’d call me a blackleg the +longest day ever I lived.” + +“I’d call you something a mighty deal worse if you don’t,” said his +wife. “You and your strikes! Strikes, Moyah! And a young lady wanting to +be married!” + +Michael turned apologetically to Sir James. + +“Women does be terrible set on weddings,” he said, “and that’s a fact.” + +“That’ll do now, Michael,” said Molly; “stop talking and put the two +bikes on the tender, and poke up your old fires or what ever it is you +do to make your engine go.” + +“Molly,” said Sir James, when Michael and his wife had left the +carriage, “I’ve drawn up a note for the Prime Minister advising the +establishment of a special Ministry of Strikes for Ireland. I feel that +the conditions in this country are so peculiar that our London office +cannot deal with them. I think perhaps I’d better suggest that he should +put you at the head of the new office.” + +“Your visit to Ireland is doing you good already,” said Molly. “You’re +developing a sense of humour.” + + + + +III. THE FACULTY OF MEDICINE + +Dr. Farelly, Medical Officer of Dunailin, volunteered for service with +the R.A.M.C. at the beginning of the war. He had made no particular +boast of patriotism. He did not even profess to be keenly interested +in his profession or anxious for wider experience. He said, telling the +simple truth, that life at Dunailin was unutterably dull, and that he +welcomed war--would have welcomed worse things--for the sake of escaping +a monotony which was becoming intolerable. + +The army authorities accepted Dr. Farelly. The local Board of Guardians, +which paid him a salary of £200 a year, agreed to let him go on the +condition that he provided a duly qualified substitute to do his work +while he was away. There a difficulty faced Dr. Farelly. Duly qualified +medical men, willing to take up temporary jobs, are not plentiful in war +time. And the job he had to offer--Dr. Farelly was painfully conscious +of the fact--was not a very attractive one. + +Dunailin is a small town in Western Connaught, seven miles from the +nearest railway station. It possesses a single street, straggling and +very dirty, a police barrack, a chapel, which seems disproportionately +large, and seven shops. One of the shops is also the post office. +Another belongs to John Conerney, the butcher. The remaining five are +public houses, doing their chief business in whisky and porter, but +selling, as side lines, farm seeds, spades, rakes, hoes, stockings, +hats, blouses, ribbons, flannelette, men’s suits, tobacco, sugar, tea, +postcards, and sixpenny novels. The chief inhabitants of the town are +the priest, a benevolent but elderly man, who lives in the presbytery +next the large chapel; Sergeant Rahilly, who commands the six members of +the Royal Irish Constabulary and lives in the barrack; and Mr. Timothy +Flanagan, who keeps the largest shop in the town and does a bigger +business than anyone else in porter and whisky. + +Dr. Farelly, standing on his doorstep with his pipe in his mouth, looked +up and down the street. He was more than ever convinced that it might +be very difficult to get a doctor to go to Dunailin, and still harder to +get one to stay. The town lay, to all appearance, asleep under the blaze +of the noonday August sun. John Conerney’s greyhounds, five of them, +were stretched in the middle of the street, confident that they would +be undisturbed. Sergeant Rahilly sunned himself on a bench outside the +barrack door, and Mr. Flanagan sat in a room behind his shop nodding +over the ledger in which his customers’ debts were entered. Dr. Farelly +sighed. He had advertised for a doctor to take his place in all the +likeliest papers, and had not been rewarded by a single answer. He was +beginning to think that he must either resign his position at Dunailin +or give up the idea of war service. + +At half-past twelve the town stirred in its sleep and partially awoke. +Paddy Doolan, who drove the mail cart, arrived from Derrymore. Dr. +Farelly strolled down to the post office, seeking, but scarcely hoping +for, a letter in reply to his advertisements. He was surprised and very +greatly pleased when the postmistress handed him a large envelope, fat +and bulging, bearing a Manchester postmark. The moment he opened it Dr. +Farelly knew that he had got what he wanted, an application for the +post he had to offer. He took out, one after another, six sheets of +nicely-printed matter. These were testimonials signed by professors, +tutors, surgeons, and doctors, all eloquent about the knowledge, skill, +and personal integrity of one Theophilus Lovaway. Dr. Farelly stuffed +these into his pocket. He had often written testimonials himself--in +Ireland everyone writes them in scores--and he knew precisely what they +were worth. He came at last to a letter, very neatly typewritten. It +began formally: + +“Dear Sir--I beg to offer myself as a candidate for the post of medical +officer, temporary, for the town and district of Dunailin, on the terms +of your advertisement in _The British Medical Journal_.” + +Dr. Farelly, like the Etruscans in Macaulay’s poem, “could scare forbear +to cheer.” He walked jauntily back to his house, relit his pipe and sat +down to read the rest of the letter. + +Theophilus Lovaway was apparently a garrulous person. He had covered +four sheets with close typescript. He began by stating that he was +only just qualified and had never practised anywhere. He hoped that Dr. +Farelly would not consider his want of experience a disqualification. +Dr. Farelly did not care in the least. + +If Theophilus Lovaway was legally qualified to write prescriptions, +nothing else mattered. The next three paragraphs of the letter--and they +were all long--described, in detail, the condition of Lovaway’s health. +He suffered, it appeared, from a disordered heart, weak lungs, and +dyspepsia. But for these misfortunes, the letter went on, Theophilus +would have devoted himself to the services of his country in her great +need. Dr. Farelly sniffed. He had a prejudice against people who wrote +or talked in that way. He began to feel less cheerful. Theophilus might +come to Dunailin. It was very doubtful whether he would stay there long, +his lungs, heart, and stomach being what they were. + +The last half of the letter was painfully disconcerting. Two whole pages +were devoted to an explanation of the writer’s wish to spend some time +in the west of Ireland. Theophilus Lovaway had managed, in the middle +of his professional reading, to study the literature of the Irish +Renaissance. He had fallen deeply in love with the spirit of the Celtic +peasantry. He described at some length what he thought that spirit +was. “Tuned to the spiritual” was one of the phrases he used. +“Desire-compelling, with the elusiveness of the rainbow’s end,” was +another. Dr. Farelly grew despondent. If Theophilus expected life in +Dunailin to be in the least like one of Mr. Yeats’ plays, he was doomed +to a bitter disappointment and would probably leave the place in three +weeks. + +But Dr. Farelly was not going to give up hope without a struggle. He +put the letter in his pocket and walked across the road to Timothy +Flanagan’s shop. + +“Flanagan,” he said, “I’ve got a man to take on my job here.” + +“I’m glad to hear it, doctor,” said Flanagan. “It would be a pity now +if something was to interfere with you, and you wanting to be off +massacring the Germans. If the half of what’s in the papers is true, its +massacring or worse them fellows want.” + +“The trouble is,” said Dr. Farelly, “that the man I’ve got may not +stay.” + +“Why wouldn’t he stay? Isn’t Dunailin as good a place to be in as any +other? Any sensible man----” + +“That’s just it,” said Dr. Farelly. “I’m not at all sure that this is a +sensible man. Just listen to this.” + +He read aloud the greater part of the letter. + +“Now what do you think of the man who wrote that?” he asked; “what kind +of fellow would you say he was?” + +“I’d say,” said Flanagan, “that he’s a simple, innocent kind of man; but +I wouldn’t say there was any great harm in him.” + +“I’m very much afraid,” said Dr. Farelly, “that he’s too simple and +innocent. That’s the first thing I have against him. Look here now, +Flanagan, if you or anyone else starts filling this young fellow up with +whisky--it will be an easy enough thing to do, and I don’t deny that +it’ll be a temptation. But if you do it you’ll have his mother or his +aunt or someone over here to fetch him home again. That’s evidently the +kind of man he is. And if I lose him I’m done, for I’ll never get anyone +else.” + +“Make your mind easy about that, doctor. Devil the drop of whisky he’ll +get out of my shop while he’s here, and I’ll take care no other one will +let him have a bottle. If he drinks at all it’ll be the stuff he brings +with him in his own portmanteau.” + +“Good,” said Dr. Farelly, “I’ll trust you about that. The next point is +his health. You heard what he said about his heart and his lungs and his +stomach.” + +“He might die on us,” said Flanagan, “and that’s a fact.” + +“Oh, he’ll not die. That sort of man never does die, not till he’s about +ninety, anyhow. But it won’t do to let him fancy this place doesn’t +agree with him. What you’ve got to do is to see that he gets a proper +supply of good, wholesome food, eggs and milk, and all the rest of it.” + +“If there’s an egg in the town he’ll get it,” said Flanagan, “and I’ll +speak to Johnny Conerney about the meat that’s supplied to him. You may +trust me, doctor, if that young fellow dies in Dunailin it’ll not be for +want of food.” + +“Thanks,” said Dr. Farelly; “and keep him cheerful, Flanagan, don’t let +him mope. That brings me to the third point. You heard what he wrote +about the Irish Renaissance and the Celtic spirit?” + +“I heard it right enough,” said Flanagan, “but I’m not sure do I know +the meaning of it.” + +“The meaning of it,” said Dr. Farelly, “is fairies, just plain, ordinary +fairies. That’s what he wants, and I don’t expect he’ll settle down +contentedly unless he finds a few.” + +“Sure you know well enough, doctor, that there’s no fairies in these +parts. I don’t say there mightn’t have been some in times past, but any +there was is now gone.” + +“I know that,” said Dr. Farelly, “and I’m not asking you to go +beating thorn bushes in the hopes of catching one. But if this fellow, +Theophilus Lovaway--did ever you hear such a name?--if he wants fairies +he must hear about them. You’ll have to get hold of a few people who go +in for that sort of thing. Now what about Patsy Doolan’s mother? She’s +old enough, and she looks like a witch herself.” + +“If the like of the talk of Patsy Doolan’s mother would be giving him is +any use I’ll see he’s satisfied. That old woman would talk the hind leg +off a donkey about fairies or anything else if you were to give her +a pint of porter, and I’ll do that. I’ll give it to her regular, so I +will. I’d do more than that for you, doctor, for you’re a man I like, +let alone that you’re going out to foreign parts to put the fear of God +into them Germans, which is no more than they deserve.” + +Dr. Farelly felt satisfied that Mr. Flanagan would do his best for +Lovaway. And Mr. Flanagan was an important person. As the principal +publican in the town, the chairman of all the councils, boards, and +leagues there were, he had an enormous amount of influence. But Dr. +Farelly was still a little uneasy. He went over to the police barrack +and explained the situation to Sergeant Rahilly. The sergeant readily +promised to do all he could to make Dunailin pleasant for the new +doctor, and to keep him from getting into mischief or trouble. Only +in the matter of Lovaway’s taste for Irish folk-lore and poetry the +sergeant refused to promise any help. He was quite firm about this. + +“It wouldn’t do for the police to be mixed up in that kind of work,” he +said. “Politics are what a sergeant of police is bound to keep out of.” + +“But hang it all,” said Dr. Farelly, “fairies aren’t politics.” + +“They may or they may not be,” said the sergeant. “But believe me, +doctor, the men that talks about them things, fairies and all that, is +the same men that’s at the bottom of all the leagues in the country, and +it wouldn’t do for me to be countenancing them. But I’ll tell you what +I’ll do for you now, doctor. If I can’t get fairies for him I’ll see +that anything that’s to be had in the district in the way of a fee for a +lunatic or the like goes to the young fellow you’re bringing here. I’ll +do that, and if there’s more I can do you can reckon on me--barring +fairies and politics of all kinds.” + +Mr. Flanagan and Sergeant Rahilly were trustworthy men. In a good cause +they were prompt and energetic. Flanagan warned the other publicans in +the town that they must not supply the new doctor with any whisky. He +spoke seriously to John Conerney the butcher. + +“Good meat, now, Johnny. The best you have, next to what joints you +might be supplying to the priest or myself. He has a delicate stomach, +the man that’s coming, and a bit of braxy mutton might be the death of +him.” + +He spoke to Paddy Doolan and told him that his old mother would be +wanted to attend on the new doctor and must be ready whenever she was +called for. + +“Any old ancient story she might know,” he said, “about the rath beyond +on the hill, or the way they shot the bailiff on the bog in the bad +times, or about it’s not being lucky to meet a red-haired woman in the +morning, anything at all that would be suitable she’ll be expected to +tell. And if she does what she’s bid there’ll be a drop of porter for +her in my house whenever she likes to call for it.” + +Sergeant Rahilly talked in a serious but vague way to everyone he met +about the importance of treating Dr. Lovaway well, and the trouble which +would follow any attempt to rob or ill-use him. + +Before Dr. Lovaway arrived his reputation was established in Dunailin. +It was generally believed that he was a dipsomaniac, sent to the west of +Ireland to be cured. It was said that he was very rich and had already +ordered huge quantities of meat from Johnny Conerney. He was certainly +of unsound mind: Mr. Flanagan’s hints about fairies settled that point. +He was also a man of immense influence in Government circles, perhaps a +near relation of the Lord-Lieutenant: Sergeant Rahilly’s way of +speaking convinced everyone of that. The people were, naturally, greatly +interested in their new doctor, and were prepared to give him a hearty +welcome. + +His arrival was a little disappointing. He drove from the station at +Derrymore on Paddy Doolan’s car, and had only a small portmanteau with +him. He was expected to come in a motor of his own with a vanload of +furniture behind him. His appearance was also disappointing. He was a +young man. He looked so very young that a stranger might have guessed +his age at eighteen. He wore large, round spectacles, and had +pink, chubby cheeks. In one respect only did he come up to popular +expectation. He was plainly a young man of feeble intellect, for he +allowed Paddy Doolan to overcharge him in the grossest way. + +“Thanks be to God,” said Sergeant Rahilly to Mr. Flanagan, “it’s seldom +anyone’s sick in this place. I wouldn’t like to be trusting the likes of +that young fellow very far. But what odds? We’ve got to do the best we +can for him, and my family’s healthy, anyway.” + +Fate has a nasty trick of hitting us just where we feel most secure. The +sergeant himself was a healthy man. His wife did not know what it was +to be ill. Molly, his twelve-year old daughter, was as sturdy a child +as any in the town. But Molly had an active mind and an enterprising +character. On the afternoon of Doctor Lovaway’s arrival, her mother, +father, and most other people being fully occupied, she made her way +round the back of the village, climbed the wall of the doctor’s garden +and established herself in an apple tree. She took six other children +with her. There was an abundant crop of apples, but they were not nearly +ripe. Molly ate until she could eat no more. The other children, all of +them younger than Molly, stuffed themselves joyfully with the hard green +fruit. + +At eight o’clock that evening Molly complained of pains. Her mother put +her to bed. At half-past eight Molly’s pains were considerably worse and +she began to shriek. Mrs. Rahilly, a good deal agitated by the violence +of the child’s yells, told the sergeant to go for the doctor. Sergeant +Rahilly laid down his newspaper and his pipe. He went slowly down the +street towards the doctor’s house. He was surprised to hear shrieks, +not unlike Molly’s, in various houses as he passed. Mrs. Conerney, the +butcher’s wife, rushed out of her door and told the sergeant that her +little boy, a child of nine, was dying in frightful agony. + +Mr. Flanagan was standing at the door of his shop. He beckoned to the +sergeant. + +“It’s lucky,” he said, “things happening the way they have on the very +first night of the new doctor being here.” + +“I don’t know so much about luck,” said Sergeant Rahilly. “What luck?” + +“The half of the children in the town is took with it,” said Flanagan. + +“You may call that luck if it pleases you,” said the sergeant. “But it’s +not my notion of luck. My own Molly’s bellowing like a young heifer, and +Mrs. Conerney’s boy is dying, so she tells me. If that’s luck I’d rather +you had it than me.” + +“I’m sorry for the childer,” said Flanagan; “but Mrs. Doolan, who’s +in the shop this minute drinking porter, says it’ll do them no harm if +they’re given a sup of water to drink out of the Holy Well beyond Tubber +Neeve, and a handful of rowan berries laid on the stomach or where-ever +else the pain might be.” + +“Rowan berries be damned,” said the sergeant. “I’m off for the doctor; +not that I’m expecting much from him. A young fellow with a face like +that! I wish to God Dr. Farelly was back with us.” + +“Doctors is no use,” said Flanagan, “neither one nor another, if it’s +true what Mrs. Doolan says.” + +“And what does Mrs. Doolan say?” asked the sergeant. + +“I’m not saying I believe her,” said Flanagan, “and I’m not asking you +to believe her, but what she says is----” + +He whispered in the sergeant’s ear. The sergeant looked at him +bewildered. + +“Them ones?” he said, “Them ones? Now what might you and Mrs. Doolan be +meaning by that, Timothy Flanagan?” + +“Just fairies,” said Flanagan. “Mind you, I’m not saying I believe it.” + +“Fairies be damned,” said the sergeant. + +“They may be,” said Flanagan. “I’m not much of a one for fairies myself; +but you’ll not deny, sergeant that it looks queer, all the children +being took the same way at the same time. Anyhow, whether you believe +what Mrs. Doolan says or not----” + +“I do not believe it,” said the sergeant. “Not a word of it.” + +“You needn’t,” said Flanagan, “I don’t myself. All I say is that it’s +lucky a thing of the sort happening the very first evening the new +doctor’s in the place. It’s fairies he’s after, remember that. It’s +looking for fairies that brought him here. Didn’t Dr. Farelly tell me +so himself and tell you? Wasn’t Dr. Farelly afraid he wouldn’t stay on +account of fairies being scarce about these parts this long time? And +now the place is full of them--according to what Mrs. Doolan says.” + +Sergeant Rahilly heard, or fancied he heard, a particularly loud shriek +from Molly. He certainly heard the wailing of Mrs. Conerney and the +agitated cries of several other women. He turned from Flanagan without +speaking another word and walked straight to the doctor’s house. + +Five minutes later Dr. Lovaway, hatless and wearing a pair of slippers +on his feet, was running up the street towards the barrack. His first +case, a serious one, calling for instant attention, had come to him +unexpectedly. Opposite Flanagan’s shop he was stopped by Mrs. Doolan. +She laid a skinny, wrinkled, and very dirty hand on his arm. Her shawl +fell back from her head, showing a few thin wisps of grey hair. Her eyes +were bleary and red-rimmed, her breath reeked of porter. + +“Arrah, doctor dear,” she said, “I’m glad to see you, so I am. Isn’t it +a grand thing now that a fine young man like you would be wanting to +sit down and be talking to an old woman like myself, that might be your +mother--no, but your grandmother?” + +Dr. Lovaway, desperately anxious to reach the sergeant’s suffering +child, tried to shake off the old woman. He suspected that she was +drunk. He was certain that she was extremely unpleasant. The suggestion +that she might be his mother filled him with loathing. It was not any +pleasanter to think of her as a grandmother. + +Mrs. Doolan clung tightly to his arm with both her skinny hands. + +Mr. Flanagan approached them from behind; leaning across Lovaway’s +shoulders, he whispered in his ear: + +“There’s not about the place--there’s not within the four seas of +Ireland, one that has as much knowledge of fairies and all belonging to +them as that old woman.” + +“Fairies!” said Lovaway. “Did you say---- Surely you didn’t say fairies?” + +“I just thought you’d be pleased,” said Flanagan, “and it’s lucky, so +it is, that Mrs. Doolan should happen to be in the town to-night of all +nights, just when them ones--the fairies, you know, doctor--has half the +children in the town took with pains in their stomachs.” + +Dr. Lovaway looked round him wildly. He supposed that Flanagan must be +mad. He had no doubt that the old woman was drunk. + +“I’ve seen the like before,” she said, leering up into Lovaway’s face. +“I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen a strong man tying himself into knots with +the way they had him held, and there’s no cure for it only----” + +Lovaway caught sight of Sergeant Rahilly. In his first rush to reach the +stricken child he had left the sergeant behind. The sergeant was a heavy +man who moved with dignity. + +“Take this woman away,” said Lovaway. “Don’t let her hold me.” + +“Doctor, darling,” whined Mrs. Doolan, “don’t be saying the like of +that.” + +“Biddy Doolan,” said the sergeant, sternly, “will you let go of the +doctor? I’d be sorry to arrest you, so I would, but arrested you’ll be +if you don’t get along home out of that and keep quiet.” + +Mrs. Doolan loosed her hold on the doctor’s arm, but she did not go +home. She followed Lovaway up the street, moving, for so old a woman, at +a surprising pace. + +“Doctor, dear,” she said, “don’t be giving medicine to them childer. +Don’t do it now. You’ll only anger them that’s done it, and it’s a +terrible thing when them ones is angry.” + +“Get away home out of that, Biddy Doolan,” said the sergeant. + +“Don’t be hard on an old woman, now, sergeant,” said Mrs. Doolan. “It’s +for your own good and the good of your child I’m speaking. Doctor, dear, +there’s no cure but the one. A cup of water from the well of Tubber +Neeve, the same to be drawn up in a new tin can that never was used. Let +the child or the man, or it might be the cow, or whatever it is, let it +drink that, a cup at a time, and let you----” + +Lovaway followed by the sergeant, entered the barrack. He needed no +guiding to the room in which Molly lay. Her shrieks would have led a +blind man to her bedside. + +Mrs. Doolan was stopped at the door by a burly constable. She shouted +her last advice to the doctor as he climbed the stairs. + +“Let you take a handful of rowan berries and lay them on the stomach or +wherever the pain might be, and if you wrap them in a yellow cloth it +will be better; but they’ll work well enough without that, only not so +quick.” + +Driven off by the constable Mrs. Doolan went back to Flanagan’s shop. +She was quite calm and did not any longer appear to be the worse for the +porter she had drunk. + +“You’ll give me another sup, now, Mr. Flanagan,” she said. “It’s well +I deserve it. It’s terrible dry work talking to a man like that one who +won’t listen to a word you’re saying.” + +Flanagan filled a large tumbler with porter and handed it to her. + +“Tell me this now, Mrs. Doolan,” he said. + +“What’s the matter with Molly Rahilly and the rest of them?” + +“It’s green apples,” said Mrs. Doolan, “green apples that they ate in +the doctor’s garden. Didn’t I see the little lady sitting in the tree +and the rest of the childer with her?” + +Dr. Lovaway made a somewhat similar diagnosis. He spent several busy +hours going in and out of the houses where the sufferers lay. It was +not till a quarter past eleven that he returned to his home and the town +settled down for the night. At half-past eleven--long after the legal +closing hour--Sergeant Rahilly was sitting with Mr. Flanagan in the room +behind the shop. A bottle of whisky and a jug of water were on the table +in front of them. + +“It’s a queer thing now about that doctor,” said Flanagan. “After what +Dr. Farelly said to me I made dead sure he’d be pleased to find fairies +about the place. But he was not. When I told him it was fairies he +looked like a man that wanted to curse and didn’t rightly know how. But +sure the English is all queer, and the time you’d think you have them +pleased is the very time they’d be most vexed with you.” + + + + +IV. A LUNATIC AT LARGE + +It was Tuesday, a Tuesday early in October, Dr. Lovaway finished his +breakfast quietly, conscious that he had a long morning before him and +nothing particular to do. Tuesday is a quiet day in Dunailin; Wednesday +is market day and people are busy, the doctor as well as everybody else. +Young women who come into town with butter to sell take the opportunity +of having their babies vaccinated on Wednesday. Old women, with baskets +on their arms, find it convenient on that day to ask the doctor for +something to rub into knee-joints where rheumatic pains are troublesome. +Old men, who have ridden into town on their donkeys, consult the doctor +about chronic coughs, and seek bottles likely to relieve “an impression +on the chest.” + +Fridays, when the Petty Sessions’ Court sits, are almost as busy. Mr. +Timothy Flanagan, a magistrate in virtue of the fact that he is Chairman +of the Urban District Council, administers justice of a rude and +uncertain kind in the Court House. While angry litigants are settling +their business there, and repentant drunkards are paying the moderate +fines imposed on them, their wives ask the doctor for advice about the +treatment of whooping cough or the best way of treating a child which +has incautiously stepped into a fire. Fair days, which occur once a +month, are the busiest days of all. Everyone is in town on fair days, +and every kind of ailment is brought to the doctor. Towards evening +he has to put stitches into one or two cut scalps and sometimes set a +broken limb. On Mondays and Thursdays the doctor sits in his office for +an hour or two to register births and deaths. + +But Tuesdays, unless a fair happens to fall on Tuesday, are quiet days. +On this particular Tuesday Dr. Lovaway was pleasantly aware that he +had nothing whatever to do and might count on having the whole day to +himself. It was raining very heavily, but the weather did not trouble +him at all. He had a plan for the day which rain could not mar. + +He sat down at his writing table, took from a drawer a bundle of +foolscap paper, fitted a new nib to his pen and filled his ink bottle. +He began to write. + +“_A Study of the Remarkable Increase of Lunacy in Rural Connaught_.” + +The title looked well. It would, he felt, certainly attract the +attention of the editor of _The British Medical Journal_. + +But Dr. Lovaway did not like it. It was not for the editor of _The +British Medical Journal_, or indeed, for a scientific public that he +wanted to write. He started fresh on a new sheet of paper. + +“_Lunacy in the West of Ireland: Its Cause and Cure_.” + +That struck him as the kind of title which would appeal to a +philanthropist out to effect a social reform of some kind. But Dr. +Lovaway was not satisfied with it. He respected reformers and was +convinced of the value of their work, but his real wish was to write +something of a literary kind. With prodigal extravagance he tore up +another whole sheet of foolscap and began again. + +“_The Passing of the Gael Ireland’s Crowded Madhouses_.” + +He purred a little over that title and then began the article itself. +What he wanted to say was clear in his mind. He had been three weeks in +Dunailin and he had spent more time over lunatics than anything else. +Almost every day he found himself called upon by Sergeant Rahilly to +“certify” a lunatic, to commit some unfortunate person with diseased +intellect to an asylum. Sometimes he signed the required document. Often +he hesitated, although he was always supplied by the sergeant and +his constables with a wealth of lurid detail about the dangerous +and homicidal tendencies of the patient. Dr. Lovaway was profoundly +impressed. + +He gave his whole mind to the consideration of the problem which pressed +on him. He balanced theories. He blamed tea, inter-marriage, potatoes, +bad whisky, religious enthusiasm, and did not find any of them nor all +of them together satisfactory as explanations of the awful facts. He +fell back finally on a theory of race decadence. Already fine phrases +were forming themselves in his mind: “The inexpressible beauty of +autumnal decay.” “The exquisiteness of the decadent efflorescence of a +passing race.” + +He covered a sheet of foolscap with a bare--he called it a +detached--statement of the facts about Irish lunacy. He had just begun +to recount his own experience when there was a knock at the door. +The housekeeper, a legacy from Dr. Farelly, came in to tell him that +Constable Malone wished to speak to him. Dr. Lovaway left his MS. with +a sigh. He found Constable Malone, a tall man of magnificent physique, +standing in the hall, the raindrops dripping from the cape he wore. + +“The sergeant is after sending me round to you, sir,” said Constable +Malone, “to know would it be convenient for you to attend at Ballygran +any time this afternoon to certify a lunatic?” + +“Surely not another!” said Dr. Lovaway. + +“It was myself found him, sir,” said the constable with an air of +pride in his achievement. “The sergeant bid me say that he’d have Patsy +Doolan’s car engaged for you, and that him and me would go with you so +that you wouldn’t have any trouble more than the trouble of going to +Ballygran, which is an out-of-the-way place sure enough, and it’s a +terrible day.” + +“Is the man violent?” asked Dr. Lovaway. + +By way of reply Constable Malone gave a short account of the man’s +position in life. + +“He’s some kind of a nephew of Mrs. Finnegan,” he said, “and they call +him Jimmy Finnegan, though Finnegan might not be his proper name. He +does be helping Finnegan himself about the farm, and they say he’s +middling useful. But, of course, now the harvest’s gathered, Finnegan +will be able to do well enough without him till the spring.” + +This did not seem to Dr. Lovaway a sufficient reason for incarcerating +Jimmy in an asylum. + +“But is he violent?” he repeated. “Is he dangerous to himself or +others?” + +“He never was the same as other boys,” said the constable, “and the +way of it with fellows like that is what you wouldn’t know. He might be +quiet enough to-day and be slaughtering all before him to-morrow. And +what Mrs. Finnegan says is that she’d be glad if you’d see the poor boy +to-day because she’s in dread of what he might do to-morrow night?” + +“To-morrow night! Why to-morrow night?” + +“There’s a change in the moon to-morrow,” said the constable, “and they +do say that the moon has terrible power over fellows that’s took that +way.” + +Dr. Lovaway, who was young and trained in scientific methods, was at +first inclined to argue with Constable Malone about the effect of the +moon on the human mind. He refrained, reflecting that it is an impious +thing to destroy an innocent superstition. One of the great beauties of +Celtic Ireland is that it still clings to faiths forsaken by the rest of +the world. + +At two o’clock that afternoon Dr. Lovaway took his seat on Patsy +Doolan’s car. It was still raining heavily. Dr. Lovaway wore an overcoat +of his own, a garment which had offered excellent protection against +rainy days in Manchester. In Dunailin, for a drive to Ballygran, the +coat was plainly insufficient. Mr. Flanagan hurried from his shop with a +large oilskin cape taken from a peg in his men’s outfitting department. +Constable Malone, under orders from the sergeant, went to the priest’s +house and borrowed a waterproof rug. Johnny Conerney, the butcher, +appeared at the last moment with a sou’wester which he put on the +doctor’s head and tied under his chin. It would not be the fault of the +people of Dunailin, if Lovaway, with his weak lungs, “died on them.” + +Patsy Doolan did not contribute anything to the doctor’s outfit, but +displayed a care for his safety. + +“Take a good grip now, doctor,” he said. “Take a hold of the little rail +there beside you. The mare might be a bit wild on account of the rain, +and her only clipped yesterday, and the road to Ballygran is jolty in +parts.” + +Sergeant Rahilly and Constable Malone sat on one side of the car, Dr. +Lovaway was on the other. Patsy Doolan sat on the driver’s seat. Even +with that weight behind her the mare proved herself to be “a bit wild.” + She went through the village in a series of bounds, shied at everything +she saw in the road, and did not settle down until the car turned into a +rough track which led up through the mountains to Ballygran. Dr. Lovaway +held on tight with both hands. Patsy Doolan, looking back over his left +shoulder, spoke words of encouragement. + +“It’ll be a bit strange to you at first, so it will,” he said. “But by +the time you’re six months in Dunailin we’ll have you taught to sit a +car, the same as it might be an armchair you were on.” + +Dr. Lovaway, clinging on for his life while the car bumped over +boulders, did not believe that a car would ever become to him as an +armchair. + +Ballygran is a remote place, very difficult of access. At the bottom of +a steep hill, a stream, which seemed a raging torrent to Dr. Lovaway, +flowed across the road. The mare objected very strongly to wading +through it. Farther on the track along which they drove became +precipitous and more stony than ever. Another stream, scorning its +properly appointed course, flowed down the road, rolling large stones +with it. Patsy Doolan was obliged to get down and lead the mare. After +persuading her to advance twenty yards or so he called for the help of +the police. Sergeant Rahilly took the other side of the mare’s +head. Constable Malone pushed at the back of the car. Dr. Lovaway, +uncomfortable and rather nervous, wanted to get down and wade too. But +the sergeant would not hear of this. + +“Let you sit still,” he said. “The water’s over the tops of my boots, +so it is, and where’s the use of you getting a wetting that might be the +death of you?” + +“Is it much farther?” asked Lovaway. + +The sergeant considered the matter. + +“It might be a mile and a bit,” he said, “from where we are this +minute.” + +The mile was certainly an Irish mile, and Dr. Lovaway began to think +that there were some things in England, miles for instance, which are +better managed than they are in Ireland. “The bit” which followed the +mile belonged to a system of measurement even more generous than Irish +miles and acres. + +“I suppose now,” said the sergeant, “that the country you come from is a +lot different from this.” + +He had taken his seat again on the car after leading the mare up the +river. He spoke in a cheery, conversational tone. Dr. Lovaway thought of +Manchester and the surrounding district, thought of trams, trains, and +paved streets. + +“It is different,” he said, “very different indeed.” + +Ballygran appeared at last, dimly visible through the driving rain. It +was a miserable-looking hovel, roofed with sodden thatch, surrounded +by a sea of mud. A bare-footed woman stood in the doorway. She wore +a tattered skirt and a bodice fastened across her breast with a brass +safety-pin. Behind her stood a tall man in a soiled flannel jacket and a +pair of trousers which hung in a ragged fringe round his ankles. + +“Come in,” said Mrs. Finnegan, “come in the whole of yez. It’s a +terrible day, sergeant, and I wonder at you bringing the doctor out in +the weather that does be it in. Michael”--she turned to her husband who +stood behind her--“let Patsy Doolan be putting the mare into the shed, +and let you be helping him. Come in now, doctor, and take an air of the +fire. I’ll wet a cup of tea for you, so I will.” + +Dr. Lovaway passed through a low door into the cottage. His eyes +gradually became accustomed to the gloom inside and to the turf smoke +which filled the room. In a corner, seated on a low stool, he saw a +young man crouching over the fire. + +“That’s him,” said Mrs. Finnegan. “That’s the poor boy, doctor. The +sergeant will have been telling you about him.” + +The boy rose from his stool at the sound of her voice. + +“Speak to the gentleman now,” said Mrs. Finnegan. “Speak to the doctor, +Jimmy alannah, and tell him the way you are.” + +“Your honour’s welcome,” said Jimmy, in a thin, cracked voice. “Your +honour’s welcome surely, though I don’t mind that ever I set eyes on you +before.” + +“Whisht now, Jimmy,” said the sergeant. “It’s the doctor that’s come to +see you, and it’s for your own good he’s come.” + +“I know that,” said Jimmy, “and I know he’ll be wanting to have me put +away. Well, what must be, must be, if it’s the will of God, and if it’s +before me it may as well be now as any other time.” + +“You see the way he is,” said the sergeant. + +“And I have the papers here already to be signed.” + +Dr. Lovaway saw, or believed he saw, exactly how things were. The boy +was evidently of weak mind. There was little sign of actual lunacy, +no sign at all of violence about him. Mrs. Finnegan added a voluble +description of the case. + +“It might be a whole day,” she said, “and he wouldn’t be speaking a +word, nor he wouldn’t seem to hear if you speak to him, and he’d just +sit there by the fire the way you see him without he’d be doing little +turns about the place, feeding the pig, or mending a gap in the wall or +the like. I will say for Jimmy, the poor boy’s always willing to do the +best he can.” + +“Don’t be troubling the doctor now, Mrs. Finnegan,” said the sergeant. +“He knows the way it is with the boy without your telling him. Just let +the doctor sign what has to be signed and get done with it. Aren’t we +wet enough as it is without standing here talking half the day?” + +The mention of the wet condition of the party roused Mrs. Finnegan to +action. She hung a kettle from a blackened hook in the chimney and piled +up turf on the fire. Jimmy was evidently quite intelligent enough to +know how to boil water. He took the bellows, went down on his knees, +and blew the fire diligently. Mrs. Finnegan spread a somewhat dirty +tablecloth on a still dirtier table and laid out cups and saucers on it. + +Dr. Lovaway was puzzled. The boy at the fire might be, probably was, +mentally deficient. He was not a case for an asylum. He was certainly +not likely to become violent or to do any harm either to himself or +anyone else. It was not clear why Mrs. Finnegan, who seemed a kindly +woman, should wish to have him shut up. It was very difficult to imagine +any reason for the action of the police in the matter. Constable Malone +had discovered the existence of the boy in this remote place. Sergeant +Rahilly had taken a great deal of trouble in preparing papers for his +committal to the asylum, and had driven out to Ballygran on a most +inclement day. Dr. Lovaway wished he understood what was happening. + +Finnegan, having left Patsy Doolan’s mare, and apparently Patsy Doolan +himself in the shed, came into the house. + +Dr. Lovaway appealed to him. + +“It doesn’t seem to me,” he said, “that this boy ought to be sent to an +asylum. I shall be glad to hear anything you have to tell me about him.” + +“Well now,” said Mr. Finnegan, “he’s a good, quiet kind of a boy, and if +he hasn’t too much sense there’s many another has less.” + +“That’s what I think,” said Dr. Lovaway. + +Jimmy stopped blowing the fire and looked round suddenly. + +“Sure, I know well you’re wanting to put me away,” he said. + +“It’s for your own good,” said the sergeant. + +“It’ll do him no harm anyway,” said Finnegan, “if so be he’s not kept +there.” + +“Kept!” said the sergeant. “Is it likely now that they’d keep a boy +like Jimmy? He’ll be out again as soon as ever he’s in. I’d say now a +fortnight is the longest he’ll be there.” + +“I wouldn’t like,” said Finnegan, “that he’d be kept too long. I’ll be +wanting him for spring work, but I’m willing to spare him from this till +Christmas if you like.” + +Dr. Lovaway, though a young man and constitutionally timid, was capable +of occasional firmness. + +“I’m certainly not going to certify that boy as a lunatic,” he said. + +“Come now, doctor,” said the sergeant persuasively, “after coming so far +and the wet day and all. What have you to do only to put your name at +the bottom of a piece of paper? And Jimmy’s willing to go. Aren’t you, +Jimmy?” + +“I’ll go if I’m wanted to go,” said Jimmy. + +The water boiled. Mrs. Finnegan was spreading butter on long slices cut +from a home-baked loaf. It was Jimmy who took the kettle from the hook +and filled the teapot. + +“Mrs. Finnegan,” said Dr. Lovaway, “why do you want the boy put into an +asylum?” + +“Is it me wanting him put away?” she said. “I want no such thing. The +notion never entered my head, nor Michael’s either, who’s been like a +father to the boy. Only when Constable Malone came to me, and when +it was a matter of pleasing him and the sergeant, I didn’t want to +be disobliging, for the sergeant is always a good friend of mine, and +Constable Malone is a young man I’ve a liking for. But as for wanting +to get rid of Jimmy! Why would I? Nobody’d grudge the bit the creature +would eat, and there’s many a little turn he’d be doing for me about the +house.” + +Mr. Finnegan was hovering in the background, half hidden in the smoke +which filled the house. He felt that he ought to support his wife. + +“What I said to the sergeant,” he said, “no longer ago than last +Friday when I happened to be in town about a case I had on in the Petty +Sessions’ Court--what I said to the sergeant was this: ‘So long as the +boy isn’t kept there too long, and so long as he’s willing to go----’” + +Jimmy, seated again on his low stool before the fire, looked up. + +“Amn’t I ready to go wherever I’m wanted?” he said. + +“There you are now, doctor,” said the sergeant. “You’ll not refuse the +poor boy when he wants to go?” + +“Sergeant,” said Dr. Lovaway, “I can’t, I really can’t certify that boy +is a lunatic. I don’t understand why you ask me to. It seems to me----” + +Poor Lovaway was much agitated. It seemed to him that he had been +drawn into an infamous conspiracy against the liberty of a particularly +helpless human being. + +“I don’t think you ought to have asked me to come here,” he said. “I +don’t think you should have suggested---- It seems to me, sergeant, that +your conduct has been most reprehensible. I’m inclined to think I ought +to report the matter to--to----” Dr. Lovaway was not quite sure about +the proper place to which to send a report about the conduct of a +sergeant of the Irish Police. “To the proper authorities,” he concluded +feebly. + +“There, there,” said the sergeant, soothingly, “we’ll say no more about +the matter. I wouldn’t like you to be vexed, doctor.” + +But Dr. Lovaway, having once begun to speak his mind, was not inclined +to stop. + +“This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened,” he said. +“You’ve asked me to certify lunacy in some very doubtful cases. I don’t +understand your motives, but----” + +“Well, well,” said the sergeant, “there’s no harm done anyway.” + +Mrs. Finnegan, like all good women, was anxious to keep the peace among +the men under her roof. + +“Is the tea to your liking, doctor,” she said, “or will I give you a +taste more sugar in it? I’m a great one for sugar myself, but they tell +me there’s them that drinks tea with ne’er a grain of sugar in it at +all. They must be queer people that do that.” + +She held a spoon, heaped up with sugar, over the doctor’s cup as +she spoke. He was obliged to stop lecturing the sergeant in order +to convince her that his tea was already quite sweet enough. It was, +indeed, far too sweet for his taste, for he was one of those queer +people whose tastes Mrs. Finnegan could not understand. + +The drive home ought to have been in every way pleasanter than the drive +out to Ballygran. Patsy Doolan’s mare was subdued in temper; so docile, +indeed, that she allowed Jimmy to put her between the shafts. She made +no attempt to stand on her hind legs, and did not shy even at a young +pig which bolted across the road in front of her. Dr. Lovaway could sit +on his side of the car without holding on. The rain had ceased and great +wisps of mist were sweeping clear of the hilltops, leaving fine views +of grey rock and heather-clad slopes. But Dr. Lovaway did not enjoy +himself. Being an Englishman he had a strong sense of duty, and was +afflicted as no Irishman ever is by a civic conscience. He felt that he +ought to bring home somehow to Sergeant Rahilly a sense of the iniquity +of trying to shut up sane, or almost sane, people in lunatic asylums. +Being of a gentle and friendly nature he hated making himself unpleasant +to anyone, especially to a man like Sergeant Rahilly, who had been very +kind to him. + +The path of duty was not made any easier to him by the behaviour of the +sergeant. Instead of being overwhelmed by a sense of discovered guilt, +the police, both Rahilly and Constable Malone, were pleasantly chatty, +and evidently bent on making the drive home as agreeable as possible for +the doctor. They told him the names of the hills and the more distant +mountains. They showed the exact bank at the side of the road from +behind which certain murderous men had fired at a land agent in 1885. +They explained the route of a light railway which a forgotten Chief +Secretary had planned but had never built owing to change of Government +and his loss of office. Not one word was said about Jimmy, or lunatics, +or asylums. It was with great difficulty that Dr. Lovaway succeeded at +last in breaking in on the smooth flow of chatty reminiscences. But when +he did speak he spoke strongly. As with most gentle and timid men, his +language was almost violent when he had screwed himself up to the point +of speaking at all. + +The two policemen listened to all he said with the utmost good humour. +Indeed, the sergeant supported him. + +“You hear what the doctor’s saying to you, Constable Malone,” he said. + +“I do, surely,” said the constable. + +“Well, I hope you’ll attend to it,” said the sergeant, “and let there be +no more of the sort of work that the doctor’s complaining of.” + +“But I mean you too, sergeant,” said Dr. Lovaway. “You’re just as +much to blame as the constable. Indeed more, for you’re his superior +officer.” + +“I know that,” said the sergeant; “I know that well. And what’s more, +I’m thankful to you, doctor, for speaking out what’s in your mind. Many +a one wouldn’t do it. And I know that every word you’ve been saying is +for my good and for the good of Constable Malone, who’s a young man yet +and might improve if handled right. That’s why I’m thanking you, doctor, +for what you’ve said.” + +When Solomon said that a soft answer turneth away wrath he understated +a great truth. A soft answer, if soft enough, will deflect the stroke +of the sword of justice. Dr. Lovaway, though his conscience was still +uneasy, could say no more. He felt that it was totally impossible to +report Sergeant Rahilly’s way of dealing with lunatics to the higher +authorities. + +That night Sergeant Rahilly called on Mr. Flanagan, going into the house +by the back door, for the hour was late. He chose porter rather than +whisky, feeling perhaps that his nerves needed soothing and that a +stronger stimulant might be a little too much for him. After finishing a +second bottle and opening a third, he spoke. + +“I’m troubled in my mind,” he said, “over this new doctor. Here I am +doing the best I can for him ever since he came to the town, according +to what I promised Dr. Farelly.” + +“No man,” said Flanagan, “could do more than what you’ve done. Everyone +knows that.” + +“I’ve set the police scouring the country,” said the sergeant, +“searching high and low and in and out for anyone, man or woman, that +was the least bit queer in the head. They’ve worked hard, so they have, +and I’ve worked hard myself.” + +“No man harder,” said Flanagan. + +“And everyone we found,” said the Sergeant, “was a guinea into the +doctor’s pocket. A guinea, mind you, that’s the fee for certifying a +lunatic, and devil a penny either I or the constables get out of it.” + +“Nor you wouldn’t be looking for it, sergeant. I know that.” + +“I would not. And I’m not complaining of getting nothing. But it’s +damned hard when the doctor won’t take what’s offered to him, when we’ve +had to work early and late to get it for him. Would you believe it now, +Mr. Flanagan, he’s refused to certify half of the ones we’ve found for +him?” + +“Do you tell me that?” said Flanagan. + +“Throwing good money away,” said the sergeant; “and to-day, when I took +him to see that boy that does be living in Finnegan’s, which would have +put two guineas into his pocket, on account of being outside his own +district, instead of saying ‘thank you’ like any ordinary man would, +nothing would do him only to be cursing and swearing. ‘It’s a crime,’ +says he, ‘and a scandal,’ says he, ‘and it’s swearing away the liberty +of a poor man,’ says he; and more to that. Now I ask you, Mr. Flanagan, +where’s the crime and where’s the scandal?” + +“There’s none,” said Flanagan. “What harm would it have done the lad to +be put away for a bit?” + +“That’s what I said to the doctor. What’s more, they’d have let the boy +out in a fortnight, as soon as they knew what way it was with him. I +told the doctor that, but ‘crime,’ says he, and ‘scandal,’ says he, and +‘conspiracy,’ says he. Be damn, but to hear him talk you’d think I was +trying to take two guineas out of his pocket instead of trying to put it +in, and there’s the thanks I get for going out of my way to do the +best I could for him so as he’d rest content in this place and let Dr. +Farelly stay where he is to be cutting the legs off the Germans.” + +“It’s hard, so it is,” said Flanagan, “and I’m sorry for you, sergeant. +But that’s the way things is. As I was saying to you once before and +maybe oftener, the English is queer people, and the more you’d be trying +to please them the less they like it. It’s not easy to deal with them, +and that’s a fact.” + + + + +V. THE BANDS OF BALLYGUTTERY + +The Wolfe Tone Republican Club has its headquarters at Ballyguttery. Its +members, as may be guessed, profess the strongest form of Nationalism. +There are about sixty of them. The Loyal True-Blue Invincibles are an +Orange Lodge. They also meet in Ballyguttery. There are between seventy +and eighty Loyal Invincibles. There are also in the village ten adult +males who are not members of either the club or the lodge. Six of these +are policemen. The other four are feeble people of no account, who +neglect the first duty of good citizens and take no interest in +politics. + +Early in September the Wolfe Tone Republicans determined to hold a +demonstration. They wished to convince a watching world, especially the +United States of America, that the people of Ballyguttery are unanimous +and enthusiastic in the cause of Irish independence. They proposed to +march through the village street in procession, with a band playing +tunes in front of them, and then to listen to speeches made by eminent +men in a field. + +The Loyal Invincibles heard of the intended demonstration. They could +hardly help hearing of it, for the Wolfe Tone Republicans talked of +nothing else, and the people of Ballyguttery, whatever their politics, +live on friendly terms with each other and enjoy long talks about public +affairs. + +The Loyal Invincibles at once assembled and passed a long resolution, +expressing their determination to put a stop to any National +demonstration. They were moved, they said, by the necessity for +preserving law and order, safeguarding life and property, and +maintaining civil and religious liberty. No intention could have been +better than theirs; but the Wolfe Tone Republicans also had excellent +intentions, and did not see why they should not demonstrate if they +wished to. They invited all the eminent men they could think of to make +speeches for them. They also spent a good deal of money on printing, +and placarded the walls round the village with posters, announcing +that their demonstration would be held on September fifteenth, the +anniversary of the execution of their patron Wolfe Tone by the English. + +In fact Wolfe Tone was not executed by the English or anyone else, and +the date of his death was November the nineteenth. But that made no +difference to either side, because no one in Ballyguttery ever reads +history. + +The Loyal True-Blue Invincibles did not tear down the posters. They were +kindly men, averse to unneighbourly acts. But they put up posters +of their own, summoning every man of sound principles to assemble on +September fifteenth at 10.30 a.m, in order to preserve law, order, life, +property, and liberty, by force if necessary. + +Mr. Hinde, District Inspector of Police in Ballyguttery, was considering +the situation. He was in an uncomfortable position, for he had only four +constables and one sergeant under his command. It seemed to him that law +and order would disappear for the time, life and property be in danger, +and that he would not be able to interfere very much with anybody’s +liberty. Mr. Hinde was, however, a young man of naturally optimistic +temper. He had lived in Ireland all his life, and he had a profound +belief in the happening of unexpected things. + +On September the tenth the Wolfe Tone Republicans made a most +distressing discovery. + +Six months before, they had lent their band instruments to the Thomas +Emmet Club, an important association of Nationalists in the neighbouring +village. + +The Thomas Emmets, faced with a demand for the return of the +instruments, confessed that they had lent them to the Martyred +Archbishops’ branch of the Gaelic League. They, in turn, had lent them +to the Manchester Martyrs’ Gaelic Football Association. These +athletes would, no doubt, have returned the instruments honestly; but +unfortunately their association had been suppressed by the Government +six weeks earlier and had only just been re-formed as the Irish Ireland +National Brotherhood. + +In the process of dissolution and reincarnation the band instruments +had disappeared. No one knew where they were. The only suggestion +the footballers had to make was that the police had taken them when +suppressing the Manchester Martyrs. This seemed probable, and the +members of the Wolfe Tone Republican Club asked their president, Mr. +Cornelius O’Farrelly, to call on Mr. Hinde and inquire into the matter. + +Mr. Hinde was surprised, very agreeably surprised, at receiving a visit +one evening from the president of the Republican Club. In Ireland, +leading politicians, whatever school they belong to, are seldom on +friendly terms with the police. He greeted O’Farrelly warmly. + +“What I was wishing to speak to you about was this--” O’Farrelly began. + +“Fill your pipe before you begin talking,” said Mr. Hinde. “Here’s some +tobacco.” He offered his pouch as he spoke. “I wish I could offer you a +drink; but there’s no whisky to be got nowadays.” + +“I know that,” said O’Farrelly in a friendly tone, “and what’s more, I +know you’d offer it to me if you had it.” + +He filled his pipe and lit it. Then he began again: “What I was wishing +to speak to you about is the band instruments.” + +“If you want a subscription--” said Hinde. + +“I do not want any subscription.” + +“That’s just as well, for you wouldn’t get it if you did. I’ve no money, +for one thing; and besides it wouldn’t suit a man in my position to be +subscribing to rebel bands.” + +“I wouldn’t ask you,” said O’Farrelly. “Don’t I know as well as yourself +that it would be no use? And anyway it isn’t the money we want, but our +own band instruments.” + +“What’s happened to them?” said Hinde. + +“You had a lot. Last time I saw your band it was fitted out with drums +and trumpets enough for a regiment.” + +“It’s just them we’re trying to get back.” + +“If anyone has stolen them,” said Hinde, “I’ll look into the matter and +do my best to catch the thief for you.” + +“Nobody stole them,” said O’Farrelly; “not what you’d call stealing, +anyway; but it’s our belief that the police has them.” + +“You’re wrong there,” said Hinde. “The police never touched your +instruments, and wouldn’t.” + +“They might not if they knew they were ours. But from information +received we think the police took them instruments the time they were +suppressing the Manchester Martyrs beyond the Lisnan, the instruments +being lent to them footballers at that time.” + +“I remember all about that business,” said Hinde. “I was there myself. +But we never saw your instruments. All we took away with us was two +old footballs and a set of rotten goal-posts. Whatever happened to +your instruments, we didn’t take them. I expect,” said Hinde, “that the +Manchester Martyr boys pawned them.” + +O’Farrelly sat silent. It was unfortunately quite possible that the +members of the football club had pawned the instruments, intending, of +course, to redeem them when the club funds permitted. + +“I’m sorry for you,” said Hinde. “It’s awkward for you losing your drums +and things just now, with this demonstration of yours advertised all +over the place. You’ll hardly be able to hold the demonstration, will +you?” + +“The demonstration will be held,” said O’Farrelly firmly. + +“Not without a band, surely. Hang it all, O’Farrelly, a demonstration is +no kind of use without a band. It wouldn’t be a demonstration. You know +that as well as I do.” + +O’Farrelly was painfully aware that a demonstration without a band is a +poor business. He rose sadly and said good night. Hinde felt sorry for +him. + +“If the police had any instruments,” he said, “I’d lend them to you. But +we haven’t a band of our own here. There aren’t enough of us.” + +This assurance, though it was of no actual use, cheered O’Farrelly. It +occurred to him that though the police had no band instruments to +lend it might be possible to borrow elsewhere. The Loyal True-Blue +Invincibles, for instance, had a very fine band, well supplied in every +way, particularly with big drums. O’Farrelly thought the situation +over and then called on Jimmy McLoughlin, the blacksmith, who was the +secretary of the Orange Lodge. + +“Jimmy,” said O’Farrelly, “we’re in trouble about the demonstration +that’s to be held next Tuesday.” + +“It’d be better for you,” said Jimmy, “if that demonstration was never +held. For let me tell you this: the Lodge boys has their minds made up +to have no Papist rebels demonstrating here.” + +“It isn’t you, nor your Orange Lodge nor all the damned Protestants in +Ireland would be fit to stop us,” said O’Farrelly. + +Jimmy McLoughlin spit on his hands as if in preparation for the fray. +Then he wiped them on his apron, remembering that the time for fighting +had not yet come. + +“And what’s the matter with your demonstration?” he asked. + +“It’s the want of instruments for the band that has us held up,” said +O’Farrelly. “We lent them, so we did, and the fellows that had them +didn’t return them.” + +Jimmy McLoughlin pondered the situation. He was as well aware as Mr. +Hinde, as O’Farrelly himself, that a demonstration without a band is a +vain thing. + +“It would be a pity now,” he said slowly, “if anything was to interfere +with that demonstration, seeing as how you’re ready for it and we’re +ready for you.” + +“It would be a pity. Leaving aside any political or religious +differences that might be dividing the people of Ballyguttery, it would +be a pity for the whole of us if that demonstration was not to be held.” + +“How would it be now,” said Jimmy Mc-Loughlin, “if we was to lend you +our instruments for the day?” + +“We’d be thankful to you if you did, very thankful,” said O’Farrelly; +“and, indeed, it’s no more than I’d expect from you, Jimmy, for you +always were a good neighbour. But are you sure that you’ll not be +wanting them yourselves?” + +“We will not want them,” said Jimmy Me-Loughlin. “It’ll not be drums +we’ll be beating that day--not drums, but the heads of Papists. But mind +what I’m saying to you now. If we lend you the instruments, you’ll have +to promise that you’ll not carry them beyond the cross-roads this +side of Dicky’s Brae. You’ll leave the whole of them there beyond the +cross-roads, drums and all. It wouldn’t do if any of the instruments got +broke on us or the drums lost--which is what has happened more than once +when there’s been a bit of a fight. And it’ll be at Dicky’s Brae that +we’ll be waiting for you.” + +“I thought as much,” said O’Farrelly, “and I’d be as sorry as you’d be +yourself if any harm was to come to your drums. They’ll be left at the +cross-roads the way you tell me. You may take my word for that. You can +pick them up there yourselves and take them back with you when you’re +going home in the evening--those of you that’ll be left alive to go +home. For we’ll be ready for you, Jimmy, and Dicky’s Brae will suit us +just as well as any other place.” + +The Wolfe Tone Republicans are honourable men. Their band marched at the +head of the procession through the streets of the village. They played +all the most seditious tunes there are, and went on playing for half +a mile outside the village. The police, headed by Mr. Hinde, followed +them. At the cross-roads there was a halt. The bandsmen laid down the +instruments very carefully on a pile of stones beside the road. Then +they took the fork of the road which leads southwards. + +The direct route to Dicky’s Brae lies northwest along the other fork of +the road. Cornelius O’Farrelly had the instinct of a military commander. +His idea was to make a wide detour, march by a cross-road and take the +Dicky Brae position in the rear. This would require some time; but the +demonstrators had a long day before them, and if the speeches were cut a +little short no one would be any the worse. + +Jimmy McLoughlin and the members of the Loyal True-Blue Invincibles sat +on the roadside at the foot of Dicky’s Brae and waited. They expected +that the Wolfe Tone Republicans would reach the place about noon. At a +quarter to twelve Mr. Hinde and five police arrived. They had with them +a cart carefully covered with sacking. No one was in the least disturbed +by their appearance. Five police, even with an officer at their head, +cannot do much to annoy two armies of sixty and seventy men. + +The police halted in the middle of the road. They made no attempt to +unload their cart. + +At 1.30 Jimmy McLoughlin took council with some of the leading members +of the Loyal True-Blue Invincible Lodge. It seemed likely that the Wolfe +Tone Republicans had gone off to demonstrate in some other direction, +deliberately shirking the fight which had been promised them. + +“I’d never have thought it of Cornelius O’Farrelly,” said Jimmy sadly. +“I had a better opinion of him, so I had. I knew he was a Papist and a +rebel and every kind of a blackguard, but I’d never have thought he was +a coward.” + +While he spoke, a small boy came running down the hill. He brought the +surprising intelligence that the Wolfe Tone Republicans were advancing +in good order from a totally unexpected direction. Jimmy McLoughlin +looked round and saw them. So did Mr. Hinde. + +While Jimmy summoned his men from the ditches where they were smoking +and the fields into which they had wandered, Mr. Hinde gave an order to +his police. They took the sacking from their cart. Underneath it were +all the band instruments belonging to the Orange Lodge. The police +unpacked them carefully and then, loaded with drums and brass +instruments, went up the road to meet the Wolfe Tone Republicans. + +Jimmy McLoughlin ran to Mr. Hinde, shouting as he went: + +“What are you doing with them drums?” + +Mr. Hinde turned and waited for them. + +“I’m going to hand them over to Cornelius O’Farrelly,” he said. + +“You’re going to do nothing of the sort,” said Jimmy, “for they’re our +drums, so they are.” + +“I don’t know anything about that,” said Mr. Hinde, “all I know is that +they’re the instruments which O’Farrelly’s band were playing when they +marched out of the town. They left them on the side of the road, where +my men found them.” + +“What right had you to be touching them at all,” said Jimmy. + +“Every right. O’Farrelly was complaining to me three days ago that one +set of band instruments had been stolen from him. It’s my business +to see that he doesn’t lose another set in the same way, even if he’s +careless enough to leave them lying about on the side of the road.” + +“Amn’t I telling you that they’re ours, not his?” said Jimmy. + +“You’ll have to settle that with him.” + +“Sure, if I settle that with him,” said Jimmy, “in the only way anything +could be settled with a pack of rebels, the instruments will be broke +into smithereens before we’re done.” + +This seemed very likely. Jimmy McLoughlin’s bandsmen, armed with sticks +and stones, were forming up on the road. The police had already handed +over the largest drum to one of the leading Wolfe Tone Republicans. It +was Cornelius O’Farrelly who made an attempt to save the situation. + +He came forward and addressed Mr. Hinde. “It would be better,” he said, +“if you’d march the police off out of this and let them take the band +instruments along with them, for if they don’t the drums will surely be +broke and the rest of the things twisted up so as nobody’ll ever be able +to blow a tune on them again, which would be a pity and a great loss to +all parties concerned.” + +“I’ll take the police away if you like,” said Mr. Hinde, “but I’m hanged +if I go on carting all those instruments about the country. I found them +on the side of the road where you left them, and now that I’ve given +them back to you I’ll take no further responsibility in the matter.” + +The two sets of bandsmen were facing each other on the road. The +instruments were divided between them. They were uttering the most +bloodthirsty threats, and it was plain that in a minute or two there +would be a scrimmage. + +“Jimmy,” said O’Farrelly, “if the boys get to fighting----” + +“I don’t know,” said Jimmy gloomily, “where the money’s to come from to +buy new drums.” + +“It might be better,” said O’Farrelly, “if we was to go home and leave +the instruments back safe where they came from before worse comes of +it.” + +Ten minutes later the instruments were safely packed again into the +cart. One of the Loyal True-Blue Invincibles led the horse. A Wolfe +Tone Republican sat in the cart and held the reins. Jimmy McLoughlin +and Cornelius O’Farrelly walked together. It was plain to everyone that +hostilities were suspended for the day. + +“I’m thinking,” said Jimmy, “that ye didn’t hold your demonstration +after all. I hope this’ll be a lesson to you not to be trying anything +of the sort for the future.” + +“For all your fine talk,” said O’Farrelly, “you didn’t stop us. And why +not? Because you weren’t fit to do it.” + +“We could have done it,” said Jimmy, “and we would. But what’s the use of +talking? So long as no demonstration was held we’re satisfied.” + +“So long as you didn’t get interfering with us, we’re satisfied.” + +Mr. Hinde, walking behind the procession with his five police, had +perhaps the best reason of all for satisfaction. + + + + +VI. STARTING THE TRAIN + +Tom O’Donovan leaned as far as possible out of the window of the railway +carriage, a first-class smoking carriage. + +“Good-bye Jessie, old girl,” he said. “I’ll be back the day after +to-morrow, or the next day at latest. Take care of yourself.” + +Mrs. O’Donovan, who was not very tall, stood on tip-toe while he kissed +her. + +“You’ll have time enough to get dinner in Dublin,” she said, “or will +you dine on the boat?” + +“They give you a pretty fair dinner on the boat,” said Tom, “and it’s +less fussy to go on board at once.” + +She had said that to him before, and he had made the same answer; but +it is necessary to keep on saying something while waiting for a train to +start, and on such occasions there is very seldom anything fresh to say. + +“And you’ll see Mr. Manners to-morrow morning,” she said, after a short +pause. + +“Appointment for 10.30,” said Tom. “I’ll breakfast at the Euston Hotel +and take the tube to his office. Bye-bye, old girl.” + +But the “bye-bye,” like the kiss, was premature. The train did not +start. + +“If I get Manners’ agency,” said Tom, “we’ll be on the pig’s back. +You’ll be driving about in a big car with a fur coat on you in the +inside of six months.” + +“Be as fascinating as you can, Tom,” she said. + +“He’d hardly have asked me to go all the way to London,” said Tom, “if +he wasn’t going to give me the agency.” + +They had reasoned all that out half-a-dozen times since the letter +arrived which summoned Tom to an interview in Mr. Manners’ office. There +was no doubt that the agency, which meant the sole right of selling the +Manners’ machines in Ireland, would be exceedingly profitable. And Tom +O’Donovan believed that he had secured it. + +He glanced at the watch on his wrist. + +“I wonder what the deuce we’re waiting for,” he said. + +But passengers on Irish railways now-a-days are all accustomed to trains +which do not start, and have learned the lesson of patience. Tom waited, +without any sign of irritation, Mrs. O’Donovan chatted pleasantly to +him. The train had reached the station in good time. It was due in +Dublin two hours before the mail boat left Kingstown. There was no need +to feel worried. + +Yet at the end of half-an-hour Tom did begin to feel worried. When +three-quarters of an hour had passed he became acutely anxious. + +“If we don’t get a move on soon,” he said, “I shall miss the boat, +and--I say, Jessie, this is getting serious.” + +Missing the boat meant missing his appointment in London next morning, +and then--why, then Manners would probably give the agency to someone +else. Tom opened the door of his carriage and jumped out. + +“I’ll speak to the guard,” he said, “and find out what’s the matter.” + +The guard, a fat, good-humoured looking man, was talking earnestly to +the engine driver. Tom O’Donovan addressed him explosively. + +“Why the devil don’t you go on?” he said. + +“The train is not going on to-day,” said the guard. “It’ll maybe never +go on at all.” + +“Why not?” + +It was the engine driver who replied. He was a tall, grave man, and he +spoke with dignity, as if he were accustomed to making public speeches +on solemn occasions. + +“This train,” he said, “will not be used for the conveyance of the armed +forces of the English Crown, which country is presently at war with the +Irish Republic.” + +“There’s soldiers got into the train at this station,” said the guard, +in a friendly explanatory tone, “and the way things is it wouldn’t suit +us to be going on, as long as them ones,” he pointed to the rear of the +train with his thumb, “stays where they are.” + +“But--oh, hang it all!--if the train doesn’t go on I shall miss the mail +boat at Kingstown, and if I’m not in London to-morrow morning I shall +lose the best part of £1,000 a year.” + +“That would be a pity now,” said the guard. “And I’d be sorry for any +gentleman to be put to such a loss. But what can we do? The way things +is at the present time it wouldn’t suit either the driver or me to be +taking the train on while there’d be soldiers in it. It’s queer times +we’re having at present and that’s a fact.” + +The extreme queerness of the times offered no kind of consolation to Tom +O’Donovan. But he knew it was no good arguing with the guard. + +He contented himself with the fervent expression of an opinion which he +honestly held. + +“It would be a jolly good thing for everybody,” he said, “if the English +army and the Irish Republic and your silly war and every kind of idiot +who goes in for politics were put into a pot together and boiled down +for soup.” + +He turned and walked away. As he went he heard the guard expressing mild +agreement with his sentiment. + +“It might be,” said the guard. “I wouldn’t say but that might be the +best in the latter end.” + +Tom O’Donovan, having failed with the guard and the engine driver, made +up his mind to try what he could do with the soldiers. He was not very +hopeful of persuading them to leave the train; but his position was so +nearly desperate that he was unwilling to surrender any chance. He found +a smart young sergeant and six men of the Royal Wessex Light Infantry +seated in a third-class carriage. They wore shrapnel helmets, and their +rifles were propped up between their knees. + +“Sergeant,” said Tom, “I suppose you know you are holding up the whole +train.” + +“My orders, sir,” said the sergeant, “is to travel---” + +“Oh, I know all about your orders. But look here. It would suit you just +as well to hold up the next train. There’s another in two hours, and you +can get into it and sit in it all night. But if you don’t let this +train go on I shall miss the boat at Kingstown, and if I’m not in London +to-morrow morning I stand to lose £1,000 a year.” + +“Very sorry, sir,” said the sergeant, “but my orders--I’d be willing to +oblige, especially any gentleman who is seriously inconvenienced. But +orders is orders, sir.” + +Jessie O’Donovan, who had been following her husband up and down the +platform, caught his arm. + +“What _is_ the matter, Tom?” she said. “If the train doesn’t start soon +you’ll miss the boat. Why don’t they go on?” + +“Oh, politics, as usual, Jessie,” said Tom. “I declare to goodness it’s +enough to make a man want to go to heaven before his time, just to +be able to live under an absolute monarchy where there can’t be any +politics. But I’m not done yet. I’ll have another try at getting along +before I chuck the whole thing up. Is there a girl anywhere about, a +good-looking girl?” + +“There’s the young woman in the bookstalls,” said Jessie, “but she’s not +exactly pretty. What do you want a girl for?” + +Tom glanced at the bookstall. + +“She won’t do at all,” he said. “They all know her, and, besides, +she doesn’t look the part. But I know where I’ll get the girl I want. +Jessie, do you run over to the booking office and buy two third-class +returns to Dublin.” + +He left her standing on the platform while he jumped on to the line +behind the train, crossed it, and climbed the other platform. She saw +him pass through the gate and run along the road to the town. Being a +loyal and obedient wife she went to the booking office and bought two +tickets, undisturbed by the knowledge that her husband was running fast +in search of a girl, a good-looking girl. + +Tom O’Donovan, having run a hundred yards at high speed, entered a +small tobacconist’s shop. Behind the counter was a girl, young and very +pretty. She was one of those girls whose soft appealing eyes and general +look of timid helplessness excite first the pity, then the affection of +most men. + +“Susie,” said Tom O’Donovan, breathlessly, “ran upstairs and put on your +best dress and your nicest hat and all the ribbons and beads you have. +Make yourself look as pretty as you can, but don’t be more than ten +minutes over the job, And send your father to me.” + +Tom O’Donovan was a regular and valued customer. Susie had known him as +a most agreeable gentleman since she was ten years old. She saw that he +was in a hurry and occupied with some important affair. She did as he +told her without stopping to ask any questions. Two minutes later her +father entered the shop from the room behind it. + +“Farrelly,” said Tom O’Donovan, “I want the loan of your daughter for +about four hours. She’ll be back by the last train down from Dublin.” + +“If it was any other gentleman only yourself, Mr. O’Donovan, who asked +me the like of that I’d kick him out of the shop.” + +“Oh! it’s all right,” said Tom, “my wife will be with her the whole time +and bring her back safe.” + +“I’m not asking what you want her for, Mr. O’Donovan,” said Farrelly, +“but if it was any other gentleman only yourself I would ask.” + +“I want to take her up to Dublin along with my wife,” said Tom, “and +send her down by the next train. I’d explain the whole thing to you if +I had time, but I haven’t. All I can tell you is that I’ll most likely +lose £1,000 a year if I don’t get Susie.” + +“Say no more, Mr. O’Donovan,” said Farrelly. “If that’s the way of it +you and Mrs. O’Donovan can have the loan of Susie for as long as pleases +you.” + +Susie changed her dress amazingly quickly. She was back in the shop in +six minutes, wearing a beautiful blue hat, a frock that was almost new, +and three strings of beads round her neck. + +“Come on,” said O’Donovan, “we haven’t a minute to lose.” + +They walked together very quickly to the station. + +“Susie,” said Tom, “I’m going to put you into a carriage by yourself, +and when you get there you’re to sit in a corner and cry. If you can’t +cry----” + +“I can if I like,” said Susie. + +“Very well, then do. Get your eyes red and your face swollen and have +tears running down your cheeks if you can manage it, and when I come for +you again you’re to sob. Don’t speak a word no matter what anyone says +to you, but sob like--like a motor bicycle.” + +“I will,” said Susie. + +“And if you do it well, I’ll buy you the smartest blouse in London +to-morrow and bring it home to you.” + +When they reached the station they jumped down from the platform +and crossed the line to the train. Tom opened the door of an empty +third-class carriage and pushed Susie into it. Then he went round to the +back of the train and climbed on to the platform. + +He made straight for the carriage in which the soldiers sat. + +“Sergeant,” he said, “will you come along with me for a minute?” + +The sergeant, who was beginning to find his long vigil rather dull, +warned his men to stay where they were. Then he got out and followed Tom +O’Donovan. Tom led him to the carriage in which Susie sat. The girl had +done very well since he left her. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her +cheeks were slobbered. She held a handkerchief in her hand rolled into a +tight damp ball. + +“You see that girl,” said Tom. + +“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Seems to be in trouble, sir.” + +“She’s in perfectly frightful trouble,” said Tom. “She’s on her way to +Dublin--or she would be if this train would start--so as to catch the +night mail to Cork. She was to have been married in Cork to-morrow +morning and to have gone off to America by a steamer which leaves +Queenstown at 10.30 a.m. Now of course, the whole thing is off. She +won’t get to Dublin or Cork, and so can’t be married.” + +Susie, when she heard this pitiful story, sobbed convulsively. + +“It’s very sad,” said Tom. + +The sergeant, a nice, tender-hearted young man, looked at Susie’s pretty +face and was greatly affected. + +“Perhaps her young man will wait for her, sir,” he said. + +“He can’t do that,” said Tom. “The fact is that he’s a demobilised +soldier, served all through the war and won the V.C. And the Sinn +Feiners have warned him that he’ll be shot if he isn’t out of the +country before midday to-morrow.” + +Susie continued to sob with great vigour and intensity. The sergeant was +deeply moved. + +“It’s cruel hard, sir,” he said. “But my orders----” + +“I’m not asking you to disobey orders,” said Tom, “but in a case like +this, for the sake of that poor young girl and the gallant soldier who +wants to marry her--a comrade of your own, sergeant. You may have known +him out in France--I think you ought to stretch a point. Listen to me +now!” + +He drew the sergeant away from the door of the carriage and whispered to +him. + +“I’ll do it, sir,” said the sergeant. “My orders say nothing about that +point.” + +“You do what I suggest,” said Tom, “and I’ll fix things up with the +guard.” + +He found the guard and the engine driver awaiting events in the +station-master’s office. They were quite willing to follow him to the +carriage in which Susie sat. They listened with deep emotion to the +story which Tom told them. It was exactly the same story which he told +the sergeant, except this time the bridegroom was a battalion commander +of the Irish Volunteers whose life was threatened by a malignant +Black-and-Tan. Susie sobbed as bitterly as before. + +“It’s a hard case, so it is,” said the guard, “and if there was any way +of getting the young lady to Dublin----” + +“There’s only one way,” said Tom, “and that’s to take on this train.” + +“It’s what we can’t do,” said the engine driver, “not if all the girls +in Ireland was wanting to get married. So long as the armed forces of +England----” + +“But they’re not armed,” said Tom. + +“Michael.” said the engine driver to the guard, “did you not tell me +that them soldiers has guns with them and tin hats on their heads?” + +“I did tell you that,” said the guard, “and I told you the truth.” + +“My impression is,” said Tom, “that those soldiers aren’t armed at +all. They seem to be a harmless set of men off to Dublin on leave, very +likely going to be married themselves. They’re certainly not on duty.” + +The engine driver scratched his head. + +Susie, inspired by a wink from Tom, broke into a despairing wail. + +“If that’s the way of it,” said the engine driver, “it would be +different, of course.” + +“Come and see,” said Tom. + +The sergeant and his men were sitting in their compartment smoking +cigarettes. Their heads were bare. Most of them had their tunics +unbuttoned. One of them was singing a song, in which the whole party +joined: + + “Mary, Jane and Polly + Find it very jolly + When we take them out with us to + Tea--tea--tea!” + +There was not a single rifle to be seen anywhere. + +“There now,” said Tom. “You see for yourselves. You can’t call those men +munitions of war.” + +The guard, who had seen the soldiers march into the station, was +puzzled; but the engine driver seemed convinced that there had been some +mistake. + +“I’ll do it,” he said, “for the sake of the young girl and the brave lad +that wants to marry her, I’ll take the train to Dublin.” + +“Well, hurry up,” said Tom. “Drive that old engine of yours for all +she’s worth.” + +The driver hastened to his post. The guard blew his whistle shrilly. Tom +seized his wife by the arm. + +“Hop into the carriage with Susie Farrelly,” he said. “Dry her eyes, +and tell her I’ll spend £5 on a silk blouse for her, pink or blue or +any colour she likes. I’ll explain the whole thing to you when we get +to Dublin. I can’t travel with you. The guard is only half convinced and +might turn suspicious if he saw us together.” + +Tom O’Donovan caught, just caught the mail boat at Kingstown. He secured +the agency for the sale of the Manners’ machines in Ireland. He is in a +fair way to becoming a very prosperous man; but it is unlikely that he +will ever be a member either of Parliament or Dail Eireann. He says that +politics interfere with business. + + + + +VII. UNLAWFUL POSSESSION + +When Willie Thornton, 2nd Lieutenant in the Wessex Fusiliers, was sent +to Ireland, his mother was nervous and anxious. She had an idea that the +shooting of men in uniform was a popular Irish sport and that her boy +would have been safer in Germany, Mesopotamia, or even Russia. Willie, +who looked forward to some hunting with a famous Irish pack, laughed at +his mother. It was his turn to be nervous and anxious when, three weeks +after joining his battalion, he received an independent command. He +was a cheerful boy and he was not in the least afraid that anyone would +shoot him or his men. But the way the Colonel talked to him made him +uncomfortable. + +“There’s your village,” said the Colonel. + +William peered at the map spread on the orderly-room table, and saw, in +very small print, the name Dunedin. It stood at a place where many roads +met, where there was a bridge across a large river. + +“You’ll billet the men in your Court House,” said the Colonel, “and +you’ll search every motor that goes through that village to cross the +bridge.” + +“For arms, sir?” said Willie. + +“For arms or ammunition,” said the Colonel. “And you’ll have to keep your +eyes open, Thornton. These fellows are as cute as foxes. There isn’t a +trick they’re not up to and they’ll tell you stories plausible enough to +deceive the devil himself.” + +That was what made Willie Thornton nervous. He would have faced the +prospects of a straight fight with perfect self-confidence. He was by no +means so sure of himself when it was a matter of outwitting men who +were as cute as foxes; and “these fellows” was an unpleasantly vague +description. It meant, no doubt, the Irish enemy, who, indeed, neither +the Colonel nor Willie could manage to regard as an enemy at all. But it +gave him very little idea of the form in which the enemy might present +himself. + +On the evening of Good Friday Willie marched his men into Dunedin and +took possession of the Court House. That day was chosen because Easter +is the recognized season for Irish rebellions, just as Christmas is the +season for plum puddings in England, and May Day the time for Labour +riots on the Continent. It is very convenient for everybody concerned to +have these things fixed. People know what to expect and preparations can +be properly made. The weather was abominably wet. The village of Dunedin +was muddy and looked miserable. The Court House, which seldom had fires +in it, was damp and uncomfortable. Willie unloaded the two wagons which +brought his men, kit, and rations, and tried to make the best of things. + +The next day was also wet, but Willie, weighted by a sense of +responsibility, got up early. By six o’clock he had the street which led +to the bridge barricaded in such a way that no motor-car could possibly +rush past. He set one of his wagons across the street with its back to +the house and its pole sticking out. In this position it left only a +narrow passage through which any vehicle could go. He set the other +wagon a little lower down with its back to the houses on the opposite +side of the street and its pole sticking out. Anyone driving towards the +bridge would have to trace a course like the letter S, and, the curves +being sharp, would be compelled to go very slowly, Willie surveyed this +arrangement with satisfaction. But to make quite sure of holding up the +traffic he stretched a rope from one wagon pole to the other so as to +block the centre part of the S. Then he posted his sentries and went +into the Court House to get some breakfast. + +The people of Dunedin do not get up at six o’clock. Nowadays, owing to +the imposition of “summer time” and the loss of Ireland’s half-hour of +Irish time, six o’clock is really only half-past four, and it is worse +than folly to get out of bed at such an hour. It was eight o’clock +by Willie Thornton’s watch before the people became aware of what had +happened to their street. They were surprised and full of curiosity, but +they were not in the least annoyed. No one in Dunedin had the slightest +intention of rebelling. No one even wanted to shoot a policeman. The +consciences, even of the most ardent politicians, were clear, and +they could afford to regard the performance of the soldiers as an +entertainment provided free for their benefit by a kindly Government. +That was, in fact, the view which the people of Dunedin took of Willie +Thornton’s barricade, and of his sentries, though the sentries ought +to have inspired awe, for they carried loaded rifles and wore shrapnel +helmets. + +The small boys of the village--and there are enormous numbers of small +boys in Dunedin--were particularly interested. They tried the experiment +of passing through the barricade, stooping under the rope when they came +to it, just to see what the soldiers would do. The soldiers did nothing. +The boys then took to jumping over the rope, which they could do when +going downhill, though they had to creep under it on the way back. This +seemed to amuse and please the soldiers, who smiled amiably at each +successful jump. Kerrigan, the butcher, encouraged by the experience of +the small boys, made a solemn progress from the top of the street to the +bridge. He is the most important and the richest man in Dunedin, and it +was generally felt that if the soldiers let him pass the street might be +regarded as free to anyone. Kerrigan is a portly man, who could not have +jumped the rope, and would have found it inconvenient to crawl under +it. The soldiers politely loosed one end of the rope and let him walk +through. + +At nine o’clock a farmer’s cart, laden with manure, crossed the bridge +and began to climb the street. Willie Thornton came to the door of the +Court House with a cigarette in his mouth and watched the cart. It +was hoped by the people of Dunedin, especially by the small boys, that +something would happen. Foot passengers might be allowed to pass, but +a wheeled vehicle would surely be stopped. But the soldiers loosed the +rope and let the cart go through without a question. Ten minutes later a +governess cart, drawn by a pony, appeared at the top of the street. It, +too, was passed through the barricade without difficulty. There was a +general feeling of disappointment in the village, and most of the people +went back to their houses. It was raining heavily, and it is foolish to +get wet through when there is no prospect of any kind of excitement. +The soldiers, such was the general opinion, were merely practising some +unusual and quite incomprehensible military manouvre. + +The opinion was a mistaken one. The few who braved the rain and stood +their ground watching the soldiers, had their reward later on. At ten +o’clock, Mr. Davoren, the auctioneer, drove into the village in his +motor-car. Mr. Davoren lives in Ballymurry, a town of some size, six +miles from Dunedin. His business requires him to move about the country +a good deal, and he is quite wealthy enough to keep a Ford car. His +appearance roused the soldiers to activity. Willie Thornton, without a +cigarette this time, stood beside the barricade. A sentry, taking his +place in the middle of the street, called to Mr. Davoren to halt. Mr. +Davoren, who was coming along at a good pace, was greatly surprised, but +he managed to stop his car and his engine a few feet from the muzzle of +the sentry’s rifle. + +Willie Thornton, speaking politely but firmly, told Mr. Davoren to +get out of the car. He did not know the auctioneer, and had no way of +telling whether he was one of “these fellows” or not. The fact that Mr. +Davoren looked most respectable and fat was suspicious. A cute fox +might pretend to be respectable and fat when bent on playing tricks. Mr. +Davoren, still surprised but quite good-humoured, got out of his car. +Willie Thornton and his sergeant searched it thoroughly. They found +nothing in the way of a weapon more deadly than a set of tyre levers. +Mr. Davoren was told he might go on. In the end he did go on, but not +until he, the sergeant, Willie Thornton, and one of the sentries +had worked themselves hot at the starting-crank. Ford engines are +queer-tempered things, with a strong sense of self-respect. When stopped +accidentally and suddenly, they often stand on their dignity and refuse +to go on again. All this was pleasant and exciting for the people of +Dunedin, who felt that they were not wasting their day or getting wet in +vain. And still better things were in store for them. At eleven o’clock +a large and handsome car appeared at the end of the street. It moved +noiselessly and swiftly towards the barricade. The chauffeur, leaning +back behind his glass screen, drove as if the village and the street +belonged to him. Dunedin is, in fact, the property of his master, the +Earl of Ramelton; so the chauffeur had some right to be stately and +arrogant. Every man, woman, and child in Dunedin knew the car, and there +was tiptoe excitement. Would the soldiers venture to stop and search +this car? The excitement became intense when it was seen that the Earl +himself was in the car. He lay back very comfortably smoking a cigar in +the covered tonneau of the limousine. Lord Ramelton is a wealthy man and +Deputy Lieutenant for the county. He sits and sometimes speaks in the +House of Lords. He is well known as an uncompromising Unionist, whose +loyalty to the king and empire is so firm as to be almost aggressive. + +There was a gasp of amazement when the sentry, standing with his rifle +in his hands, called “Halt!” He gave the order to the earl’s chauffeur +quite as abruptly and disrespectfully as he had given it to Mr. Davoren. +The chauffeur stopped the car and leaned back in his seat with an air of +detachment and slight boredom. It was his business to stop or start the +car and to drive where he was told. Why it was stopped or started or +where it went were matters of entire indifference to him. Lord Ramelton +let down the window beside him and put out his head. + +“What the devil is the matter?” he said. + +He spoke to the chauffeur, but it was Willie Thornton who answered him. + +“I’m afraid I must trouble you to get out of the car, sir; you and the +chauffeur.” + +He had spoken quite as civilly to Mr. Davoren half an hour before. He +added “sir” this time because Lord Ramelton is an oldish man, and Willie +Thornton had been well brought up and taught by his mother that some +respect is due to age. He did not know that he was speaking to an earl +and a very great man. Lord Ramelton was not in the least soothed by the +civility. + +“Drive on, Simpkins,” he said to the chauffeur. + +Simpkins would have driven on if the sentry had not been standing, with +a rifle in his hands, exactly in front of the car. He did the next best +thing to driving on. He blew three sharp blasts of warning on his horn. +The sentry took no notice of the horn. The men of the Wessex Fusiliers +are determined and well-disciplined fellows. Willie Thornton’s +orders mattered to that sentry. Lord Ramelton’s did not. Nor did the +chauffeur’s horn. + +Willie Thornton stepped up to the window of the car. He noticed as he +did so that an earl’s coronet surmounting the letter R was painted +on the door. He spoke apologetically, but he was still quite firm. A +coronet painted on the door of a car is no proof that the man inside is +an earl. The Colonel had warned Willie that “these fellows” were as cute +as foxes. + +“I’m afraid I must trouble you to get out, sir,” said Willie. “My orders +are to search every car that goes through the village.” + +Lord Ramelton had once been a soldier himself. He knew that the word +“orders” has a sacred force. + +“Oh, all right,” he said. “It’s damned silly; but if you’ve got to do +it, get it over as quick as you can.” + +He turned up the collar of his coat and stepped out into the rain. The +chauffeur left his seat and stood in the mud with the air of a patient +but rather sulky martyr. What is the use of belonging to the aristocracy +of labour, of being a member of the Motor Drivers’ Union, of being able +to hold up civilisation to ransom, if you are yourself liable to be held +up and made to stand in the rain by a common soldier, a man no better +than an unskilled labourer. Nothing but the look of the rifle in the +unskilled labourer’s hand would have induced Simpkins to leave his +sheltered place in the car. + +Willie Thornton had every intention of conducting his search rapidly, +perhaps not very thoroughly. Lord Ramelton’s appearance, his voice, and +the coronet on the panel, all taken together, were convincing evidence +that he was not one of “these fellows,” and might safely be allowed to +pass. + +Unfortunately there was something in the car which Willie did not in +the least expect to find there. In the front of the tonneau was a large +packing-case. It was quite a common-looking packing-case made of rough +wood. The lid was neatly but firmly nailed down. It bore on its side in +large black letters the word “cube sugar”. + +Willie’s suspicions were aroused. The owners of handsome and +beautifully-upholstered cars do not usually drive about with +packing-cases full of sugar at their feet. And this was a very large +case. It contained a hundredweight or a hundredweight and a half of +sugar--if it contained sugar at all. The words of the Colonel recurred +to Willie: “There’s not a trick they’re not up to. They’d deceive the +devil himself.” Well, no earl or pretended earl should deceive Willie +Thornton. He gave an order to the sergeant. + +“Take that case and open it,” he said. + +“Damn it,” said the Earl, “you mustn’t do that.” + +“My orders,” said Willie, “are to examine every car thoroughly.” + +“But if you set that case down in the mud and open it in this downpour +of rain the--the contents will be spoiled.” + +“I can’t help that, sir,” said Willie. “My orders are quite definite.” + +“Look here,” said Lord Ramelton, “if I give you my word that there +are no arms or ammunition in that case, if I write a statement to that +effect and sign it, will it satisfy you?” + +“No, sir,” said Willie. “Nothing will satisfy me except seeing for +myself.” + +Such is the devotion to duty of the young British officer. Against his +spirit the rage of the empire’s enemies breaks in vain. Nor are the +statements of “these fellows,” however plausible, of much avail. + +Lord Ramelton swallowed, with some difficulty, the language which +gathered on his tongue’s tip. + +“Where’s your superior officer?” he said. + +Willie Thornton believed that all his superior officers were at least +ten miles away. He had not noticed--nor had anyone else--that a grey +military motor had driven into the village. In the grey motor was a +General, with two Staff Officers, all decorated with red cap-bands and +red tabs on their coats. + +The military authorities were very much in earnest over the business of +searching motor-cars and guarding roads. Only at times of serious danger +do Generals, accompanied by Staff Officers, go out in the wet to visit +outpost detachments commanded by subalterns. + +The General left his car and stepped across the road. He recognised Lord +Ramelton at once and greeted him with cheery playfulness. + +“Hallo!” he said, “Held up! I never expected you to be caught smuggling +arms about the country.” + +“I wish you’d tell this boy to let me drive on,” said Lord Ramelton. +“I’m getting wet through.” + +The General turned to Willie Thornton. + +“What’s the matter?” he said. + +Willie was pleasantly conscious that he had done nothing except obey his +orders. He saluted smartly. + +“There’s a packing-case in the car, sir,” he said, “and it ought to be +examined.” + +The General looked into Lord Ramelton’s car and saw the packing-case. He +could scarcely deny that it might very easily contain cartridges, that +it was indeed exactly the sort of case which should be opened. He turned +to Lord Ramelton. + +“It’s marked sugar,” he said. “What’s in it really?” + +Lord Ramelton took the General by the arm and led him a little way up +the street. When they were out of earshot of the crowd round the car he +spoke in a low voice. + +“It _is_ sugar,” he said. “I give you my word that there’s nothing it +that case except sugar.” + +“Good Lord!” said the General. “Of course, when you say so it’s all +right, Ramelton. But would you mind telling me why you want to go +driving about the country with two or three hundredweight of sugar in +your ear?” + +“It’s not my sugar at all,” said Lord Ramelton. “It’s my wife’s. You +know the way we’re rationed for sugar now--half a pound a head and +the servants eat all of it. Well, her ladyship is bent on making some +marmalade and rhubarb jam. I don’t know how she did it, but she got some +sugar from a man at Ballymurry. Wangled it. Isn’t that the word?” + +“Seems exactly the word,” said the General. + +“And I’m bringing it home to her. That’s all.” + +“I see,” said the General. “But why not have let the officer see what +was in the case? Sugar is no business of his, and you’d have saved a lot +of time and trouble.” + +“Because a village like this is simply full of spies.” + +“Spies!” said the General. “If I thought there were spies here I’d----” + +“Oh, not the kind of spies you mean. The Dunedin people are far too +sensible for that sort of thing. But if one of the shopkeepers here +found out that a fellow in Ballymurry had been doing an illicit sugar +deal he’d send a letter off to the Food Controller straightaway. A +man up in Dublin was fined £100 the other day for much less than we’re +doing. I don’t want my name in every newspaper in the kingdom for +obtaining sugar by false pretences.” + +“All right,” said the General. “Its nothing to me where you get your +sugar.” + +Willie Thornton, much to his relief, was ordered to allow the Earl’s car +to proceed, un-searched. The chauffeur, who was accustomed to be dry and +warm, caught a nasty chill, and was in a bad temper for a week. He wrote +to the Secretary of his Union complaining of the brutal way in which +the military tyrannised over the representatives of skilled labour. The +people of Dunedin felt that they had enjoyed a novel and agreeable +show. Lady Ramelton made a large quantity of rhubarb jam, thirty pots of +marmalade, and had some sugar over for the green gooseberries when they +grew large enough to preserve. + + + + +VIII. A SOUL FOR A LIFE + +Denis Ryan and Mary Drennan stood together at the corner of the wood +where the road turns off and runs straight for a mile into the town. +They were young, little more than boy and girl, but they were lovers and +they stood together, as lovers do. His left arm was round her. His right +hand held her hand. Her head rested on his shoulder. + +“Mary, darling,” he whispered, “what’s to hinder us being married soon?” + +She raised her head from his shoulder and looked tenderly into his eyes. + +“If it wasn’t for my mother and my father, we might,” she said; “but +they don’t like you, Denis, and they’ll never consent.” + +Money comes between lovers sometimes; but it was not money, nor the +want of it, which kept Mary and Denis apart. She was the daughter of a +prosperous farmer--a rich man, as riches are reckoned in Ireland. He was +a clerk in a lawyer’s office, and poorly paid. But he might have earned +more. She would gladly have given up anything. And the objections of +parents in such cases are not insuperable. But between these two +there was something more. Denis Ryan was a revolutionary patriot. Mary +Drennan’s parents were proud of another loyalty. They hated what Denis +loved. The two loyalties were strong and irreconcilable, like the +loyalties of the South and the North when the South and the North were +at war in America. + +“What does it matter about your father and mother?” he said. “If you +love me, Mary, isn’t that enough?” + +She hid her face on his shoulder again. He could barely hear the murmur +of her answer. + +“I love you altogether, Denis! I love you so much that I would give my +soul for you!” + +A man came down the road walking fast. He passed the gate of Drennan’s +farm and came near the corner where the lovers stood. Denis took his arm +from Mary’s waist, and they moved a little apart. The man stopped when +he came to them. + +“Good-evening, Denis!” he said. “Good-evening, Miss Drennan!” + +The greeting was friendly enough, but he looked at the girl with +unfriendly eyes. + +“Don’t forget the meeting to-night, Denis!” he said. “It’s in Flaherty’s +barn at nine o’clock. Mind, now! It’s important, and you’ll be +expected!” + +The words were friendly, but there was the hint of a threat in the way +they were spoken. Without waiting for an answer, he walked on quickly +towards the town. Mary stretched out her hands and clung tight to her +lover’s arm. She looked up at him, and fear was in her face. + +“What is it, Denis?” she asked. “What does Michael Murnihan want with +you?” + +Women in Ireland have reason to be frightened now. Their lovers, their +husbands, and their sons may be members of a secret society, or they may +incur the enmity of desperate men. No woman knows for certain that the +life of the man she loves is safe. + +“What’s the meeting, Denis?” she whispered. “What does he want you to +do?” + +He neither put his arm round her nor took her hand again. + +“It’s nothing, Mary,” he said. “It’s nothing at all!” + +But she was more disquieted at his words, for he turned his face away +from her when he spoke. + +“What is, it?” she whispered again. “Tell me, Denis!” + +“It’s a gentleman down from Dublin that’s to talk to the boys to-night,” + he said, “and the members of the club must be there to listen to him. It +will be about learning Irish that he’ll talk, maybe, or not enlisting in +the English Army.” + +“Is that all, Denis? Are you sure now that’s all? Will he not want you +to do anything?” + +That part of the country was quiet enough. But elsewhere there were +raidings of houses, attacks on police barracks, shootings, woundings, +murders; and afterwards arrests, imprisonments, and swift, wild +vengeance taken. Mary was afraid of what the man from Dublin might want. +Denis turned to her, and she could see that he was frightened too. + +“Mary, Mary!” he said. “Whatever comes or goes, there’ll be no harm done +to you or yours!” + +She loosed her hold on his arm and turned from him with a sigh. + +“I must be going from you now, Denis,” she said, “Mother will be looking +for me, and the dear God knows what she’d say if she knew I’d been here +talking to you.” + +Mrs. Drennan knew very well where her daughter had been. She spoke her +mind plainly when Mary entered the farm kitchen. + +“I’ll not have you talking or walking with Denis Ryan,” she said; “nor +your father won’t have it! Everybody knows what he is, and what his +friends are. There’s nothing too bad for those fellows to do, and no +daughter of mine will mix herself up with them!” + +“Denis isn’t doing anything wrong, mother,” said Mary. “And if he thinks +Ireland ought to be a free republic, hasn’t he as good a right to his +own opinion as you or me, or my father either?” + +“No man has a right to be shooting and murdering innocent people, +whether they’re policemen or whatever they are. And that’s what Denis +Ryan and the rest of them are at, day and night, all over the country. +And if they’re not doing it here yet, they soon will. Blackguards, I +call them, and the sooner they’re hanged the better, every one of them!” + +In Flaherty’s barn that night the gentleman from Dublin spoke to an +audience of some twenty or thirty young men. He spoke with passion and +conviction. He told again the thousand times repeated story of the +wrongs which Ireland has suffered at the hands of the English in +old, old days. He told of more recent happenings, of men arrested +and imprisoned without trial, without even definite accusation, of +intolerable infringements of the common rights. He spoke of the glorious +hope of national liberty, of Ireland as a free Republic. The men he +spoke too, young men all of them, listened with flashing eyes, with +clenched teeth, and faces moist with emotion. They responded to his +words with sudden growings and curses. The speaker went on to tell +of the deeds of men elsewhere in Ireland. “The soldiers of the Irish +Republic,” so he called them. They had attacked the armed forces of +English rule. They had stormed police barracks. They had taken arms and +ammunitions where such things were to be found. These, he said, were +glorious deeds wrought by men everywhere in Ireland. + +“But what have you done here?” he asked. “And what do you mean to do?” + +Michael Murnihan spoke next. He said that he was ashamed of the men +around him and of the club to which he belonged. + +“It’s a reproach to us,” he said, “that we’re the only men in Ireland +that have done nothing. Are we ready to fight when the day for fighting +comes? We are not. For what arms have we among us? Only two revolvers. +Two revolvers, and that’s all. Not a gun, though you know well, and I +know, that there’s plenty of guns round about us in the hands of men +that are enemies to Ireland. I could name twenty houses in the locality +where there are guns, and good guns, and you could name as many more. +Why don’t we go and take them? Are we cowards?” + +The men around him shouted angrily that they were no cowards. Denis +Ryan, excited and intensely moved, shouted with the rest. It seemed to +him that an intolerable reproach lay on him and all of them. + +“What’s to hinder us going out to-night?” said Murnihan. “Why shouldn’t +we take the guns that ought to be in our hands and not in the hands of +men who’d use them against us? All of you that are in favour of going +out tonight will hold up your hands.” + +There was a moment’s silence. None of the men present had ever taken +part in any deed of violence, had ever threatened human life or openly +and flagrantly broken the law. The delegate from Dublin, standing +near Murnihan, looked round at the faces of the men. There was a cool, +contemptuous smile on his lips. + +“Perhaps,” he said, “you’d rather not do it. Perhaps you’d rather go +away and tell the police that I’m here with you. They’ll be glad of the +information. You’ll get a reward, I dare say. Anyhow, you’ll be safe.” + +Stung by his reproach, the young men raised their hands one after +another. Denis Ryan raised his, though it trembled when he held it up. + +“So we’re all agreed,” said Murnihan. “Then we’ll do it to-night. Where +will we go first?” + +There was no lack of suggestions. The men knew the locality in which +they lived and knew the houses where there were arms. Sporting guns in +many houses, revolvers in some, rifles in one or two. + +“There’s a service rifle in Drennan’s,” said Murnihan, “that belonged to +that nephew of his that was out in France, fighting for the English, and +there’s a double-barrelled shotgun there, too.” + +“Drennan is no friend of ours,” said a man. “He was always an enemy of +Ireland.” + +“And Drennan’s away at the fair at Ballyruddery, with his bullocks,” + said another. “There’ll be nobody in the house--only his wife and +daughter. They’ll not be able to interfere with us.” + +Murnihan asked for ten volunteers. Every man in the room, except Denis +Ryan, crowded round him, offering to go. + +“Eight will be enough,” said Murnihan. “Two to keep watch on the road, +two to keep the women quiet, and four to search the house for arms.” + +He looked round as he spoke. His eyes rested distrustfully on Denis +Ryan, who stood by himself apart from the others. In secret societies +and among revolutionaries, a man who appears anything less than +enthusiastic must be regarded with suspicion. + +“Are you coming with us, Denis Ryan?” asked Murnihan. + +There was silence in the room for a minute. All eyes were fixed on +Denis. There was not a man in the room who did not know how things were +between him and Mary Drennan. There was not one who did not feel that +Denis’ faithfulness was doubtful. And each man realised that his own +safety, perhaps his own life, depended on the entire fidelity of all his +fellows. Denis felt the sudden suspicion. He saw in the faces around him +the merciless cruelty which springs from fear. But he said nothing. It +was the delegate from Dublin who broke the silence. He, too, seemed +to understand the situation. He realised, at all events, that for some +reason this one man was unwilling to take part in the raid. He pointed +his finger at Denis. + +“That man,” he said, “must go, and must take a leading part!” + +So, and not otherwise, could they make sure of one who might be a +traitor. + +“I’m willing to go,” said Denis. “I’m not wanting to hang back.” + +Murnihan drew two revolvers from his pocket. He handed one of them to +Denis. + +“You’ll stand over the old woman with that pointed at her head,” he +said. “The minute we enter the house we’ll call to her to put her +hands up, and if she resists you’ll shoot. But there’ll be no need of +shooting. She’ll stand quiet enough!” + +Denis stepped back, refusing to take the revolver. + +“Do it yourself, Murnihan,” he said, “if it has to be done!” + +“I’m not asking you to do what I’m not going to do myself. I’m taking +the other revolver, and I’ll keep the girl quiet!” + +“But--but,” said Denis, stammering, “I’m not accustomed to guns. I’ve +never had a revolver in my hand in my life. I’m--I’m afraid of it!” + +He spoke the literal truth. He had never handled firearms of any sort, +and a revolver in the hands of an inexperienced man is of all weapons +the most dangerous. Nevertheless, with Murnihan’s eye upon him, with the +ring of anxious, threatening faces round him, he took the revolver. + +An hour later, eight men walked quietly up to the Drennan’s house. They +wore black masks. Their clothes and figures were rudely but sufficiently +disguised with wisps of hay tied to their arms and legs. Two of them +carried revolvers. At the gate of the rough track which leads from the +high road to the farmhouse the party halted. There was a whispered word +of command. Two men detached themselves and stood as sentries on the +road. Six men, keeping in the shadow of the trees, went forward to the +house. A single light gleamed in one of the windows. Murnihan knocked at +the door. There was no response. He knocked again. The light moved from +the window through which it shone, and disappeared. Once more Murnihan +knocked. A woman’s voice was heard. + +“Who’s there at this time of night?” + +“In the name of the Irish Republic, open the door!” said Murnihan. +“Open, or I’ll break it down!” + +“You may break it if you please!” It was Mrs. Drennan who spoke. “But +I’ll not open to thieves and murderers!” + +The door of an Irish farmhouse is a frail thing ill-calculated to +withstand assault. Murnihan flung himself against it, and it yielded. He +stepped into the kitchen with his revolver in his hand. Denis Ryan +was beside him. Behind him were the other four men pressing in. In the +chimney nook, in front of the still glowing embers of the fire, were +Mrs. Drennan and her daughter. Mary stood, fearlessly, holding a candle +in a steady hand. Mrs. Drennan was more than fearless. She was defiant. +She had armed herself with a long-handled hay-fork, which she held +before her threateningly, as a soldier holds a rifle with a bayonet +fixed. + +“Put up your hands and stand still,” said Murnihan, “both of you!” + +“Put up your hands!” said Denis, and he pointed the revolver at Mrs. +Drennan. + +The old woman was undaunted. + +“You murdering blackguards!” she shouted. “Would you shoot a woman?” + +Then she rushed at him, thrusting with the hay-fork. Denis stepped back, +and back again, until he stood in the doorway. One of the sharp prongs +of the hay-fork grazed his hand, and slipped up his arm tearing his +skin. Involuntarily, his hand clutched the revolver. His forefinger +tightened on the trigger. There was a sharp explosion. The hay-fork +dropped from Mrs. Drennan’s hand. She flung her arms up, half turned, +and then collapsed, all crumpled up, to the ground. + +Mary Drennan sprang forward and bent over her. + +There was dead silence in the room. The men stood horror-stricken, mute, +helpless. They had intended--God knows what. To fight for liberty! To +establish an Irish Republic! To prove themselves brave patriots! They +had not intended this. The dead woman lay on the floor before their +eyes, her daughter bent over her. Denis Ryan stood for a moment staring +wildly, the hand which held the revolver hanging limp. Then he slowly +raised his other hand and held it before his eyes. + +Mary Drennan moaned. + +“We’d better clear out of this!” said Murnihan. He spoke in a low tone, +and his voice trembled. + +“Clear out of this, all of you!” he said, “And get home as quick as you +can. Go across the fields, not by the roads!” + +The men stole out of the house. Only Denis and Murnihan were left, and +Mary Drennan, and the dead woman. Murnihan took Denis by the arm and +dragged him towards the door. Denis shook him off. He turned to where +Mary kneeled on the ground. He tore the mask from his face and flung it +down. + +“Oh, Mary, Mary!” he said. “I never meant it!” + +The girl looked up. For an instant her eyes met his. Then she bent +forward again across her mother’s body. Murnihan grasped Denis again. + +“You damned fool!” he said. “Do you want to hang for it? Do you want us +all to hang for this night’s work?” + +He dragged him from the house. With his arm round the waist of the +shuddering man he pulled him along and field to field until they reached +a by-road which led into the town. + +Three days later Inspector Chalmers, of the Royal Irish Constabulary, +and Major Whiteley, the magistrate, sat together in the office of the +police barrack stations. + +“I’ve got the men who did it,” said Chalmers. “I’ve got the whole eight +of them, and I can lay my hands on all the rest of their cursed club any +minute I like.” + +“Have you any evidence?” asked Whiteley. “Any evidence on which to +convict?” + +“I’ve no evidence worth speaking of,” said Chalmers, “unless the girl +can identify them. But I know I’ve got the right men.” + +“The girl won’t know them,” said Whiteley. “They’re sure to have worn +masks. And even if she did recognise one of them she’d be afraid to +speak. In the state this country’s in everyone is afraid to speak.” + +“The girl won’t be afraid,” said Chalmers. “I know her father, and I +knew her mother that’s dead, and I know the girl. There never was a +Drennan yet that was afraid to speak, I’ve sent the sergeant to fetch +her. She ought to be here in a few minutes, and then you’ll see if she’s +afraid.” + +Ten minutes later Mary Drennan was shown into the room by the +police-sergeant. The two men who were waiting for her received her +kindly. + +“Sit down, Miss Drennan!” said Major Whiteley. “I’m very sorry to +trouble you, and I’m very sorry to have to ask you to speak about a +matter which must be painful to you. But I want you to tell me, as well +as you can recollect, exactly what happened on the night your mother was +murdered.” + +Mary Drennan, white faced and wretched, told her story as she had told +it before to the police-officer. She said that her father was absent +from home, taking bullocks to the fair, that she and her mother sat up +late, that they went to bed together about eleven o’clock. She spoke in +emotionless, even tones, even when she told how six men had burst into +the kitchen. + +“Could you recognise any of them?” said Major Whiteley. + +“I could not. They wore masks, and had hay tied over their clothes.” + +She told about her mother’s defiance, about the scuffle, about the +firing of the shot. Then she stopped short. Of what happened afterwards +she had said nothing to the police-officer, but Major Whiteley +questioned her. + +“Did any of the men speak? Did you know their voices?” + +“One spoke,” she said, “but I did not know the voice.” + +“Did you get any chance of seeing their faces, or any of their faces?” + +“The man who fired the shot took off his mask before he left the room, +and I saw his face.” + +“Ah!” said Major Whiteley. “And would you recognise him if you saw him +again?” + +He leaned forward eagerly as he asked the question. All depended on her +answer. + +“Yes,” said Mary. “I should know him if I saw him again.” + +Major Whiteley leaned across to Mr. Chalmers, who sat beside him. + +“If you’ve got the right man,” he whispered, “we’ll hang him on the +girl’s evidence.” + +“I’ve got the right man, sure enough,” said Chalmers. + +“Miss Drennan,” said Major Whiteley, “I shall have eight men brought +into this room one after another, and I shall ask you to identify the +man who fired a shot at your mother, the man who removed his mask before +he left the room.” + +He rang the bell which stood on the table. + +The sergeant opened the door, and stood at attention. Mr. Chalmers gave +his orders. + +“Bring the prisoners into the room one by one,” he said, “and stand +each man there”--he pointed to a place opposite the window--“so that the +light will fall full on his face.” + +Inspector Chalmers had not boasted foolishly when he said that he had +taken the right men. Acting on such knowledge as the police possess +in every country, he had arrested the leading members of the Sinn Fein +Club. Of two of them he was surer than he was of any of the others. +Murnihan was secretary of the club, and the most influential member of +it, Denis Ryan had gone about the town looking like a man stricken with +a deadly disease ever since the night of the murder. The lawyer who +employed him as a clerk complained that he seemed totally incapable of +doing his work. The police felt sure that either he or Murnihan fired +the shot; that both of them, and probably a dozen men besides, knew who +did. + +Six men were led into the office one after another. Mary Drennan looked +at each of them and shook her head. It came to Murnihan’s turn. He +marched in defiantly, staring insolently at the police-officer and at +the magistrate. + +He displayed no emotion when he saw Mary Drennan. She looked at him, and +once more shook her head. + +“Are you sure?” said Chalmers. “Quite sure?” + +“I am sure,” she said. “He is not the man I saw.” + +“Remove him,” said Chalmers. + +Murnihan stood erect for a moment before he turned to follow the +sergeant. With hand raised to the salute he made profession of the faith +that was in him: + +“Up the rebels!” he said. “Up Sinn Fein! God save Ireland!” + +Denis Ryan was led in and set in the appointed place. He stood there +trembling. His face was deadly pale. The fingers of his hands twitched. +His head was bowed. Only once did he raise his eyes and let them rest +for a moment on Mary’s face. It was as if he was trying to convey some +message to her, to make her understand something which he dared not say. + +She looked at him steadily. Her face had been white before. Now colour, +like a blush, covered her cheeks. Chalmers leaned forward eagerly, +waiting for her to speak or give some sign. Major Whiteley tapped his +fingers nervously on the table before him. + +“That is not the man,” said Mary Drennan. + +“Look again,” said Chalmers. “Make no mistake.” + +She turned to him and spoke calmly, quietly: + +“I am quite certain. That is not the man.” + +“Damn!” said Chalmers. “The girl has failed us, after all. Take him +away, sergeant!” + +Denis Ryan had covered his face with his hands when Mary spoke. He +turned to follow the sergeant from the room, a man bent and beaten down +with utter shame. + +“Stop!” said Chalmers. He turned fiercely to Mary. “Will you swear--will +you take your oath he is not the man?” + +“I swear it,” said Mary. + +“You’re swearing to a lie,” said Chalmers, “and you know it.” + +Major Whiteley was cooler and more courteous. + +“Thank you, Miss Drennan,” he said. “We need not trouble you any +further.” + +Mary Drennan rose, bowed to the two men, and left the room. + +“You may let those men go, Chalmers,” said Major Whiteley quietly. +“There’s no evidence against them, and you can’t convict them.” + +“I must let them go,” said Chalmers. “But they’re the men who were +there, and the last of them, Denis Ryan, fired the shot.” + +Mary Drennan never met her lover again, but she wrote to him once before +he left the country. + +“You see how I loved you, Denis. I gave you your life. I bought it for +you, and my soul was the price I paid for it when I swore to a lie and +was false to my mother’s memory. I loved you that much, Denis, but I +shall never speak to you again.” + + + + + +PART TWO + + + + +IX. A BIRD IN HAND + +Konrad Karl II. lost his crown and became a king in exile when Megalia +became a republic. He was the victim of an ordinary revolution which +took place in 1918, and was, therefore, in no way connected with the +great war. Konrad Karl was anxious that this fact should be widely +known. He did not wish to be mistaken for a member of the group of +royalties who came to grief through backing the Germanic powers. + +Like many other dethroned kings he made his home in England. He liked +London life and prided himself on his mastery of the English language, +which he spoke fluently, using slang and colloquial phrases whenever +he could drag them in. He was an amiable and friendly young man, very +generous when he had any money and entirely free from that pride and +exclusiveness which is the fault of many European kings. He would have +been a popular member of English society if it had not been for his +connection with Madame Corinne Ypsilante, a lady of great beauty but +little reputation. The king, who was sincerely attached to her, could +never be induced to see that a lady of that kind must be kept in +the background. Indeed it would not have been easy to conceal Madame +Ypsilante. She was a lady who showed up wherever she went, and she +went everywhere with the king. English society could neither ignore nor +tolerate her. So English society, a little regretfully, dropped King +Konrad Karl. + +He did not much regret the loss of social position. He and Madame lived +very comfortably in a suite of rooms at Beaufort’s, which, as everyone +knows, is the most luxurious and most expensive hotel in London. Their +most intimate friend was Mr. Michael Gorman, M.P. for Upper Offaly. +He was a broad-minded man with no prejudice against ladies like Madame +Ypsilante. He had a knowledge of the by-ways of finance which made him +very useful to the king; for Konrad Karl, though he lived in Beaufort’s +Hotel, was by no means a rich man. The Crown revenues of Megalia, never +very large, were seized by the Republic at the time of the revolution, +and the king had no private fortune. He succeeded in carrying off the +Crown jewels when he left the country; but his departure was so hurried +that he carried off nothing else. His tastes were expensive, and Madame +Ypsilante was a lady of lavish habits. The Crown jewels of Megalia did +not last long. It was absolutely necessary for the king to earn, or +otherwise acquire, money from time to time, and Michael Gorman was as +good as any man in London at getting money in irregular ways. + +It was Gorman, for instance, who started the Near Eastern Wine Growers’ +Association. It prospered for a time because it was the only limited +liability company which had a king on its Board of Directors. It failed +in the end because the wine was so bad that nobody could drink it. It +was Gorman who negotiated the sale of the Island of Salissa to a wealthy +American. Madame Ypsilante got her famous pearl necklace out of the +price of the island. It was partly because the necklace was very +expensive that King Konrad Karl found himself short of money again +within a year of the sale of the island. The moment was a particularly +unfortunate one. Owing to the war it was impossible to start companies +or sell islands. + +Things came to a crisis when Emile, the Bond Street dressmaker, refused +to supply Madame with an evening gown which she particularly wanted. It +was a handsome garment, and Madame was ready to promise to pay £100 for +it. Mr. Levinson, the business manager of Emile’s, said that further +credit was impossible, when Madame’s bill already amounted to £680. His +position was, perhaps, reasonable. It was certainly annoying. Madame, +after a disagreeable interview with him, returned to Beaufort’s Hotel in +a very bad temper. + +Gorman was sitting with the king when she stormed into the room. Hers +was one of those simple untutored natures which make little attempt to +conceal emotion. She flung her muff into a corner of the room. She tore +the sable stole from her shoulders and sent it whirling towards the +fireplace. Gorman was only just in time to save it from being burnt. She +dragged a long pin from her hat and brandished it as if it had been a +dagger. + +“Konrad,” she said, “I demand that at once the swine-dog be killed and +cut into small bits by the knives of executioners.” + +There was a large china jar standing on the floor near the fireplace, +one of those ornaments which give their tone of sumptuousness to the +rooms in Beaufort’s Hotel. Madame rushed at it and kicked it. When it +broke she trampled on the pieces. She probably wished to show the size +of the bits into which the business manager of Emile’s ought to be +minced. + +Gorman sought a position of safety behind a large table. He had once +before seen Madame deeply moved and he felt nervous. The king, who was +accustomed to her ways, spoke soothingly. + +“My beloved Corinne,” he said, “who is he, this pig? Furnish me +forthwith by return with an advice note of the name of the defendant.” + +The king’s business and legal experience had taught him some useful +phrases, which he liked to air when he could; but his real mastery of +the English language was best displayed by his use of current slang. + +“We shall at once,” he went on, “put him up the wind, or is it down the +wind? Tell me, Gorman. No. Do not tell me. I have it. We will put the +wind up him.” + +“If possible,” said Gorman. + +Madame turned on him. + +“Possible!” she said. “It is possible to kill a rat. Possible! Is not +Konrad a king?” + +“Even kings can’t cut people up in that sort of way,” said Gorman, +“especially just now when the world is being made safe for democracy. +Still if you tell us who the man is we’ll do what we can to him.” + +“He is a toad, an ape, a cur-cat with mange, that manager of Emile,” + said Madame. “He said to me ‘no, I make no evening gown for Madame.’” + +“Wants to be paid, I suppose,” said Gorman. “They sometimes do.” + +“Alas, Corinne,” said the king, “and if I give him a cheque the bank +will say ‘Prefer it in a drawer.’ They said it last time. Or perhaps it +was ‘Refer it to a drawer.’ I do not remember. But that is what the bank +will do. Gorman, my friend, it is as the English say all O.K. No, that +is what it is not. It is U.P. Well. I have lived. I am a King. There is +always poison. I can die. Corinne, farewell.” + +The king drew himself up to his full height, some five foot six, and +looked determined. + +“Don’t talk rot,” said Gorman. “You are not at the end of your tether +yet.” + +The king maintained his heroic pose for a minute. Then he sat down on a +deep chair and sank back among the cushions. + +“Gorman,” he said, “you are right. It is rot, what you call dry rot, to +die. And there is more tether, perhaps. You say so, and I trust you, my +friend. But where is it, the tether beyond the end?” + +Madame, having relieved her feelings by breaking the china jar to bits, +suddenly became gentle and pathetic. She flung herself on to the floor +at Gorman’s feet and clasped his knees. + +“You are our friend,” she said, “now and always. Oh Gorman, Sir Gorman, +M.P., drag out more tether so that my Konrad does not die.” + +Gorman disliked emotional scenes very much. He persuaded Madame to sit +on a chair instead of the floor. He handed her a cigarette. The king, +who understood her thoroughly, sent for some liqueur brandy and filled a +glass for her. + +“Now,” he said. “Trot up, cough out, tell on, Gorman. Where is the +tether which has no end? How am I to raise the dollars, shekels, oof? +You have a plan, Gorman. Make it work.” + +“My plan,” said Gorman, “ought to work. I don’t say it’s a gold mine, +but there’s certainly money in it I came across a man yesterday +called Bilkins, who’s made a pile, a very nice six figure pile out of +eggs--contracts, you know, war prices, food control and all the usual +ramp.” + +“Alas,” said the king, “I have no eggs, not one. I cannot ramp.” + +“I don’t expect you to try,” said Gorman. “As a matter of fact I don’t +think the thing could be done twice. Bilkins only just pulled it off. My +idea----” + +“I see it,” said Madame. “We invite the excellent Bilkins to dinner. We +are gay. He and we. There is a little game with cards. Konrad and I are +more than a match for Bilkins. That is it, Gorman. It goes.” + +“That’s not it in the least,” said Gorman. “Bilkins isn’t that kind of +man at all. He’s a rabid teetotaller for one thing, and he’s extremely +religious. He wouldn’t play for anything bigger than a sixpence, and +you’d spend a year taking a ten-pound note off him.” + +“Hell and the devil, Gorman,” said the king, “if I have no eggs to ramp +and if Bilkins will not play----” + +“Wait a minute,” said Gorman, “I told you that Bilkins’ egg racket was +a bit shady. He wasn’t actually prosecuted; but his character wants +white-washing badly, and the man knows it.” + +The king sighed heavily. + +“Alas, Gorman,” he said, “it would be of no use for us to wash Bilkins. +Corinne and I, if we tried to washwhite, that is, I should say, to +whitewash, the man afterwards would be only more black. We are not +respectable, Corinne and I. It is no use for Bilkins to come to us.” + +“That’s so,” said Gorman. “I don’t suppose a certificate from me would +be much good either. Bilkins’ own idea--he feels his position a good +deal--is that if he could get a title--knighthood for instance--or even +an O.B.E., it would set him up again; but they won’t give him a thing. +He has paid handsomely into the best advertised charities and showed me +the receipts himself--and handed over £10,000 to the party funds, giving +£5,000 to each party to make sure; and now he feels he’s been swindled. +They won’t do it--can’t, I suppose. The eggs were too fishy.” + +“I should not care,” said the king, “if all the eggs were fishes. If I +were a party and could get £5,000. But I am not a party, Gorman, I am a +king.” + +“Exactly,” said Gorman, “and it’s kings who give those things, the +things Bilkins wants. Isn’t there a Megalian Order--Pink Vulture or +something?” + +“Gorman, you have hit it,” said the king delightedly. “You have hit the +eye of the bull, and the head of the nail. I can give an order, I can +say ‘Bilkins, you are Grand Knight of the Order of the Pink Vulture of +Megalia, First Class.’ Gorman, it is done. I give. Bilkins pays. The +world admires the honourableness of the Right Honourable Sir Bilkins. +His character is washed white. Ah, Corinne, my beloved, you shall spit +in the face of the manager of Emile’s. I said I cannot ramp. I have no +eggs. I was wrong. The Vulture of Megalia lays an egg for Bilkins.” + +“You’ve got the idea,” said Gorman. “But we can’t rush the thing. Your +Pink Vulture is all right, of course. I’m not saying anything against +it. But most people in this country have never heard of it, and +consequently it wouldn’t be of much use to a man of Bilkin’s position. +The first thing we’ve got to do is to advertise the fowl; get it +fluttering before the public eye. If you leave that part to me I’ll +manage it all right. I’ve been connected with the press for years.” + +Three days later it was announced in most of the London papers that the +King of Megalia had bestowed the Order of the Pink Vulture on Sir Bland +Potterton, His Majesty’s Minister for Balkan Affairs, in recognition of +his services to the Allied cause in the Near East. Sir Bland Potterton +was in Roumania when the announcement appeared and he did not hear of +his new honour for nearly three weeks. When he did hear of it he refused +it curtly. + +In the meanwhile the Order was bestowed on two Brigadier Generals and +three Colonels, all on active service in remote parts of the world. +Little pictures of the star and ribbon of the Order appeared in the back +pages of illustrated papers, and there were short articles in the Sunday +papers which gave a history of the Order, describing it as the most +ancient in Europe, and quoting the names of eminent men who had won the +ribbon of the Order in times past. The Duke of Wellington, Lord Nelson, +William the Silent, Galileo, Christopher Columbus, and the historian +Gibbon appeared on the list. The Order was next bestowed on an Admiral, +who held a command in the South Pacific, and on M. Clemenceau. + +After that Gorman dined with the King. + +The dinner, as is always the case in Beaufort’s Hotel, was excellent. +The wine was good. Madame Ypsilante wore a dress which, as she +explained, was more than three months old. + +Emile, it appeared, was still pressing for payment of the bill and +refused to supply any more clothes. However, neither age nor custom had +staled the splendour of the purple velvet gown and the jewellery--Madame +Ypsilante always wore a great deal of jewellery--was dazzling. + +The king seemed a little uneasy, and after dinner spoke to Gorman about +the Megalian Order of the Pink Vulture. + +“You are magnificent, Gorman,” he said, “and your English press! Ah, my +friend, if you had been Prime Minister in Megalia, and if there had been +newspapers, I might to-day be sitting on the throne, though I do not +want to, not at all. The throne of Megalia is what you call a hot spot. +But my friend is it wise? There must be someone who knows that the +Pink Vulture of Megalia is not an antique. It is, as the English say, +mid-Victorian. 1865, Gorman. That is the date; and someone will know +that.” + +“I daresay,” said Gorman, “that there may be two or three people who +know; but they haven’t opened their mouths so far and before they do we +ought to have Bilkins’ checque safe.” + +“How much?” said Madame. “That is the thing which matters.” + +“After he’s read the list of distinguished men who held the order in the +past and digested the names of all the generals and people who’ve just +been given it, we may fairly expect £5,000. We’ll screw him up a bit if +we can, but we won’t take a penny less. Considering the row there’ll be +afterwards, when Bilkins finds out, we ought to get £10,000. It will be +most unpleasant, and it’s bound to come. Most of the others will refuse +the Order as soon as they hear they’ve been given it, and Bilkins will +storm horribly and say he has been swindled, not that there is any harm +in swindling Bilkins. After that egg racket of his he deserves to be +swindled. Still it won’t be nice to have to listen to him.” + +“Bah!” said Madame, “we shall have the cash.” + +“And it was not I,” said the king, “who said that the Duke of Wellington +wore the Pink Vulture. It was not Corinne. It was not you, Gorman, It +was the newspapers. When Bilkins come to us we say ‘Bah! Go to _The +Times_, Sir Bilkins, go to _The Daily Mail_.’ There is no more for +Bilkins to say then.” + +“One comfort,” said Gorman, “is that he can’t take a legal action of any +kind.” + +Their fears were, as it turned out, unfounded. Bilkins, having paid, not +£5,000 but £6,000, for the Megalian Order, was not anxious to advertise +the fact that he had made a bad bargain. Indeed he may be said to have +got good value for his money. He has not many opportunities of wearing +the ribbon and the star; but he describes himself on his visiting cards +and at the head of his business note paper as “Sir Timothy Bilkins, +K.C.O.P.V.M.” Nobody knows what the letters stand for, and it is +generally believed that Bilkins has been knighted in the regular way for +services rendered to the country during the war. The few who remember +his deal in eggs are forced to suppose that the stories told about that +business at the time were slander. Lady Bilkins, who was present at +the ceremony of in-vesture, often talks of the “dear King and Queen of +Megalia.” Madame Ypsilante can, when she chooses, look quite like a real +queen. + + + + +X. THE EMERALD PENDANT + +Even as a schoolboy, Bland-Potterton was fussy and self-important. At the +university--Balliol was his college--he was regarded as a coming man, +likely to make his mark in the world. This made him more fussy and more +self-important. When he became a recognised authority on Near Eastern +affairs he became pompous and more fussy than ever. His knighthood, +granted in 1918, and an inevitable increase in waist measurement +emphasised his pompousness without diminishing his fussiness. When +the craze for creating new departments of state was at its height, +Bland-Potterton, then Sir Bartholomew, was made Head of the Ministry for +Balkan Affairs. It was generally felt that the right man had been put +into the right place. Sir Bartholomew looked like a Minister, talked +like a Minister, and, what is more important, felt like a Minister. +Indeed he felt like a Cabinet Minister, though he had not yet obtained +that rank. Sir Bartholomew’s return from Bournmania was duly advertised +in the newspapers. Paragraphs appeared every day for a week hinting at +a diplomatic coup which would affect the balance of power in the Balkans +and materially shorten the war. Gorman, who knew Sir Bartholomew well, +found a good deal of entertainment in the newspaper paragraphs. He had +been a journalist himself for many years. He understood just whom +the paragraphs came from and how they got into print. He was a little +surprised, but greatly interested, when he received a note from Sir +Bartholomew. + +“My dear Mr. Gorman,” he read, “can you make it convenient to lunch +with me one day next week? Shall we say in my room in the office of the +Ministry--the Feodora Hotel, Piccadilly--at 1.30 p.m. There is a matter +of some importance--of considerable national importance--about which we +are most anxious to obtain your advice and your help. Will you fix the +earliest possible day? The condition of the Near East demands--urgently +demands--our attention. I am, my dear Mr. Gorman, yours, etc....” + +Gorman without hesitation fixed Monday, which is the earliest day in +any week except Sunday, and he did not suppose that the offices of the +Ministry of Balkan Affairs would be open on Sunday. + +It is not true, though it is frequently said, that Sir Bartholomew +retained the services of the chef of the Feodora Hotel when he took +over the building for the use of his Ministry. It is well known that Sir +Bartholomew--in his zeal for the public service--often lunched in his +office and sometimes invited men whom he wanted to see on business, to +lunch with him. They reported that the meals they ate were uncommonly +good, as the meals of a Minister of State certainly ought to be. It was +no doubt in this way that the slanderous story about the chef arose and +gained currency. Gorman did not believe it, because he knew that the +Feodora chef had gone to Beaufort’s Hotel when the other was taken over +by the Government. But Gorman fully expected a good luncheon, nicely +served in one of the five rooms set apart for Sir Bartholomew’s use in +the hotel. + +He was not disappointed. The sole was all that anyone could ask. The +salmi which followed it was good, and even the Feodora chef could not +have sent up a better rum omelette. + +Sir Bartholomew was wearing a canary-coloured waistcoat with +mother-of-pearl buttons. + +It seemed to Gorman that the expanse of yellow broadened as luncheon +went on. Perhaps it actually did. Perhaps an atmosphere of illusion +was created by the port which followed an excellent bottle of sauterne. +Yellow is a cheerful colour, and Sir Bartholomew’s waistcoat increased +the vague feeling of hopeful well-being which the luncheon produced. + +“Affairs in the Near East,” said Sir Bartholomew, “are at present in a +critical position.” + +“Always are, aren’t they?” said Gorman. “Some affairs are like that, +Irish affairs for instance.” + +Sir Bartholomew frowned slightly. He hated levity. Then the good wine +triumphing over the dignity of the bureaucrat, he smiled again. + +“You Irishmen!” he said. “No subject is serious for you. That is your +great charm. But I assure you, Mr. Gorman, that we are at this moment +passing through a crisis.” + +“If there’s anything I can do to help you--” said Gorman. “A crisis is +nothing to me. I have lived all my life in the middle of one. That’s the +worst of Ireland. Crisis is her normal condition.” + +“I think----” Sir Bartholomew lowered his voice although there was no +one in the room to overhear him. “I think, Mr. Gorman, that you are +acquainted with the present King of Megalia.” + +“If you mean Konrad Karl,” said Gorman, “I should call him the late +king. They had a revolution there, you know, and hunted him out, I +believe Megalia is a republic _now_.” + +“None of the Great Powers,” said Sir Bartholomew, “has ever recognised +the Republic of Megalia.” + +He spoke as if what he said disposed of the Megalians finally. The front +of his yellow waistcoat expanded when he mentioned the Great Powers. +This was only proper. A man who speaks with authority about Great Powers +ought to swell a little. + +“The Megalian people,” he went on, “have hitherto preserved a strict +neutrality.” + +“So the king gave me to understand,” said Gorman, “He says his late +subjects go about and plunder their neighbours impartially. They don’t +mind a bit which side anybody is on so long as there is a decent chance +of loot.” + +“The Megalians,” said Sir Bartholomew, “are a fighting race, and in the +critical position of Balkan Affairs--a delicate equipoise--” He seemed +taken with the phrase for he repeated it--“A remarkably delicate +equipoise--the intervention of the Megalian Army would turn the scale +and--I feel certain--decide the issue. All that is required to secure +the action of the Megalians is the presence in the country of a leader, +someone whom the people know and recognise, someone who can appeal to +the traditional loyalty of a chivalrous race, in short----” + +“You can’t be thinking of the late king?” said Gorman. “They’re not +the least loyal to him. They deposed him, you know. In fact by his +account--I wasn’t there myself at the time--but he told me that they +tried to hang him. He says that if they ever catch him they certainly +will hang him. He doesn’t seem to have hit it off with them.” + +Sir Bartholomew waved these considerations aside. + +“An emotional and excitable people,” he said, “but, believe me, Mr. +Gorman, warm-hearted, and capable of devotion to a trusted leader. They +will rally round the king, if----” + +“I’m not at all sure,” said Gorman, “that the king will care about going +there to be rallied round. It’s a risk, whatever you say.” + +“I appreciate that point,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Indeed it is just +because I appreciate it so fully that I am asking for your advice and +help, Mr. Gorman. You know the king. You are, I may say, his friend.” + +“Pretty nearly the only friend he has,” said Gorman. + +“Exactly. Now I, unfortunately--I fear that the king rather dislikes +me.” + +“You weren’t at all civil to him when he offered you the Order of the +Pink Vulture; but I don’t think he has any grudge against you on that +account. He’s not the sort of man who bears malice. The real question +is--what is the king to get out of it? What are you offering him?” + +“The Allies,” said Sir Bartholomew, “would recognise him as the King of +Megalia, and--er--of course, support him.” + +“I don’t think he’d thank you for that,” said Gorman, “but you can try +him if you like.” + +Sir Bartholomew, on reflection, was inclined to agree with Gorman. Mere +recognition, though agreeable to any king, is unsubstantial, and the +support suggested was evidently doubtful. + +“What else?” He spoke in a very confidential tone. “What other +inducement would you suggest our offering? We are prepared to go a long +way--to do a good deal----” + +“Unfortunately for you,” said Gorman, “the king is pretty well off at +present. He got £6,000 three weeks ago out of Bilkins--the man who ran +the egg swindle--and until that’s spent he won’t feel the need of money. +If you could wait six weeks--I’m sure he’ll be on the rocks again in six +weeks--and then offer a few thousand----” + +“But we can’t wait,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Affairs in the Near East are +most critical. Unless the Megalian Army acts at once----” + +“In that case,” said Gorman, “the only thing for you to do is to try +Madame Ypsilante.” + +“That woman!” said Sir Bartholomew. “I really cannot---- You must see, +Mr. Gorman, that for a man in my position----” + +“Is there a Lady Bland-Potterton?” said Gorman. “I didn’t know.” + +“I’m not married,” said Sir Bartholomew. “When I speak of my position--I +mean my position as a member of the Government----” + +“Madame has immense influence with the king,” said Gorman. + +“Yes. Yes. But the woman--the--er--lady has no recognised status. +She----” + +“Just at present,” said Gorman, “she is tremendously keen on emeralds. +She has got a new evening dress from Emile and there’s nothing she wants +more than an emerald pendant to wear with it. I’m sure she’d do her best +to persuade the king to go back to Megalia if----” + +“But I don’t think--” said Sir Bartholomew. “Really, Mr. Gorman----” + +“I’m not suggesting that you should pay for it yourself,” said Gorman. +“Charge it up against the Civil List or the Secret Service Fund, or work +it in under ‘Advances to our Allies.’ There must be some way of doing +it, and I really think it’s your best chance.” + +Sir Bartholomew talked for nearly an hour. He explained several +times that it was totally impossible for him to negotiate with Madame +Ypsilante. The idea of bribing her with an emerald pendant shocked him +profoundly. But he was bent on getting King Konrad Karl to go back to +Megalia. That seemed to him a matter of supreme importance for +England, for Europe and the world. In the end, after a great deal of +consultation, a plan suggested itself. Madame should have her emeralds +sent to her anonymously. Gorman undertook to explain to her that she was +expected, by way of payment for the emeralds, to persuade the king to +go back to Megalia and once more occupy the throne. Sir Bartholomew +Bland-Potterton would appear at the last moment as the accredited +representative of the Allied Governments, and formally lay before the +king the proposal for the immediate mobilisation of the Megallian Army. + +“I shall have a lot of work and worry,” said Gorman, “and I’m not asking +anything for myself; but if the thing comes off----” + +“You can command the gratitude of the Cabinet,” said Sir Bartholomew, +“and anything they can do for you--an O.B.E., now, or even a +knighthood------” + +“No thank you,” said Gorman, “but if you could see your way to starting +a few munition works in Upper Offaly, my constituency, you know. The +people are getting discontented, and I’m not at all sure that they’ll +return me at the next election unless something is done for them now.” + +“You shall have an aeroplane factory,” said Sir Bartholomew, “two in +fact. I think I may safely promise two--and shells--would your people +care for making shells?” + +The plan worked out exceedingly well. The pendant which Madame Ypsilante +received was very handsome. It contained fourteen stones of unusual +size set in circles of small diamonds. She was delighted, and thoroughly +understood what was expected of her. A Government engineer went down to +Upper Offaly, and secured, at enormous expense, sites for three large +factories. The men who leased the land were greatly pleased, everyone +else looked forward to a period of employment at very high wages, and +Gorman became very popular even among the extreme Sinn Feiners. Sir +Bartholomew Bland-Potterton went about London, purring with satisfaction +like a large cat, and promising sensational events in the Near East +which would rapidly bring the war to an end. Only King Konrad Karl was a +little sad. + +“Gorman, my friend,” he said, “I go back to that thrice damned country +and I die. They will hang me by the neck until I am dead as a door mat.” + +“They may not,” said Gorman. “You can’t be certain.” + +“You do not know Megalia,” said the king. “It is sure, Gorman, what you +would call a dead shirt. But Corinne, my beloved Corinne, says ‘Go. Be +a king once more.’ And I--I am a blackguard, Gorman. I know it. I am +not respectable. I know it. But I am a lover. I am capable of a great +passion. I wave my hand. I smile. I kiss Corinne. I face the tune of +the band. I say ‘Behold, damn it, and Great Scott!--at the bidding of +Corinne, I die.’” + +“If I were you,” said Gorman, “I’d conscript every able-bodied man in +the country directly I got there and put the entire lot into a front +line trench. There won’t be anyone left to assassinate you then.” + +“Alas! There are the Generals and the Staff. It is not possible, Gorman, +even in Megalia, to put the Staff into a trench, and that is enough. One +General only and his Staff. They come to the palace. They say ‘In the +name of the Republic, so that the world may be safe for democracy--’ and +then--! There is a rope. There is a flag staff. I float in the air. They +cheer. I am dead. I know it. But it is for Corinne. Good.” + +It was in this mood of chivalrous high romance that the king received +Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton. Gorman was present during the +interview. He had made a special effort, postponing an important +engagement, in order to hear what was said. He expected to be interested +and amused. He was not disappointed. + +Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton was at his very best. He made a +long speech about the sacred cause of European civilisation, and the +supremely important part which the King of Megalia was called upon to +play in securing victory and lasting peace. He also talked about the +rights of small nationalities. King Konrad Karl rose to the same level +of lofty sentiment in his reply. He went further than Sir Bartholomew +for he talked about democracy in terms which were affectionate, a rather +surprising thing for a monarch whose power, when he had it, was supposed +to be absolute. + +“I go,” he said. “If necessary I offer up myself as a fatted calf, a +sacrifice, a burnt ewe lamb upon the altar of liberty. I say to the +people--to my people ‘Damn it, cut off my head.’ It’s what they will +do.” + +“Dear me,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Dear me. I trust not. I hope not. You +will have the support, the moral support, of all the Allies. I should be +sorry to think--we should all be sorry----” + +The king, who was standing in the middle of the hearthrug, struck a fine +attitude, laying his hand on his breast. + +“It will be as I say,” he said. “Gorman knows. Corinne, though she says +‘No, no, never,’ she knows. The people of Megalia, what are they? I will +tell you. Butchers and pigs. Pork butchers. To them it is sport to kill +a king. But you say ‘Go,’ and Gorman says ‘Go.’ And the cause of Europe +says ‘Go.’ And Corinne she also. Good. The Prime Minister of Megalia +trots out his hatchet. I say ‘By Jove, here is my neck.” + +Sir Bartholomew Bland-Pottertan was greatly affected. He even promised +that a British submarine would patrol the Megalian coast with a view +to securing the king’s safety. He might perhaps have gone on to offer a +squadron of aeroplanes by way of body-guard, but while he was speaking, +Madame burst into the room. + +She was evidently highly excited. Her face, beneath its coating of +powder, was flushed. Her eyes were unusually bright. Her hair--a most +unusual thing with her--appeared to be coming down. She rushed straight +to the king and flung her arms round his neck. + +“Konrad,” she said, “my Konrad. You shall not go to Megalia. Never, +never will I say ‘Be a King.’ Never shall you live with those so +barbarous people. I said ‘Go.’ I admit it. I was wrong, my Konrad. +Behold!” + +She released the king from her embrace, fumbled in her handbag and drew +out a small leather case. She opened it, took out a magnificent looking +pendant. She flung it on the ground and trampled on it. Gorman stepped +forward to rescue the emeralds. + +“Don’t do that,” he said. “Hang it all! Don’t. Give the thing back +if you like, but don’t destroy it. Those stones must be immensely +valuable.” + +“Valuable!” Madame’s voice rose to a shriek. “What is valuable compared +to the safety of my Konrad? Valuable? They are worth ten pounds. Ten +pounds, Gorman! I took them to Goldstein to-day. He knows jewels, that +Goldstein. He is expert and he said ‘They are shams. They are worth--at +most ten pounds.’” + +Gorman stared for a moment at the stones which lay on the floor in their +crushed setting. Then he turned to Sir Bartholomew. + +“You don’t mean to say,” he said, “that you were such a d----d ass as to +send Madame sham stones?” + +Sir Bartholomew’s face was a sufficient answer to the question. Gorman +took him by the arm and led him out of the room without a word. + +“You’d better go home,” he said. “Madame Ypsilante is violent when +roused, and it is not safe for you to stay. But how could you have been +such an idiot----!” + +“I never thought of her having the stones valued,” said Sir Bartholomew. + +“Of course she had them valued,” said Gorman. “Anyone else in the world +would have known that she’d be sure to have them valued. Of all the +besotted imbeciles--and they call you a statesman!” + +Sir Bartholomew, having got safely into the street, began to recover a +little, and attempted a defence of himself. + +“But,” he said, “a pendant like that--emeralds of that size are +enormously expensive. The Government would not have sanctioned it. +After all, Mr. Gorman, we are bound to be particularly careful about +the expenditure of public funds. It is one of the proudest traditions +of British statesmanship that it is scrupulously honourable even to +the point of being niggardly in sanctioning the expenditure of the +tax-payer’s money.” + +“Good Lord!” said Gorman. “I didn’t think--I really did not think that I +could be surprised by anything in politics--But when you talk to me--You +oughtn’t to do it, Potterton. You really ought not. Public funds. +Tax-payers’ money. Scrupulously honourable, and--niggardly. Good Lord!” + + + + +XI. SETTLED OUT OF COURT + +There are many solicitors in London who make larger incomes than Mr. +Dane-Latimer, though he does very well and pays a considerable sum every +year by way of super-tax. There are certainly solicitors with firmly +established family practices, whose position is more secure than Mr. +Dane-Latimer’s. And there are some whose reputation stands higher in +legal circles. But there is probably no solicitor whose name is better +known all over the British Isles than Mr. Dane-Latimer’s. He has been +fortunate enough to become a kind of specialist in “Society” cases. +No divorce suit can be regarded as really fashionable unless Mr. +Dane-Latimer is acting in it for plaintiff, defendant, or co-respondent. +A politician who has been libelled goes to Mr. Dane-Latimer for advice. +An actress with a hopeful breach of promise case takes the incriminating +letters to Mr. Dane-Latimer. He knows the facts of nearly every exciting +scandal. He can fill in the gaps which the newspapers necessarily leave +even in stories which spread themselves over columns of print. What is +still better, he can tell stories which never get into the papers at +all, the stories of cases so thrilling that the people concerned settle +them out of court. + +It will easily be understood that Mr. Dane-Latimer is an interesting man +to meet and that a good many people welcome the chance of a talk with +him. + +Gorman, who has a cultivated taste for gossip, was greatly pleased when +Dane-Latimer sat down beside him one day in the smoking-room of his +club. It was two o’clock, an hour at which the smoking-room is full of +men who have lunched. Gorman knew that Dane-Latimer would not talk in an +interesting way before a large audience, but he hoped to be able to keep +him until most of the other men had left. He beckoned to the waitress +and ordered two coffees and two liqueur brandies. Then he set himself to +be as agreeable as possible to Dane-Latimer. + +“Haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said. “What have you been doing? +Had the flu?” + +“Flu! No. Infernally busy, that’s all.” + +“Really,” said Gorman. “I should have thought the present slump would +have meant rather a slack time for you. People--I mean the sort of +people whose affairs you manage--can’t be going it in quite the old way, +at all events not to the same extent.” + +Dane-Latimer poured half his brandy into his coffee cup and smiled. +Gorman, who felt it necessary to keep the conversation going, wandered +on. + +“But perhaps they are. After all, these war marriages must lead to a +good many divorces, though we don’t read about them as much as we used +to. But I dare say they go on just the same and you have plenty to do.” + +Dane-Latimer grinned. He beckoned to the waitress and ordered two +more brandies. Gorman talked on. One after another the men in the +smoking-room got up and went away. At three o’clock there was no one +left within earshot of Gorman and Dane-Latimer. A couple of Heads of +Government Departments and a Staff Officer still sat on at the far end +of the room, but they were busy with a conversation of their own about +a new kind of self-starter for motor cars. Dane-Latimer began to talk at +last. + +“The fact is,” he said, “I shouldn’t have been here to-day--I certainly +shouldn’t be sitting smoking at this hour if I hadn’t wanted to talk to +you.” + +Gorman chuckled pleasantly. He felt that something interesting was +coming. + +“I’ve rather a queer case on hand,” said Dane-Latimer, “and some friends +of yours are mixed up in it, at least I think I’m right in saying +that that picturesque blackguard Konrad Karl of Megalia is a friend of +yours.” + +“I hope he’s not the co-respondent,” said Gorman. + +“No. No. It’s nothing of that sort. In fact, strictly speaking, he’s +not in it at all. No legal liability. The action threatened is against +Madame Ypsilante.” + +“Don’t say shop lifting,” said Gorman. “I’ve always been afraid she’s +take to that sooner or later. Not that she’s a dishonest woman. Don’t +think that. It’s simply that she can’t understand, is constitutionally +incapable of seeing any reason why she shouldn’t have anything she +wants.” + +“You may make your mind easy,” said Dane-Latimer. “It’s not +shop-lifting. In fact it isn’t anything that would be called really +disgraceful.” + +“That surprises me. I should hardly have thought Madame could have +avoided--but go on. + +“You know Scarsby?” said Dane-Latimer. + +“I know a Mrs. Scarsby, a woman who advertises herself and her parties +and pushes hard to get into the smartest set. She’s invited me to one +of her shows next week. Very seldom does now, though I used to go there +pretty often. She has rather soared lately, higher circles than those I +move in.” + +“That’s the wife of the man I mean.” + +“Never knew she had a husband,” said Gorman. “She keeps him very dark. +But that sort of woman often keeps her husband in the background. I +suppose he exists simply to earn what she spends.” + +“That’s it. He’s a dentist. I rather wonder you haven’t heard of him. +He’s quite at the top of the tree; the sort of dentist who charges two +guineas for looking at your front tooth and an extra guinea if he tells +you there’s a hole in it.” + +“I expect he needs it all,” said Gorman, “to keep Mrs. Searsby going. +But what the devil has he got to do with Madame Ypsilante. I can’t +imagine her compromising herself with a man whose own wife is ashamed to +produce him.” + +Dane-Latimer smiled. “I told you it was nothing of that sort,” he said. +“In fact it’s quite the opposite. Madame went to him as a patient in +the ordinary way, and he started to put a gold filling into one of her +teeth. She was infernally nervous and made him swear beforehand that he +wouldn’t hurt her. She brought Konrad Karl with her and he held one of +her hands. There was a sort of nurse, a woman whom Scarsby always has on +the premises, who held her other hand. I mention this to show you that +there were plenty of witnesses present, and it won’t be any use denying +the facts. Well, Scarsby went to work in the usual way with one of those +infernal drill things which they work with their feet. He had her right +back in the chair and was standing more or less in front of her. He says +he’s perfectly certain he didn’t hurt her in the least, but I think he +must have got down to a nerve or something without knowing it. Anyhow +Madame--she couldn’t use her hands you know--gave a sort of twist, got +her foot against his chest and kicked him clean across the room.” + +“I’d give five pounds to have been there,” said Gorman. + +“It must have been a funny sight. Scarsby clutched at everything as he +passed. He brought down the drilling machine and a table covered with +instruments in his fall. He strained his wrist and now he wants to take +an action for a thousand pounds damages against Madame.” + +“Silly ass,” said Gorman. “He might just as well take an action against +me for a million. Madame hasn’t got a thousand pence in the world.” + +“So I thought,” said Dane-Latimer, “and so I told him. As a matter of +fact I happen to know that Madame is pretty heavily in debt.” + +“Besides,” said Gorman. “He richly deserved what he got. Any man who is +fool enough to go monkeying about with Madame Ypsilante’s teeth--you’ve +seen her, I suppose.” + +“Oh, yes. Several times.” + +“Well then you can guess the sort of woman she is. And anyone who had +ever looked at her eyes would know. I’d just as soon twist a tiger’s +tail as try to drill a hole in one of Madame Ypsilante’s teeth. Scarsby +must have known there’d be trouble.” + +“I’m afraid the judge won’t take that view,” said Dane-Latimer, smiling. + +“He ought to call it justifiable self-defence. He will too if he’s ever +had one of those drills in his own mouth.” + +“As a lawyer,” said Dane-Latimer, “I’d like to see this action fought +out. I don’t remember a case quite like it, and it would be exceedingly +interesting to see what view the Court would take. But of course I’m +bound to work for my client’s interest, and I’m advising Scarsby to +settle it if he can. He’s in a vile temper and there’s no doubt he +really is losing money through not being able to work with his strained +wrist. Still, if Madame, or the king on her behalf, would make any sort +of offer--She may not have any money, Gorman, but everybody knows she +has jewellery.” + +“Do you really think,” said Gorman, “that Madame will sell her pearls +to satisfy the claims of a dentist who, so far as I can make out, didn’t +even finish stopping her tooth for her?” + +“The law might make her.” + +“The law couldn’t,” said Gorman. “You know perfectly well that if the +law tried she’d simply say that her jewellery belonged to King Konrad +and you’ve no kind of claim on him.” + +“That’s so,” said Dane-Latimer. “All the same it won’t be very nice if +the case comes into court. Madame had far better settle it. Just think +of the newspapers. They’ll crack silly jokes about it for weeks and +there’ll be pictures of Madame in most undignified attitudes. She won’t +like it.” + +“I see that,” said Gorman. “And of course Konrad Karl will be dragged in +and made to look like a fool.” + +“Kings of all people,” said Dane-Latimer, “can’t afford to be laughed +at. It doesn’t do a king any real harm if he’s hated, but if once he +becomes comic he’s done.” + +Gorman thought the matter over for a minute or two. + +“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last. “You hold the dentist in play for +a day or two and I’ll see what I can do. There’ll be no money. I warn +you fairly of that. You won’t even get the amount of your own bill +unless Scarsby pays it; but I may be able to fix things up.” + +It was not very easy for Gorman to deal with Madame Ypsilante. Her +point was that Scarsby had deliberately inflicted frightful pain on +her, breaking his plighted word and taking advantage of her helpless +position. + +“He is a devil, that man,” she said. “Never, never in life has there +been any such devil. I did right to kick him. It would be more right to +kick his mouth. But I am not a dancer. I cannot kick so high.” + +“Corinne,” said the king. “You have suffered. He has suffered. It is, +as the English say in the game of golf ‘lie as you like.’ Let us forgive +and regret.” + +“I do not regret,” said Madame, “except that I did not kick with both +feet. I do not regret, and I will not forgive.” + +“The trouble is,” said Gorman, “that the dentist won’t forgive either. +He’s talking of a thousand pounds damage.” + +Madame’s face softened. + +“If he will pay a thousand pounds--” she said. “It is not much. It is +not enough. Still, if he pays at once----” + +“You’ve got it wrong,” said Gorman. “He thinks you ought to pay. He’s +going to law about it.” + +“Law!” said Madame. “Pouf! What is your law? I spit at it. It is to +laugh at, the law.” + +The king took a different view. He knew by painful experience something +about law, chiefly that part of the law which deals with the relations +of creditor and debtor. He was seriously alarmed at what Gorman said. + +“Alas, Corinne,” he said, “in Megalia, yes. But in England, no. The +English law is to me a black beast. With the law I am always the +escaping goat who does not escape. Gorman, I love your England. But +there is, as you say, a shift in the flute. In England there is too much +law. Do not, do not let the dentist go to law. Rather would I----” + +“I will not pay,” said Madame. + +“Corinne,” said the king reproachfully, “would I ask it? No. But if the +dentist seeks revenge I will submit. He may kick me.” + +“That’s rot of course,” said Gorman. “It wouldn’t be the slightest +satisfaction to Scarsby to kick you. What I was going to suggest----” + +“Good!” said the king. “Right-O! O.K.! Put it there. You suggest. +Always, Gorman, you suggest, and when you suggest, it is all over except +to shout.” + +“I don’t know about that,” said Gorman. “My plan may not work, and +anyway you won’t like it. It’s not an agreeable plan at all. The only +thing to be said for it is that it’s better than paying or having any +more kicking. You’ll have to put yourself in my hands absolutely.” + +“Gorman, my friend,” said the king, “I go in your hands. In both hands +or in one hand. Rather than be plaintiff-defendant I say, ‘Gorman, I will +go in your pocket.’” + +“In your hands,” said Madame, “or in your arms. Sir Gorman, I trust you. +I give you my Konrad into your hands. I fling myself into your arms if +you wish it.” + +“I don’t wish it in the least,” said Gorman. “In fact it will complicate +things horribly if you do.” + +Three days later Gorman called on Dane-Latimer at his office. + +“I think,” he said, “that I’ve got that little trouble between Madame +Ypsilante and the dentist settled up all right.” + +“Are you sure?” said Dane-Latimer. “Scarsby is still in a furious +temper. At least he was the day before yesterday. I haven’t seen him +since then.” + +“You won’t see him again,” said Gorman. “He has completely climbed +down.” + +“How the deuce did you manage it?” + +Gorman drew a heavy square envelope from his breast pocket and handed it +to Dane-Latimer. + +“That’s for you,” he said, “and if you really want to understand how the +case was settled you’d better accept the invitation and come with me.” + +Dane-Latimore opened the envelope and drew out a large white card with +gilt edges and nicely rounded corners. + +“10 Beaulieu Gardens, S.W.” he read. “Mrs. J. de Montford Scarsby. At +Home, Thursday, June 24, 9 to 11. To have the honour of meeting His +Majesty the King of Megalia. R.S.V.P.” + +“The king,” said Gorman, “is going in his uniform as Field Marshal of +the Megalian Army. It took me half an hour to persuade him to do that, +and I don’t wonder. It’s a most striking costume--light blue silk +blouse, black velvet gold-embroidered waistcoat, white corded breeches, +immense patent leather boots, a gold chain as thick as a cable of a +small yacht with a dagger at the end of it, and a bright red fur cap +with a sham diamond star in front. The poor man will look an awful +ass, and feel it. I wouldn’t have let him in for the uniform if I could +possibly have helped it, but that brute Scarsby was as vindictive as a +red Indian and as obstinate as a swine. His wife could do nothing with +him at first. She came to me with tears and said she’d have to give up +the idea of entertaining the king at her party if his coming depended on +Scarsby’s withdrawing his action against Madame Ypsilante. I told her to +have another try and promised her he’d come in uniform if she succeeded. +That induced her to tackle her husband again. I don’t know how she +managed it, but she did. Scarsby has climbed down and doesn’t even ask +for an apology. I advise you to come to the party.” + +“Will Madame Ypsilante be there?” + +“I hope not,” said Gorman. “I shall persuade her to stay at home if I +can. I don’t know whether Scarsby will show up or not; but it’s better +to take no risks. She might kick him again.” + +“What I was wondering,” said Dane-Latimer, “was whether she’d kick me. +She might feel that she ought to get a bit of her own back out of the +plaintiff’s solicitor. I’m not a tall man. She could probably reach my +face, and I don’t want to have Scarsby mending up my teeth afterwards.” + +“My impression is,” said Gorman, “that Mrs. Scarsby would allow anyone +to kick her husband up and down Piccadilly if she thought she’d be able +to entertain royalty afterwards. I don’t think she ever got higher than +a Marquis before. By the way, poor Konrad Karl is to have a throne at +the end of her drawing-room, and I’m to present her. You really ought to +come, Dane-Latimer.” + + + + +XII. A COMPETENT MECHANIC + +The car swept across the narrow bridge and round the corner beyond it. +Geoffrey Dane opened the throttle a little and allowed the speed to +increase. The road was new to him, but he had studied his map carefully +and he knew that a long hill, two miles or more of it, lay before him. +His car was highly powered and the engine was running smoothly. He +looked forward to a swift, exhilarating rush from the river valley +behind him to the plateau of the moorlands above. The road was a lonely +one. Since he left a village, three miles behind him, he had met nothing +but one cart and a couple of stray cattle. It was very unlikely that he +would meet any troublesome traffic before he reached the outskirts of +Hamley, the market town six miles beyond the hill and the moorland. The +car swept forward, gathering speed. Geoffrey Dane saw the hand of his +speedometer creep round the dial till it showed forty miles an hour. + +Then rounding a bend in the road he saw another car motionless in the +very middle of the road. Greoffrey Dane swore abruptly and slowed down. +He was not compelled to stop. He might have passed the obstructing car +by driving with one wheel in the ditch. But he was a young man with +a troublesome conscience, and he was a member of the Royal Automobile +Club. He was bound in honour to render any help he could to motorists in +distress on the high road. + +On a stone at the side of the road sat a girl, smoking a cigarette. She +was, apparently, the owner or driver of the motionless car. Greoffrey +Dane stopped. + +“Anything wrong?” he asked. + +The girl threw away the cigarette she was smoking and stood up. + +“Everything,” she said. + +Geoffrey Dane stopped his engine with a sigh and got out of his car. +He noticed at once that the girl was dishevelled, that her face, +particularly her nose, was smeared with dirt, and that there was a good +deal of mud on her frock. He recognised the signs of a long and useless +struggle with an engine; but he was too well bred to smile. He also +noticed that the girl was pretty, slight of figure, and fair, with +twinkling eyes. + +This consoled him a little. Succouring a stranger in distress on a +lonely road towards the close of a winter afternoon is not pleasant, but +it is distinctly less unpleasant if the stranger is a pretty girl. + +“Do you know anything about motors?” said the girl. + +To Geoffrey the question was almost insulting. He was a young man who +particularly prided himself on his knowledge of mechanics and his skill +in dealing with engines. Also the girl spoke abruptly, not at all in the +manner of a helpless damsel seeking charitable assistance. But Geoffrey +was a good-humoured young man and the girl was very pretty indeed. He +was prepared to make allowances for a little petulance. No temper is +exactly sunny after a struggle with a refractory engine. + +“I ought to know something about motors,” he said. “I’m driving one.” + +He looked round as he spoke at his own large and handsome car. The +girl’s car in comparison, was insignificant. + +“It doesn’t in the least follow that you know anything about it,” said +the girl. “I was driving that one.” She pointed to the car in the middle +of the road. “And I haven’t the remotest idea what’s wrong.” + +This time Geoffrey felt that the girl, though pretty, deserved a snub. +He was prepared to help her, at some personal inconvenience, but he felt +that he had a right to expect politeness in return. + +“I don’t think you ought to have drawn up right in the middle of the +road,” he said. “It’s beginning to get dark and if anything came down +the road at all fast there’d be an accident.” + +“I didn’t draw up in the middle of the road,” said the girl. + +Geoffrey looked at her car. It was in the middle, the very middle of the +road. + +“I didn’t draw up at all,” said the girl. “The beastly thing just +stopped there itself. But I don’t mind telling you that if I could, I’d +have turned the car across the road so as to block the way altogether. +I’d rather there wasn’t any room to pass. I wanted anyone who came along +to stop and help me.” + +Geoffrey remained polite, which was very much to his credit + +“I see she’s a Ford,” he said, “and Fords are a bit hard to start +sometimes, especially in cold weather. I’ll have a try.” + +He went to the front of the car and seized the crank handle. He swung +it, jerked, it, pulled at it with his full strength. There was a slight +gurgling noise occasionally, but the engine refused to start. Geoffrey +stood erect and wiped his forehead. The evening was chilly, but he had +no reason to complain of being cold. The girl sat on her stone at the +side of the road and smoked a fresh cigarette. + +“I don’t think you’ll do much good that way,” she said. “I’ve been at +that for hours.” + +Geoffrey felt there was, or ought to be a difference between the efforts +of a girl, a slight, rather frail looking girl, and those of a vigorous +young man. He took off his overcoat and tried again, vainly. Then he +opened the throttle wide, and advanced the sparking lever a little. + +“If you do that,” said the girl, “she’ll back-fire and break your +arm--that is to say if she does anything at all, which she probably +won’t. She sprained father’s wrist last week. That’s how I came to be +driving her to-day.” + +Geoffrey was aware of the unpleasant effects of a back-fire. But he +took the risk without hesitating. Nothing happened. The car, though +obstinate, was not apparently malicious. + +“There must be something wrong,” he said. “Did you try the sparking +plugs?” + +“I had them all out,” said the girl, “and cleaned them with a hairpin +and my pocket handkerchief. It isn’t worth your while to take them out +again.” + +Geoffrey fetched a wrench from his own car and began to work on the +sparking plugs. + +“I see you don’t believe me,” said the girl. “But I really did clean +them. Just look.” + +She held up her pocket handkerchief. It was thickly smeared with soot. +She had certainly cleaned something with it. Geoffrey worked away +steadily with his wrench. + +“And the worst of it is,” said the girl, “that this is just the sort of +evening on which one simply must blow one’s nose. I’ve had to blow mine +twice since I cleaned the plugs and I expect its awful.” + +Geoffrey looked up from his work. He had noticed when he first saw her +that her face was very dirty. He knew now where the dirt came from. He +smiled. The girl smiled, too. Her temper was beginning to improve. Then +she sniffed. Geoffrey offered her his pocket handkerchief. She took it +without saying thank you. + +The sparking plugs were cleaned very carefully, for the second time. +Then Geoffrey took another turn at the crank handle. He laboured in +vain. The engine did not respond with so much as a gasp. + +“The next thing I did,” said the girl, “was to take out the commutator +and clean it. But I don’t advise you to do that unless you really do +know something about engines.” + +It was Geoffrey’s turn to feel a little irritated. + +“I’m a competent mechanic,” he said shortly. + +“All right,” said the girl, “don’t be angry. I’m a competent mechanic, +too. At least I thought I was before this happened. + +“Perhaps,” said Geoffrey, “you didn’t put the commutator back right +after you took it out. I’ve known people make mistakes about that.” + +His suspicion was unjust. The commutator was in its place and the wire +terminals correctly attached. He took it out again, cleaned it, oiled +it, and replaced it. Then he tried the crank handle again. The engine +was entirely unaffected. + +“The feed pipe must be choked,” said Geoffrey decisively. + +“I didn’t try that,” said the girl, “but you can if you like. I’ll lend +you a hairpin. The one I cleaned the plugs with must be lying about +somewhere.” + +It was getting dark, and a search for a lost hairpin would be very +little use. Geoffrey said he would try blowing through the feed pipe +with the pump. The girl, coming to his assistance, struck matches and +held them dangerously near the carburetter while he worked. The clearing +of the feed pipe made no difference at all to the engine. It was quite +dark and freezing hard when the job was finished. Geoffrey, exhausted +and breathless, gave up his final attempt at the starting crank. + +“Look here,” he said, “I’m awfully sorry; but I’ll have to chuck it. +I’ve tried everything I can think of. The only thing to do is to send +someone out from the nearest town. If I had a rope, I’d tow you in, but +I haven’t. Is there a motor man in Hamley?” + +“Yes,” said the girl, “there’s a man called Jones, who does motors, +but----” + +“Well,” said Geoffrey, “you get into my car. I’ll drive you home, and +then--by the way, where do you live?” + +“In Hamley. My father’s the doctor there.” + +“That’s all right. I’ll drive you home and send out Jones.” + +“The worst of that is,” said the girl, “that Jones always charges the +most frightful sums for anything he does.” + +“But you can’t stay here all night,” said Geoffrey. “All night! It’ll be +all day to-morrow too. As far as I can see it’ll be always. You’ll never +make that car go.” + +“If father was in any ordinary temper,” said the girl, “he wouldn’t +grouse much about Jones’s bill. But just now, on account of what +happened to him----” + +“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “I understand. The sprained wrist makes him +irritable.” + +“It’s not exactly that,” said the girl. “Anyone might sprain a wrist. +There’s no disgrace about that. The real trouble is that the poor old +dear put some stuff on his wrist, to cure it, you know. It must have +been the wrong stuff, for it brought on erysipelas.” + +“I thought you said he was a doctor.” + +“That’s just it. He thinks that no one will believe in him any more +now that he’s doctored his own wrist all wrong. That’s what makes him +depressed. I told him not to mind; but he does.” + +“The best doctors make mistakes sometimes,” said Geoffrey. + +“Everybody does,” said the girl. “Even competent mechanics aren’t always +quite sure about things, are they? Now you see why I don’t want to send +out Jones if I can possibly help it.” + +“But you can’t possibly help it,” said Geoffrey. + +He wondered whether he could offer to pay Jones’ bill himself. It would +not, he supposed, be very large, and he would have been glad to pay it +to save the girl from trouble. But he did not like to make the offer. + +“We might,” he said, “persuade Jones not; to send in his bill till your +father’s wrist is better. Anyhow, there’s nothing for it but to get him. +We’ll just push your car to the side of the road out of the way and then +I’ll run you into Hamley.” + +The car was pushed well over to the side of the road, and left on a +patch of grass. Geoffrey shoved hard at the spokes of one of the back +wheels. The girl pushed, with one hand on a lamp bracket. She steered +with the other, and added a good deal to Geoffrey’s labour by turning +the wheel the wrong way occasionally. + +The drive to Hamley did not take long; but it was nearly half-past six +before they reached the village street. Jones’s shop and motor garage +were shut up for the night; but a kindly bystander told Geoffrey where +the man lived. Unfortunately, the man was not at home. His wife, who +seemed somewhat aggrieved at his absence, gave it as her opinion that he +was likely to be found in the George Inn. + +“But it isn’t no use your going there for him,” she said. “There’s a +Freemason’s dinner tonight, and Jones wouldn’t leave that, not if you +offered him a ten-pound note.” + +Geoffrey turned to the girl. + +“Shall we try?” he asked. “Is it worth while going after him?” + +“I can’t leave the car on the side of the road all night,” she said. “If +we can’t get Jones, I must walk back and try again.” + +Geoffrey made a heroic resolve. + +“I’ll leave you at home first,” he said, “and then I’ll go and drag +Jones out of that dinner party of his. I’m sure you must be very tired.” + +But the girl firmly refused to go home without the car. Her plan was to +go back with Jones, if Jones could be persuaded to start, and then drive +home when the car was set right. + +“Very well,” said Geoffrey, “let’s go and get Jones. We’ll all go back +together. I can stop the night in Hamley and go on to-morrow morning.” + +He rather expected a protest from the girl, a protest ending in warm +thanks for his kindness. He received instead a remark which rather +surprised him. + +“I daresay,” she said, “that you’d rather like to see what really is +the matter with the car. It will he so much knowledge gained for you +afterwards. And you do take an interest in mechanics, don’t you?” + +Geoffrey, in the course of his operations on the car, had several times +professed a deep interest in mechanics. He recollected that, just at +first, he had boasted a good deal about his skill and knowledge. He +suspected that the girl was laughing at him. This irritated him, and +when he reached the George Inn he was in no mood to listen patiently to +Jones’ refusal to leave the dinner. + +Jones did refuse, firmly and decisively. Geoffrey argued with him, +attempted to bribe him, finally swore at him. The girl stood by and +laughed. Jones turned on her truculently. + +“If young ladies,” he said, “would stay in their homes, which is the +proper place for them, and not go driving about in motor cars, there’d +be less trouble in the world; and decent men who work hard all day would +be left to eat their dinners in peace.” + +The girl was entirely unabashed. + +“If decent men,” she said, “would think more about their business and +less about their dinners, motors wouldn’t break down six miles from +home. You were supposed to have overhauled that car last week, Jones, +and you told father yourself that the engine was in first rate order.” + +“No engine will go,” said Jones, “if you don’t know how to drive it. + +“Look here,” said Geoffrey, “hop into my car. I’ll have you there in +less than half an hour. We’ll bring a rope with us, and if you can’t +make the car start at once, we’ll tow it home. It won’t be a long job. +I’ll undertake to have you back here in an hour. Your dinner won’t be +cold by that time.” + +He took Jones by the arm and pulled him towards the door of the inn. +Jones, protesting and muttering, gave way at last. He fetched his hat +and coat, and took a seat in Geoffrey’s car. + +Geoffrey made good his promise. Once clear of the town, with an empty +road before him, he drove fast and reached the scene of the breakdown in +less than twenty minutes. + +Jones was evidently sulky. Without speaking a word to either Geoffrey +or the girl he went straight to the car at the side of the road. He gave +the starting handle a single turn. Then he stopped and went to the back +of the car. He took out a tin of petrol and emptied it into the tank. +Then he gave another jerk to the starting handle. The engine responded +at once with a cheerful rattle. The girl, to Geoffrey’s amazement, +laughed loud. He felt abashed and humiliated, very little inclined to +mirth. + +“I’m awfully sorry,” he babbled his apologies. “I’m really awfully +sorry. It was extremely stupid of me, but I never thought----. Of course +I ought to have looked at the petrol tank first thing.” + +“It was a bit stupid of you, I must say,” said the girl, “considering +what you said about understanding motors.” + +Geoffrey felt inclined to remind her that she, too, had boasted some +knowledge of cars and that she had been at fault even more than he had, +and that in fact she ought to have guessed that her petrol had gone. He +was saved from making his retort by Jones. Ignoring the girl completely, +as if she were beneath contempt, Jones spoke to Geoffrey. + +“I dunno,” he said, “how you expected the engine to work without +petrol.” + +His tone was full of scorn, and Geoffrey felt like a withered flower. +The girl was in no way abashed. + +“It’s just like asking a man to work without his dinner,” she said, “but +they sometimes do, you know.” + +Then she turned to Geoffrey. + +“If you promise faithfully,” she said, “not to tell father what +happened, you can come and have dinner with us to-night.” + +It was the only sign of gratitude that the girl had shown, and +Geoffrey’s first inclination was to refuse the invitation definitely. +But he caught sight of her face before she spoke. She was standing in +the full glare of one of the lamps. Her eyes were twinkling and very +bright. On her lips was a smile, impudent, provocative, extremely +attractive. + +Geoffrey Dane dined that night with the doctor and his daughter. He +described the breakdown of the motor in the vaguest terms. + + + + +XIII. MY NIECE KITTY + +I consider it fortunate that Kitty is my niece. She might have been my +daughter and then I should have had a great deal of responsibility and +lived a troublous life. On the other hand if Kitty had not been related +to me in some way I should have missed a pleasant intimacy. I should +probably very seldom see her if she were the daughter of a casual +acquaintance, and when I did see her she would be shy, perhaps, or pert. +I should almost certainly be awkward. I am, I regret to say, fifty years +of age. Kitty is just sixteen. Some kind of relationship is necessary if +there is to be real friendship between an elderly man and a young girl. +Uncles, if they did not exist in nature, would have to be invented for +the sake of people like Kitty and myself. + +I see Kitty twice a year regularly. She and her mother come to town at +Christmas time for shopping. They stay at my house. In summer I spend +my three weeks holiday with my sister who lives all the year round in a +seaside place which most people regard as a summer resort. She does this +on account of the delicate health of her husband, who suffers from an +obscure nervous disease. If I were Kitty’s father I should probably have +a nervous disorder, too. + +In December I am master of the situation. I treat Kitty exactly as an +uncle ought to treat a niece. I take her to theatres and picture houses. +I feed her at irregular hours on sweet, unwholesome food. I buy her +presents and allow her to choose them. Kitty, as my guest, behaves +as well as any niece could. She is respectful, obedient, and always +delighted with the entertainments I provide for her. In summer--Kitty +being then the hostess and I the guest--things are different. She +considers it her duty to amuse me. Her respect for me vanishes. I am the +one who is obedient; but I am not always delighted at the entertainments +she provides. She means well, but she is liable to forget that a +stiff-limbed bachelor of fifty prefers quiet to strenuous sports. + +One morning during the second week of my last holiday Kitty came down +late for breakfast. She is often late for breakfast and she never +apologises. I daresay she is right. Most of us are late for breakfast, +when we are late, because we are lazy and stay too long in bed. It is +impossible to think of Kitty being lazy. She always gets up early and +is only late for breakfast because she has had time to find some +enthralling occupation before breakfast is ready. Breakfast and the rest +of the party ought to apologise to her for not being ready sooner. It is +really we who keep her waiting. She was dressed that morning in a blue +cotton frock, at least two inches longer than the frocks she used to +wear last year. If her face had not been as freckled as a turkey’s egg +and the skin had not been peeling off her nose with sunburn she would +have looked very pretty. Next year, I suppose, her frocks will be down +to her ankles and she will be taking care of her complexion. Then, no +doubt, she will look very pretty. But she will not look any more demure +than she did that morning. + +“It is always right,” she said, “to do good when we can, and to show +kindness to those whose lot in life is less happy than our own.” + +When Kitty looks particularly demure and utters sentiments of that kind, +as if she were translating one of Dr. Watts’ hymns into prose, I know +that there is trouble coming. I did not have to wait long to find out +what was in store. + +“Claire Lane’s aunt,” she said, “does a great deal of work for the +children of the very poor. That is a noble thing to do.” + +It is. I have heard of Miss Lane’s work. Indeed I give a subscription +every year towards carrying it on. + +“Claire,” Kitty went on, “is my greatest friend at school, and she +sometimes helps her aunt. Claire is rather noble too, though not so +noble as Miss Lane.” + +“I am glad to hear,” I said, “that you have such a nice girl for a +friend. I suppose it was from her you learnt that it was right to show +kindness to those whose lot is less happy than our own.” + +Kitty referred to a letter which she had brought with her into the room, +and then said: + +“To-day Claire and her aunt are bringing fifty children down here to +spend the day playing on the beach and paddling in the sea. That will +cost a lot and I expect you to subscribe, Uncle John.” + +I at once handed Kitty all the money I had in my pocket. She took +it without a word of thanks. It was quite a respectable sum, perhaps +deserving a little gratitude, but I did not grudge it. I felt I was +getting off cheap if I only had to give money. My sister, Kitty’s +mother, understood the situation better. + +“I suppose I must send down bread and jam,” she said. “Did you say fifty +children, Batty?” + +“Fifty or sixty,” said Kitty. + +“Three pots of jam and ten loaves ought to be enough,” said my sister. + +“And cake,” said Kitty. “They must have cake. Uncle John,” she turned to +me, “would you rather cut up bread and jam or walk over to the village +and bring back twenty-five pounds of cake?” + +I was not going to get off so easily as I hoped. The day was hot, far +too hot for walking, and the village is two miles off; but I made my +choice without hesitation. I greatly prefer heat to stickiness and I +know no stickier job than making bread and jam sandwiches. + +“If you start at once,” said Kitty, “you’ll be back in time to help me +with the bread and jam.” + +I regret to say I was back in time to spread the jam out of the last +pot. + +Miss Lane’s party arrived by train at 12 o’clock. By that time I had +discovered that I had not bought freedom with my subscription, nor +earned the title of noble by walking to the village. I was expected to +spend the rest of the day helping to amuse Miss Lane’s picnic party. +Kitty and I met them when they arrived. + +Miss Lane, the aunt, is a very plump lady with nice white hair. Her +face, when she got out of the train, was glistening with perspiration. +Claire, the niece, is a pretty little girl. She wore a pink frock, but +it was no pinker than her face. Her efforts to show kindness to +the children in the train had been too much for her. She was tired, +bewildered, and helpless. There were fifty-six children, all girls, and +they ranged in ages from about 18 years down to toddling infants. Miss +Lane, the aunt, asked me to count them for her. I suppose she wanted to +make sure that she had not lost any on the way down and that she would +have as many to take home as she had when she started. Left to my own +resources I could not possibly have counted fifty delirious children, +not one of whom stood still for a single instant. Kitty came to my +rescue. She coursed up and down among the children, shouting, pushing, +occasionally slapping in a friendly way, and, at last, corralled the +whole party in a corner between two sheds. I have seen a well-trained +sheep dog perform a similar feat in much the same way. I counted the +flock, with some difficulty even then, and noted the number carefully +in my pocket book. Then there was a wild rush for the beach. Miss Lane +headed it at first, carrying one of the smallest children in her arms +and dragging another by the hand. She was soon overtaken and passed by +Kitty and six lean, long-legged girls, who charged whooping, straight +for the sea. Claire and I followed slowly at the tail of the procession. +I was sorry for her because one of her shoes was beginning to hurt her. +She confided this to me and later on in the day I could see that the +pain was acute. We reached the beach in time to see Kitty dragging off +her shoes and stockings. Eight or ten of the girls had walked straight +into the sea and were splashing about up to their knees in water. Kitty +went after them and dragged them back. She said that if they wanted to +bathe they ought to take their clothes off. Kitty is a good swimmer, +and I think she wanted those children to bathe so as to have a chance +of saving their lives when they began to drown. Fortunately, Miss Lane +discovered what was going on and put a stop to the bathing. She was +breathless but firm. I do not know whether she shrank from drowning +the children or held conventional ideas about the necessity of bathing +dresses for girls. Whatever her reasons were she absolutely forbade +bathing. The day was extraordinarily hot and our work was most +strenuous. We paddled, and I had to wade in several times, far above +the part of my legs to which it was possible to roll up my trousers. We +built elaborate sand castles, and enormous mounds, which Kitty called +redoubts. I was made to plan a series of trenches similar to those used +by the armies in France, and we had a most exciting battle, during which +Kitty compelled me to become a casualty so that six girls might have the +pleasure of dragging me back to a place of safety. We very nearly had a +real casualty afterwards when the roof of a dug-out fell in and buried +two infants. Kitty and I rescued them, digging frenziedly with our +hands. Miss Lane scooped the sand out of their mouths afterwards +with her forefinger, and dried their eyes when they had recovered +sufficiently to cry. We fed the whole party on buns and lemonade and +became sticky from head to foot. We ran races and had tugs-of-war with a +rope made of stockings tied together. It was not a good rope because it +always broke at the most exciting moments, but that only added to our +pleasure; for both teams fell flat on their backs when the rope gave +way, and Miss Lane looked particularly funny rolling on the sand. + +At six o’clock the gardener and the cook, sent by Kitty’s mother, came +down from the house carrying a large can of milk and a clothes basket +full of bread and jam and cake. We were all glad to see them. Even the +most active children were becoming exhausted and were willing to sit +down and be fed. I was very nearly done up. Poor Claire was seated on +a stone, nursing her blistered foot. Only Miss Lane and Kitty had any +energy left, and Miss Lane was in an appalling state of heat. Kitty +remained cool, owing perhaps to the fact that she was soaked through +from the waist down, having carried twenty or thirty dripping infants +out of the sea in the course of the day. + +My sister’s gardener, who carried the milk, is a venerable man with a +long white beard. He is greatly stooped from constant digging and he +suffers from rheumatism in his knees. It was his appearance, no doubt, +which suggested to Kitty the absolutely fiendish idea of an obstacle +race for veterans. The veterans, of course, were Miss Lane, the +gardener, the cook, who was a very fat woman, and myself. Miss Lane +agreed to the proposal at once with apparent pleasure, and the whole +fifty-six children shouted with joy. The gardener, who has known Kitty +since she was born, recognised the uselessness of protest and took his +place beside Miss Lane. The cook said she never ran races and could not +jump. Anyone who had looked at her would have known she was speaking the +truth. But Kitty would take no refusal. She took that cook by the arm +and dragged her to the starting line. + +The course, which was arranged by Kitty, was a stiff one. It took us all +over the redoubts, castles, and trenches we had built during the day +and across a tract of particularly soft sand, difficult to walk over +and most exhausting to anyone who tried to run. It finished up with what +Kitty called a water jump, though no one could possibly have jumped it. +It was a wide shallow pool, formed in the sand by the flowing tide and +the only way of getting past it was to wade through. + +I felt fairly confident I should win that race. The gardener is ten +years older than I am and very stiff in the joints. The cook plainly did +not mean to try. Miss Lane is far past the age at which women cease to +be active, and was badly handicapped by having to run in a long skirt. +I started at top speed and cleared the first redoubt without difficulty, +well ahead of anyone else. I kept my lead while I floundered through +three trenches, and increased it among the castles which lay beyond. +When I reached the soft sand I ventured to look back. I was gratified to +see that the cook had given up. The gardener was in difficulties at +the second trench, and Miss Lane had fallen. When I saw her she was +sprawling over a sand castle, surrounded by cheering children. It did +not seem likely that she would have strength enough to get up again or +breath to run any more if she did get on her feet. I felt that I was +justified in walking quietly over the soft sand. Beyond it lay a +tract of smooth, hard sand, near the sea, and then the water jump. My +supporters, a number of children who had easily kept pace with me and +were encouraging me with shouts, seemed disappointed when I dropped to a +walk. To please them I broke into a gentle trot when I reached the hard +sand. I still felt perfectly sure that the race was mine. + +I was startled out of my confidence by the sound of terrific yells, just +as I stepped cautiously into the water jump. I looked round and saw Miss +Lane. Her hair was flying behind her in a wild tangle. Her petticoats +were gathered well above her knees. She was crossing the hard sand at a +tremendous pace. I saw that my only chance was to collect my remaining +energies for a spurt. Before I had made the attempt Miss Lane was past +me. She jumped a clear eight feet into the shallow water in which I +stood and came down with a splash which nearly blinded me with spray. +I rubbed the salt water out of my eyes and started forward. It was too +late. Miss Lane was ten or twelve yards ahead of me. She was splashing +through the water quicker than I should have believed possible. She +stumbled, and once I thought she was down, but she did not actually fall +until she flung herself, breathless, at Kitty’s feet, at the winning +post. + +The children shrieked with joy, and Kitty said she was very glad I had +been beaten. + +I did not understand at the time why she was glad, but I found out +afterwards. I was stiff and tired that evening but rather proud of +myself. I had done something to be proud of. I had spent a whole day in +showing kindness--I suppose it really was kindness--to those whose lot +on other days is worse than my own; and that, as Kitty says, is a noble +thing to do. I was not, however, left in peace to enjoy my pleasant mood +of self-congratulation. I had just lit my cigar and settled comfortably +in the verandah when Kitty came to me. + +“I suppose you know,” she said, “that there was a prize for that +veterans’ race this afternoon.” + +“No,” I said, “I didn’t know, but I’m glad to hear it. I hope Miss Lane +will enjoy the prize. She certainly deserves it.” + +“The prize,” said Kitty, “is----” + +To my surprise she mentioned a sum of money, quite a large sum. + +“--To be paid,” said Kitty, “by the losers, and to go to the funds of +Miss Lane’s Society for giving pleasure to poor children. The gardener +and cook can’t pay, of course, being poor themselves. So you’ll have to +pay it all.” + +“I haven’t the money in my pocket,” I said. “Will it do if I send it +to-morrow?” + +Kitty graciously agreed to wait till the next day. I hardly expected +that she would. + +“By the way, Kitty,” I said, “if I’d won, and I very nearly did, would +Miss Lane have paid me?” + +“Of course not. Why should she? You haven’t got a society for showing +kindness to the poor. There’d be no sense in giving you money.” + +The gardener to whom I was talking next morning, gave it to me as his +opinion that “Miss Kitty is a wonderful young lady,” I agreed with him +and am glad that she is my niece, not my daughter. + + + + +XIV. A ROYAL MARRIAGE + +Michael Kane carried His Majesty’s mails from Clonmethan to the Island +of Inishrua. He made the voyage twice a week in a big red boat fitted +with a motor engine. He had as his partner a young man called Peter +Gahan. Michael Kane was a fisherman, and had a knowledge of the ways of +the strange tides which race and whirl in the channel between Inishrua +and the mainland. Peter Gahan looked like an engineer. He knew something +about the tides, but what he really understood was the motor engine. He +was a grave and silent young man who read small books about Socialism. +Michael Kane was grey-haired, much battered by the weather and rich in +experience of life. He was garrulous and took a humorous view of most +things, even of Peter Gahan’s Socialism. + +There are, perhaps, two hundred people living on Inishrua, but they do +not receive many letters. Nor do they write many. Most of them neither +write nor receive any letters at all. A post twice a week is quite +sufficient for their needs, and Michael Kane is not very well paid for +carrying the lean letter bag. But he makes a little money by taking +parcels across to the island. The people of Inishrua grow, catch or +shoot most of the things they want; but they cannot produce their own +tea, tobacco, sugar or flour. Michael Kane takes orders for these and +other things from Mary Nally, who keeps a shop on Inishrua. He buys +them in Clonmethan and conveys them to the island. In this way he earns +something. He also carries passengers and makes a little out of them. + +Last summer, because it was stormy and wet, was a very lean season for +Michael Kane. Week after week he made his journeys to Inishrua without a +single passenger. Towards the middle of August he began to give up hope +altogether. + +He and Peter sat together one morning on the end of the pier. The red +post boat hung at her moorings outside the little harbour. The day +was windless and the sea smooth save for the ocean swell which made +shorewards in a long procession of round-topped waves. It was a day +which might have tempted even a timid tourist to visit the island. But +there was no sign of anyone approaching the pier. + +“I’m thinking,” said Michael Kane, “that we may as well be starting. +There’ll be no one coming with us the day.” + +But he was mistaken. A passenger, an eager-looking young woman, was +hurrying towards the pier while they were making up their minds to +start. + +Miss Ivy Clarence had prepared herself for a voyage which seemed to her +something of an adventure. She wore a tight-fitting knitted cap, a long, +belted, waterproof coat, meant originally to be worn by a soldier in the +trenches in France. She had a thick muffler round her neck. She carried +a rug, a packet of sandwiches, a small handbag and an umbrella, of all +possible accoutrements the least likely to be useful in an open boat. +But though she carried an umbrella, Miss Clarence did not look like a +fool. She might know nothing about boats and the way to travel in them, +but she had a bright, intelligent face and a self-confident decision of +manner. She was by profession a journalist, and had conceived the idea +of visiting Ireland and writing articles about that unfortunate country. +Being an intelligent journalist she knew that articles about the state +of Ireland are overdone and very tiresome. Nobody, especially during the +holiday season, wants to be bored with Irish politics. But for +bright, cheery descriptions of Irish life and customs, as for similar +descriptions of the ways of other strange peoples, there is always a +market. Miss Clarence determined to exploit it. She planned to visit +five or six of the larger islands off the Irish coast. There, if +anywhere, quaint customs, picturesque superstitions and primitive ways +of living might still be found. + +Michael greeted her as if she had been an honoured guest. He was +determined to make the trip as pleasant as he could for anyone who was +wise enough to leave the tennis-courts and the golf-links. + +“It’s a grand day for seeing Inishrua,” he said. “Not a better day +there’s been the whole summer up to now. And why wouldn’t it be fine? +It would be a queer day that wouldn’t when a young lady like yourself is +wanting to go on the sea.” + +This was the kind of speech, flattering, exaggerated, slightly +surprising, which Michael Kane was accustomed to make to his passengers. +Miss Clarence did not know that something of the same sort was said +to every lady, young or old, who ventured into Michael’s boat. She was +greatly pleased and made a mental note of the words. + +Michael Kane and Peter Gahan went over to a dirty and dilapidated boat +which lay on the slip. They seized her by the gunwale, raised her and +laid her keel on a roller. They dragged her across the slip and launched +her, bow first, with a loud splash. + +“Step easy now, miss,” said Michael, “and lean on my shoulder. Give the +young lady your hand, Peter. Can’t you see the stones is slippy?” + +Peter was quite convinced that all members of the bourgeois class ought +to be allowed, for the good of society, to break their legs on slippery +rocks. But he was naturally a courteous man. He offered Miss Clarence an +oily hand and she got safely into the boat. + +The engine throbbed and the screw under the rudder revolved slowly. The +boat slid forward, gathering speed, and headed out to sea for Inishrua. + +Michael Kane began to talk. Like a pianist who strikes the notes of his +instrument tentatively, feeling about for the right key, he touched on +one subject after another, confident that in the end he would light on +something really interesting to his passenger. Michael Kane was happy in +this, that he could talk equally well on all subjects. He began with the +coast scenery, politics and religion, treating these thorny topics with +such detachment that no one could have guessed what party or what church +he belonged to. Miss Clarence was no more than moderately interested. +He passed on to the Islanders of Inishrua, and discovered that he had at +last reached the topic he was seeking. Miss Clarence listened eagerly to +all he said. She even asked questions, after the manner of intelligent +journalists. + +“If it’s the island people you want to see, miss,” he said, “it’s well +you came this year. There’ll be none of them left soon. They’re dying +out, so they are.” + +Miss Clarence thought of a hardy race of men wringing bare subsistence +from a niggardly soil, battered by storms, succumbing slowly to the +impossible conditions of their island. She began to see her way to an +article of a pathetic kind. + +“It’s sleep that’s killing them off,” said Michael Kane. + +Miss Clarence was startled. She had heard of sleeping sickness, but had +always supposed it to be a tropical disease. It surprised her to hear +that it was ravaging an island like Inishrua. + +“Men or women, it’s the same,” said Michael. “They’ll sleep all night +and they’ll sleep the most of the day. Not a tap of work will be done on +the island, summer or winter.” + +“But,” said Miss Clarence, “how do they live?” + +“They’ll not live long,” said Michael. “Amn’t I telling you that they’re +dying out? It’s the sleep that’s killing them.” + +Miss Clarence drew a large notebook and a pencil from her bag. Michael +was greatly pleased. He went on to tell her that the Inishrua islanders +had become enormously rich during the war. Wrecked ships had drifted on +to their coasts in dozens. They had gathered in immense stores of oil, +petrol, cotton, valuable wood and miscellaneous merchandise of every +kind. There was no need for them to work any more. Digging, ploughing, +fishing, toil of every kind was unnecessary. All they had to do was +eat and sleep, waking up now and then for an hour or two to sell their +spoils to eager buyers who came to them from England. + +Michael could have gone on talking about the immense riches of the +islanders. He would have liked to enlarge upon the evil consequences of +having no work to do, the inevitable extinction which waits for those +who merely sleep. But he was conscious that Peter Gahan was becoming +uneasy. As a good socialist, Peter knew that work is an unnecessary +evil, and that men will never be healthy or happy until they escape from +the tyranny of toil. He was not likely to listen patiently to Michael’s +doctrine that a race of sleepers is doomed to extinction. At any moment +he might burst into the conversation argumentatively. And Michael Kane +did not want that. He liked to do all the talking himself. He switched +off the decay of the islanders and started a new subject which he hoped +would be equally interesting to Miss Clarence. + +“It’s a lucky day you have for visiting the island,” he said. “But sure +you know that yourself, and there’s no need for me to be telling you.” + +Beyond the fact that the day was moderately fine, Miss Clarence did +not know that there was anything specially lucky about it. She looked +enquiringly at Michael Kane. + +“It’s the day of the King’s wedding,” said Michael. + +To Miss Clarence “the King” suggested his Majesty George V. But he +married some time ago, and she did not see why the islanders should +celebrate an event of which most people have forgotten the date. She +cast round in her mind for another monarch likely to be married; but she +could not think of any. There are not, indeed, very many kings left in +the world now. Peter Gahan gave a vicious dab at his engine with his +oil-can, and then emerged feet first from the shelter of the fore deck. +This talk about kings irritated him. + +“It’s the publican down by the harbour Michael Kane’s speaking about,” + he said. “King, indeed! What is he, only an old man who’s a deal too +fat!” + +“He may be fat,” said Michael; “but if he is, he’s not the first fat man +to get married. And he’s a king right enough. There’s always been a king +on Inishrua, the same as in England.” + +Miss Clarence was aware--she had read the thing somewhere--that the +remoter and less civilised islands off the Irish Coast are ruled by +chieftains to whom their people give the title of King. + +“The woman he’s marrying,” said Michael, “is one by the name of Mary +Nally, the same that keeps the post-office and sells tobacco and tea and +suchlike.” + +“If he’s marrying her to-day,” said Peter Gahan, “it’s the first I heard +of it.” + +“That may be,” said Michael, “but if you was to read less you’d maybe +hear more. You’d hardly believe,” he turned to Miss Clarence with a +smile--“you’d hardly believe the time that young fellow wastes reading +books and the like. There isn’t a day passes without he’d be reading +something, good or bad.” + +Peter Gahan, thoroughly disgusted, crept under the fore deck again and +squirted drops of oil out of his can. + +Miss Clarence ought to have been interested in the fact that the young +boatman was fond of reading. His tastes in literature and his eagerness +for knowledge and culture would have provided excellent matter for an +article. But the prospect of a royal marriage on Inishrua excited her, +and she had no curiosity left for Peter Gahan and his books. She asked +a string of eager questions about the festivities. Michael was perfectly +willing to supply her with information; indeed, the voyage was not long +enough for all her questions and his answers. Before the subject was +exhausted the boat swung round a rocky point into the bay where the +Inishrua harbour lies. + +“You see the white cottage with the double gable, Miss,” said Michael. +“Well, it’s there Mary Nally lives. And that young lad crossing the +field is her brother coming down for the post-bag. The yellow house with +the slates on it is where the king lives. It’s the only slated house +they have on the island. God help them!” + +Peter Gahan slowed and then stopped his engine. The boat slipped along a +grey stone pier. Michael stepped ashore and made fast a couple of ropes. +Then he gave his hand to Miss Clarence and helped her to disembark. + +“If you’re thinking of taking a walk through the island, Miss,” he said, +“you’ll have time enough. There’s no hurry in the world about starting +home. Two hours or three will be all the same to us.” + +Michael Kane was in no hurry. Nor was Peter Gahan, who had taken a +pamphlet from his pocket and settled himself on the edge of the pier +with his feet dangling over the water. But Miss Clarence felt that she +had not a moment to lose. She did not want to miss a single detail of +the wedding festivities. She stood for an instant uncertain whether she +should go first to the yellow, slated house of the bridegroom or cross +the field before her to the double-gabled cottage where the bride lived. +She decided to go to the cottage. In any ordinary wedding the bride’s +house is the scene of most activity, and no doubt the same rule holds +good in the case of royal marriages. + +The door of the cottage stood open, and Miss Clarence stepped into +a tiny shop. It was the smallest shop she had ever seen, but it was +crammed from ceiling to floor with goods. + +Behind the counter a woman of about thirty years of age sat on a low +stool. She was knitting quietly, and showed no sign whatever of the +excitement which usually fills a house on the day of a wedding. She +looked up when Miss Clarence entered the shop. Then she rose and +laid aside her knitting. She had clear, grey eyes, an unemotional, +self-confident face, and a lean figure. + +“I came to see Miss Mary Nally,” said Miss Clarence. “Perhaps if she +isn’t too busy I could have a chat with her.” + +“Mary Nally’s my name,” said the young woman quietly. + +Miss Clarence was surprised at the calm and self-possession of the woman +before her. She had, in the early days of her career as a journalist, +seen many brides. She had never seen one quite so cool as Mary Nally. +And this woman was going to marry a king! Miss Clarence, startled out of +her own self-control, blurted out more than she meant to say. + +“But--but aren’t you going to be married?” she said. + +Mary Nally smiled without a sign of embarrassment. + +“Maybe I am,” she said, “some day.” + +“To-day,” said Miss Clarence. + +Mary Nally, pulling aside a curtain of pendent shirts, looked out +through the window of the little shop. She knew that the post boat had +arrived at the pier and that her visitor, a stranger on the island, +must have come in her. She wanted to make sure that Michael Kane was on +board. + +“I suppose now,” she said, “that it was Michael Kane told you that. And +it’s likely old Andrew that he said I was marrying.” + +“He said you were going to marry the King of the island,” said Miss +Clarence. + +“Well,” said Mary Nally, “that would be old Andrew.” + +“But isn’t it true?” said Miss Clarence. + +A horrible suspicion seized her. Michael Kane might have been making a +fool of her. + +“Michael Kane would tell you lies as quick as look at you,” she said; +“but maybe it wasn’t lies he was telling this time. Come along now and +we’ll see.” + +She lifted the flap of the counter behind which she sat and passed into +the outer part of the shop. She took Miss Clarence by the arm and they +went together through the door. Miss Clarence expected to be led down to +the pier. It seemed to her plain that Mary Nally must want to find out +from Michael whether he had told this outrageous story or not. She was +quite willing to face the old boatman. Mary Nally would have something +bitter to say to him. She herself would say something rather more bitter +and would say it more fiercely. + +Mary turned to the right and walked towards the yellow house with the +slate roof. She entered it, pulling Miss Clarence after her. + +An oldish man, very fat, but healthy looking and strong, sat in an +armchair near the window of the room they entered. Round the walls were +barrels of porter. On the shelves were bottles of whisky. In the middle +of the floor, piled one on top of the other, were three cases full of +soda-water bottles. + +“Andrew,” said Mary Nally, “there’s a young lady here says that you and +me is going to be married.” + +“I’ve been saying as much myself this five years,” said Andrew. “Ever +since your mother died. And I don’t know how it is we never done it.” + +“It might be,” said Mary, “because you never asked me.” + +“Sure, where was the use of my asking you,” said Andrew, “when you knew +as well as myself and everyone else that it was to be?” + +“Anyway,” said Mary, “the young lady says we’re doing it, and, what’s +more, we’re doing it to-day. What have you to say to that now, Andrew?” + +Andrew chuckled in a good-humoured and tolerant way. + +“What I’d say to that, Mary,” he said, “is that it would be a pity to +disappoint the young lady if her heart’s set on it.” + +“It’s not my heart that’s set on it,” said Miss Clarence indignantly. “I +don’t care if you never get married. It’s your own hearts, both of them, +that ought to be set on it.” + +As a journalist of some years’ experience she had, of course, outgrown +all sentiment. But she was shocked by the cool indifference of these +lovers who were prepared to marry merely to oblige a stranger whom they +had never seen before and were not likely to see again. But Mary +Nally did not seem to feel that there was any want of proper ardour in +Andrew’s way of settling the date of their wedding. + +“If you don’t get up out of your chair,” she said, “and be off to Father +McFadden to tell him what’s wanted, it’ll never be done either to-day or +any other day.” + +Andrew roused himself with a sigh. He took his hat from a peg, and a +stout walking-stick from behind a porter barrel. Then, politely but +firmly, he put the two women out of the house and locked the door +behind them. He was ready to marry Mary Nally--and her shop. He was not +prepared to trust her among his porter barrels and his whisky bottles +until the ceremony was actually completed. + +The law requires that a certain decorous pause shall be made before the +celebration of a marriage. Papers must be signed or banns published in +church. But Father McFadden had lived so long on Inishrua that he had +lost respect for law and perhaps forgotten what the law was. Besides, +Andrew was King of the island by right of popular assent, and what +is the use of being a king if you cannot override a tiresome law? The +marriage took place that afternoon, and Miss Clarence was present, +acting as a kind of bridesmaid. + +No sheep or heifers were killed, and no inordinate quantity of porter +was drunk. There was, indeed, no special festivity on the island, and +the other inhabitants took very little notice of what was happening. +They were perhaps, as Michael Kane said, too sleepy to be stirred with +excitement. But in spite of the general apathy, Miss Clarence was fairly +well satisfied with her experience. She felt that she had a really novel +subject for the first of her articles on the life and customs of the +Irish islanders. + +The one thing that vexed her was the thought that Michael Kane had been +laughing at her while he talked to her on the way out to the island. On +the way home she spoke to him severely. + +“You’ve no right,” she said, “to tell a pack of lies to a stranger who +happens to be a passenger in your boat.” + +“Lies!” said Michael. “What lie was in it? Didn’t I say they’d be +married to-day, and they were?” + +Miss Clarence might have retorted that no sheep or heifers had been +killed and very little porter drunk, but she preferred to leave these +details aside and stick to her main point. + +“But they didn’t mean to be married,” she said, “and you told me----” + +“Begging your pardon, Miss,” said Michael, “but they did mean it. Old +Andrew has been meaning it ever since Mrs. Nally died and left Mary with +the shop. And Mary was willing enough to go with him any day he asked +her. It’s what I was telling you at the first go off. Them island people +is dying out for the want of being able to keep from going to sleep. You +seen yourself the way it was. Them ones never would have been married at +all only for your going to Inishrua and waking them up. It’s thankful to +you they ought to be.” + +He appealed to Peter Gahan, who was crouching beside his engine under +the fore-deck. + +“Oughtn’t they to be thankful to the young lady, Peter,” he said, +“seeing they’d never have been married only for her?” + +Peter Gahan looked out from his shelter and scowled. According to the +teaching of the most advanced Socialists the marriage tie is not a +blessing but a curse. + + + + +XV. AUNT NELL + +Mrs. MacDermott splashed her way across the yard towards the stable. It +was raining, softly and persistently. The mud lay deep. There were pools +of water here and there. Mrs. MacDermott neither paused nor picked her +steps. There was no reason why she should. The rain could not damage the +tweed cap on her head. Her complexion, brilliant as the complexions of +Irish women often are, was not of the kind that washes off. Her rough +grey skirt, on which rain-drops glistened, came down no further than her +knees. On her feet were a pair of rubber boots which reached up to the +hem of her skirt, perhaps further. She was comfortably indifferent to +rain and mud. + +If you reckon the years since she was born, Mrs. MacDermott was nearly +forty. But that is no true way of estimating the age of man or woman. +Seen, not in the dusk with the light behind her, but in broad daylight +on horseback, she was little more than thirty. Such is the reward of +living an outdoor life in the damp climate of Connaught. And her heart +was as young as her face and figure. She had known no serious troubles +and very few of the minor cares of life. Her husband, a man twenty-five +years older than she was, died after two years of married life, leaving +her a very comfortable fortune. Nell MacDermott--the whole country +called her Nell--hunted three days a week every winter. + +“Why shouldn’t she be young?” John Gafferty, the groom, used to say. +“Hasn’t she five good horses and the full of her skin of meat and drink? +The likes of her never get old.” + +Johnny Gafferty was rubbing down a tall bay mare when Mrs. MacDermott +opened the stable door and entered the loose box. + +“Johnny,” she said, “you’ll put the cob in the governess cart this +afternoon and have him round at three o’clock. I’m going up to the +station to meet my nephew. I’ve had a letter from his father to say +he’ll be here to-day.” + +Johnny Gafferty, though he had been eight years in Mrs. MacDermott’s +service, had never before heard of her nephew. + +“It could be,” he said, cautiously, “that the captain will be bringing a +horse with him, or maybe two.” + +He felt that a title of some sort was due to the nephew of a lady like +Mrs. MacDennott. The assumption that he would have a horse or two with +him was natural. All Mrs. MacDermott’s friends hunted. + +“He’s not a captain,” said Mrs. MacDennott, “and he’s bringing no horses +and he doesn’t hunt. What’s more, Johnny, he doesn’t even ride, couldn’t +sit on the back of a donkey. So his father says, anyway.” + +“Glory be to God!” said Johnny, “and what sort of a gentleman will he be +at all?” + +“He’s a poet,” said Mrs. MacDennott. + +Johnny felt that he had perhaps gone beyond the limits of respectful +criticism in expressing his first astonishment at the amazing news that +Mrs. MacDermott’s nephew could not ride. + +“Well,” he said, “there’s worse things than poetry in the world.” + +“Very few sillier things,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “But that’s not the +worse there is about him, Johnny. His health is completely broken down. +That’s why he’s coming here. Nerve strain, they call it.” + +“That’s what they would call it,” said Johnny sympathetically, “when +it’s a high-up gentleman like a nephew of your own. And it’s hard to +blame him. There’s many a man does be a bit foolish without meaning any +great harm by it.” + +“To be a bit foolish” is a kindly, West of Ireland phrase which means to +drink heavily. + +“It’s not that,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “I don’t believe from what I’ve +heard of him that the man has even that much in him. It’s just what his +father says, poetry and nerves. And he’s coming here for the good of his +health. It’s Mr. Bertram they call him, Mr. Bertram Connell.” + +Mrs. MacDermott walked up and down the platform waiting for the arrival +of her nephew’s train. She was dressed in a very becoming pale blue +tweed and had wrapped a silk muffler of a rather brighter blue round +her neck. Her brown shoes, though strong, were very well made and +neat. Between them and her skirt was a considerable stretch of knitted +stocking, blue like the tweed. Her ankles were singularly well-formed +and comely. The afternoon had turned out to be fine and she had taken +some trouble about her dress before setting out to meet a strange nephew +whom she had not seen since he was five years old. She might have taken +more trouble still if the nephew had been anything more exciting than a +nerve-shattered poet. + +The train steamed in at last. Only one passenger got out of a +first-class carriage. Mrs. MacDermott looked at him in doubt. He was +not in the least the sort of man she expected to see. Poets, so she +understood, have long hair and sallow, clean-shaven faces. This young +man’s head was closely-cropped and he had a fair moustache. He was +smartly dressed in well-fitting clothes. Poets are, or ought to be, +sloppy in their attire. Also, judged by the colour of his cheeks and +his vigorous step, this man was in perfect health. Mrs. MacDermott +approached him with some hesitation. The young man was standing in +the middle of the platform looking around. His eyes rested on Mrs. +MacDermott for a moment, but passed from her again. He was expecting +someone whom he did not see. + +“Are you Bertram Connell, by any chance?” asked Mrs. MacDermott. + +“That’s me,” said the young man, “and I’m expecting an aunt to meet me. +I say, are you a cousin? I didn’t know I had a cousin.” + +The mistake was an excusable one. Mrs. MacDermott looked very young and +pretty in her blue tweed. She appreciated the compliment paid her all +the more because it was obviously sincere. + +“You haven’t any cousins,” she said. “Not on your father’s side, anyway. +I’m your aunt.” + +“Aunt Nell!” he said, plainly startled by the information. “Great Scott! +and I thought----” + +He paused and looked at Mrs. MacDermott with genuine surprise. Then he +recovered his self-possession. He put his arm round her neck and kissed +her heartily, first on one cheek, then on the other. + +Aunts are kissed by their nephews every day as a matter of course. They +expect it. Mrs. MacDermott had not thought about the matter beforehand. +If she had she would have taken it for granted that Bertram would kiss +her, occasionally, uncomfortably and without conviction. The kisses she +actually received embarrassed her. She even blushed a little and was +annoyed with herself for blushing. + +“There doesn’t seem to be much the matter with your nerve,” she said. + +Bertram became suddenly grave. + +“My nerves are in a rotten state,” he said. “The doctor--specialist, you +know, tip-top man--said the only thing for me was life in the country, +fresh air, birds, flowers, new milk, all that sort of thing.” + +“Your father wrote all that to me,” said Mrs. MacDermott. + +“Poor old dad,” said Bertram, “he’s horribly upset about it.” + +Mrs. MacDermott was further puzzled about her nephew’s nervous breakdown +when she suggested about 7 o’clock that it was time to dress for dinner. +Bertram who had been talking cheerfully and smoking a good deal, put his +arm round her waist and ran her upstairs. + +“Jolly thing to have an aunt like you,” he said. + +Mrs. MacDermott was slightly out of breath and angry with herself for +blushing again. At bedtime she refused a good-night kiss with some +dignity. Bertram protested. + +“Oh, I say, Aunt Nell, that’s all rot, you know. An aunt is just one of +the people you do kiss, night and morning.” + +“No, you don’t,” she said, “and anyway you won’t get the chance +to-morrow morning. I shall be off early. It’s a hunting day.” + +“Can’t I get a horse somewhere?” said Bertram. + +Mrs. MacDermott looked at him in astonishment. + +“Your father told me,” she said, “that you couldn’t ride and had never +been on a horse in your life.” + +“Did he say that? The poor dad! I suppose he was afraid I’d break my +neck.” + +“If you’re suffering from nervous breakdown----” + +“I am. Frightfully. That’s why they sent me here.” + +“Then you shouldn’t hunt,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “You should sit quietly +in the library and write poetry. That reminds me, the rector is coming +to dinner to-night. I thought you’d like to meet him.” + +“Why? Is he a sporting old bird?” + +“Not in the least; but he’s the only man about this country who knows +anything about poetry. That’s why I asked him.” + +Johnny Gafferty made a report to Mrs. MacDermott when she returned from +hunting which surprised her a good deal. + +“The young gentleman, ma’am,” he said, “was round in the stable this +morning, shortly after you leaving. And nothing would do him only for me +to saddle the bay for him.” + +“Did you do it?” + +“What else could I do,” said Gafferty, “when his heart was set on it?” + +“I suppose he’s broken his own neck and the mare’s knees,” said Mrs. +MacDermott. + +“He has not then. Neither the one nor the other. I don’t know how he’d +do if you faced him with a stone wall, but the way he took the bay over +the fence at the end of the paddock was as neat as ever I seen. You +couldn’t have done it better yourself, ma’am.” + +“He can ride, then?” + +“Ride!” said Gafferty. “Is it ride? If his poetry is no worse nor his +riding he’ll make money by it yet.” + +The dinner with the rector was not an entire success. The clergyman, +warned beforehand that he was to entertain a well-known poet, had +prepared himself by reading several books of Wordsworth’s Excursion. +Bertram shied at the name of Wordsworth and insisted on hearing from his +aunt a detailed account of the day’s run. This puzzled Mrs. MacDermott a +little; but she hit upon an explanation which satisfied her. The rector +was enthusiastic in his admiration of Wordsworth. Bertram, a poet +himself, evidently suffered from professional jealousy. + +Mrs. MacDermott, who had looked forward to her nephew’s visit with +dread, began to enjoy it Bertram was a cheerful young man with an easy +flow of slangy conversation. His tastes were very much the same as +Mrs. MacDermott’s own. He smoked, and drank whisky and soda in moderate +quantities. He behaved in all respects like a normal man, showing no +signs of the nervousness which goes with the artistic temperament. His +politeness to her and the trouble he took, about her comfort in small +matters were very pleasant. He had large handsome blue eyes, and Mrs. +MacDermott liked the way he looked at her. His gaze expressed a frank +admiration which was curiously agreeable. + +A week after his arrival Mrs. MacDermott paid a high compliment to +her nephew. She promised to mount him on the bay mare and take him out +hunting. She had satisfied herself that Johnny Gafferty was not mistaken +and that the young man really could ride. Bertram, excited and in high +good humour, succeeded, before she had time to protest, in giving her a +hearty kiss of gratitude. + +The morning of the hunt was warm and moist. The meet was in one of the +most favourable places in the country. Mrs. MacDermott, drawing on her +gloves in the hall before starting, noted with gratification that her +nephew’s breeches were well-cut and his stock neatly fastened. Johnny +Gafferty could be heard outside the door speaking to the horses which he +held ready. + +A telegraph boy arrived on a bicycle. He handed the usual orange +envelope to Mrs. Mac-Dermott. She tore it open impatiently and glanced +at the message inside. She gave an exclamation of surprise and read the +message through slowly and carefully. Then, without a word, she handed +it to her nephew. + +“Very sorry,” the telegram ran, “only to-day discovered that Bertram +had not gone to you as arranged. He is in a condition of complete +prostration. Cannot start now. Connell.” + +“It’s from my brother,” said Mrs. MacDermott, “but what on earth does it +mean? You’re here all right, aren’t you?” + +“Yes,” he said, “_I’m_ here.” + +He laid a good deal of emphasis on the “I.” Mrs. MacDermott looked at +him with sudden suspicion. + +“I’ve had a top-hole time,” he said. “What an utterly incompetent +rotter Connell is! He had nothing on earth to do but lie low. His father +couldn’t have found out.” + +Mrs. MacDermott walked over to the door and addressed Gafferty. + +“Johnny,” she said, “the horses won’t be wanted to-day.” She turned +to the young man who stood beside her. “Now,” she said, “come into the +library and explain what all this means.” + +“Oh, I say, Aunt Nell,” he said, “don’t let’s miss the day. I’ll explain +the whole thing to you in the evening after dinner.” + +“You’ll explain it now, if you can.” + +She led the way into the library. + +“It’s quite simple really,” he said. “Bertram Connell, your nephew, +though a poet and all that, is rather an ass.” + +“Are you Bertram Connell, or are you not?” said Mrs. MacDermott. + +“Oh Lord, no. I’m not that sort of fellow at all. I couldn’t write +a line of poetry to save my life. He’s--you simply can’t imagine how +frightfully brainy he is. All the same I rather like him. He was my fag +at school and we were up together at Cambridge. I’ve more or less kept +up with him ever since. He’s more like a girl than a man, you know. I +daresay that’s why I liked him. Then he crocked up, nerves and that +sort of thing. And they said he must come over here. He didn’t like the +notion a bit. I was in London just then on leave, and he told me how he +hated the idea.” + +“So did I,” said Mrs. MacDermott. + +“I said that he was a silly ass and that if I had the chance of a month +in the west of Ireland in a sporting sort of house--he told me you +hunted a lot--I’d simply jump at it. But the poor fellow was frightfully +sick at the prospect, said he was sure he wouldn’t get on with you, and +that you’d simply hate him. He had a book of poetry just coming out and +he was hoping to get a play of his taken on, a play about fairies. I +give you my word he was very near crying, so, after a lot of talking, we +hit on the idea of my coming here. He was to lie low in London so that +his father wouldn’t find him.” + +“You neither of you thought about me, apparently,” said Mrs. MacDermott. + +“Oh, yes we did. We thought as you hadn’t seen him since he was a +child that you wouldn’t know him. And of course we thought you’d be +frightfully old. There didn’t seem to be much harm in it.” + +“And you--you came here and called me Aunt Nell.” + +“You’re far the nicest aunt I’ve ever seen or even imagined.” + +“And you actually had the cheek to----” + +Mrs. MacDermott stopped abruptly and blushed. She was thinking of the +kisses. His thoughts followed hers, though she did not complete the +sentence. + +“Only the first day,” he said. “You wouldn’t let me afterwards. Except +once, and you didn’t really let me then. I just did it. I give you +my word I couldn’t help it. You looked so jolly. No fellow could have +helped it. I believe Bertram would have done the same, though he is a +poet.” + +“And now,” said Mrs. MacDermott, “before you go----” + +“Must I go----” + +“Out of this house and back to London today,” said Mrs. MacDermott. +“But before you go I’d rather like to know who you are, since you’re not +Bertram Connell.” + +“My name is Maitland, Robert Maitland, but they generally call me Bob. +I’m in the 30th Lancers. I say, it was rather funny your thinking I +couldn’t ride and turning on that old parson to talk poetry to me.” + +Mrs. MacDermott allowed herself to smile. + +The matter was really settled that day before Bob Maitland left for +London; but it was a week later when Mrs. MacDermott announced her +decision to her brother. + +“There’s no fool like an old fool,” she wrote, “and at my age I ought to +have more sense. But I took to Bob the moment I saw him, and if he +makes as good a husband as he did a nephew we’ll get on together all +right--though he is a few years younger than I am.” + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lady Bountiful, by George A. Birmingham + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY BOUNTIFUL *** + +***** This file should be named 24155-0.txt or 24155-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/1/5/24155/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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