CHAPTER II.
These are a few things better managed in Ireland than in England, andone of them is the starting of important railway trains. Thedeparture, for instance, of the morning mail from the Dublin terminusof the Midland and Great Western Railway is carried through, day afterday, with dignity. The hour is an early one, 7 a.m.; but all the chiefofficiate of the company are present, tastefully dressed. There is nofuss. Passengers know that it is their duty to be at the station notlater than a quarter to seven. If they have any luggage they arrivestill earlier, for the porters must not be hustled. At ten minutes toseven the proper officials conduct the passengers to their carriagesand pen them in. Lest any one of independent and rebellious spiritshould escape, and insist on loitering about the platform, the doors ofthe compartments are all locked. No Irishman resents this treatment.Members of a conquered race, they are meek, and have long ago given upthe hope of being able to resist the mandates of official people.
Strangers, Englishmen on tour, are easily recognised by theirself-assertive demeanour and ill-bred offences against the solemnetiquette of the railway company. Since it is impossible to teachthese people manners or meekness, the guards and porters treat them, asfar as possible, with patient forbearance. They must, of course, begot into the train, but the doors of their compartments are not locked.It has been found by experience that English travellers object to beingimprisoned without trial, and quote regulations of the Board of Tradeforbidding the locking of both doors of a railway carriage. There isnothing to be gained by a public wrangle with an angry Englishman. Hecannot be got to understand that laws, those of the Board of Trade orany other, are not binding on Irish officials. There is only one wayof treating him without loss of dignity, and that is to give in to himat once, with a shrug of the shoulders.
Thus, Miss King, entering upon the final stage of her journey toBallymoy, reaped the benefit of belonging to a conquering and imperialrace. She was, indeed, put into her compartment, a first-class one,ten minutes before the train started; but her door, alone of all thedoors, was left unlocked. The last solemn minutes before the departureof the train passed slowly. Grave men in uniform paraded the platform,glancing occasionally at their watches. The engine-driver watched fromhis cabin for the waving of the green flag which would authorise him topush over his levers and start the train. The great moment had almostarrived. The guard held his whistle to his lips, and had the greenflag ready to be unfurled, in his left hand. Then a totallyunexpected, almost an unprecedented, thing occurred. A passengerwalked into the station and approached the train with the evidentintention of getting into it. He was a clergyman, shabbily dressed,imperfectly shaved, red-haired, and wearing a red moustache. Hecarried a battered Gladstone bag in one hand. The guard glanced at himand then distended his cheeks with air, meaning to blow his whistle.
"Hold on a minute," said the clergyman. "I'm thinking of travelling bythis train."
The audacity of this statement shook the self-possession of the guard.
"Can't wait," he said. "Time's up. You ought to have been heresooner."
To say this he was obliged to take the whistle from his lips; and theengine-driver, who had a strict sense of duty, was unable to start.
"As a matter of fact," said the clergyman, "I'm not only here soonenough, I'm an hour and a half too soon. The train I intended to catchis the next one."
The guard put his whistle to his lips again.
"If you blow that thing," said the clergyman, "before I'm in the train,I'll take an action against the company for assault and battery."
The guard hesitated. He did not see how such an action could besustained in court; but he felt the necessity of thinking over hisposition carefully before running any risks. The law, especially inIreland, is a curious thing, and no wise man entangles himself with itif he can help it. Railway guards are all wise men, otherwise theywould not have risen to their high positions.
"Now that I am here," said the clergyman, "I may as well go by thistrain. Excuse me one moment; I want to get a few newspapers."
This was gross impertinence, and the guard was in no mood to stand it.He blew his whistle. The engine shrieked excitedly, and the trainstarted with a violent jerk.
The clergyman seized a handful of newspapers from the bookstall.Clinging to them and his bag he ran across the platform. He tried thedoors of two third-class compartments as they passed him, and foundthem locked. He happened next upon that which was occupied by MissKing, opened the door, and tumbled in.
"I've only got a third-class ticket," he said cheerfully; "but I shalltravel first class the whole way now, and I shan't pay a penny ofexcess fare."
"Won't they make you?" said Miss King.
She realised that she had found an unexpectedly early opportunity ofstudying the peculiarities of the Irish character, and determined tomake the most of it.
"Certainly not," said the clergyman. "The position is this. I have athrough ticket--I bought it yesterday--which entitles me to travel onthis railway to Donard. If the doors of all the third-class carriagesare locked when I arrive at the station, I take it that the companymeans me to travel first class. Their own action is a clear indicationof their intention. There isn't a jury in Ireland would give itagainst me, even if the case came into court, which, of course, itwon't."
"I'm going to Donard, too," said Miss King.
"Are you? It's a wretched hole of a place. I don't advise you to stopthere long."
"I'm not staying there at all. I'm driving straight on to Ballymoy."
"If you're at all familiar with Ballymoy, I expect you've heard of me.My name's Meldon, the Reverend J. J. Meldon, B.A. I was curate ofBallymoy once, and everybody who was there in my time will be talkingabout me still. I'm going back there now for a holiday."
"But I'm quite a stranger," said Miss King. "I've never been inBallymoy."
Meldon glanced at the bag which lay on the seat before her. There wasno label on it, but it bore the initials M. K. in gold letters on itsside.
"I suppose," he said, "that you're not by any chance a sister or aniece of Major Kent's?"
"No. I'm not. I don't even know Major Kent. My name is King.Millicent King."
A clergyman is, necessarily, more or less educated. Mr. Meldon hadproclaimed himself a bachelor of arts. It was natural to suppose thathe would have known the name, even the real name, of a famous livingnovelist. Apparently he did not. Miss King felt a little disappointed.
"I daresay," said Meldon, without showing any signs of being impressed,"that you're going to stop with the Resident Magistrate."
"No," said Miss King decisively.
"You don't look like the sort of person who'd be going on a visit tothe rectory."
Miss King was handsomely dressed. She appeared to be a lady of highfashion; not at all likely to be an inmate of the shabby little rectoryat Ballymoy. She shook her head. Then, because she did not like beingcross-questioned, she put an end to the conversation by opening her bagand taking out a bundle of typewritten papers. She was quite preparedto study Mr. Meldon as a type, but she saw no reason why Mr. Meldonshould study her. He appeared to be filled with an ill-bred curiositywhich she determined not to satisfy.
Meldon did not seem to resent her silence in the least. He leaned backin his seat and unfolded one of the papers he had snatched from thebookstall. It was a London evening paper of the day before, andcontained a full account of the last scene of a sensational trial whichhad occupied the attention of the public for some time. A Mrs. Lorimerwas charged with the murder of her husband. Her methods, if she haddone the deed, were cold-blooded and abominable; but she was a youngand good-looking woman, and the public was very anxious that she shouldbe acquitted. The judge, Sir Gilbert Hawkesby, summed up very stronglyagainst her; but the jury, after a prolonged absence from court, foundher "not guilty." The paper published a portrait of Mrs. Lorimer, atwhich Meldon glanced. Suddenly his face assumed an expression of greatinter
est. He studied the portrait carefully, and then looked at MissKing. She sat at the other end of the carriage, and he saw her face inprofile as she bent over her papers. Mrs. Lorimer's side face wasrepresented in the picture; and she, too, was bending over something.Meldon laid down the paper and took up another, this time an Irishmorning paper. It contained an interview with Mrs. Lorimer, secured byan enterprising reporter after the trial. Meldon read this, and thenturned to the magazine page and studied the picture of the lady whichappeared there. In it Mrs. Lorimer wore a hat, and it was again herside face which was represented. Meldon looked from it to Miss King.The likeness was quite unmistakable. He took up a third paper, aprofusely illustrated penny daily. He found, as he expected, a pictureof Mrs. Lorimer. This was a full-length portrait, but the face cameout clearly. Meldon took up the Irish paper again, and re-read verycarefully the interview with the reporter on the evening of the trial.Then he folded up all three papers and leaned over towards Miss King.
"You must excuse me," he said, "if I didn't recognise you just now.You put me out by giving your name as Miss King. I'm much morefamiliar with your other name. Everybody is, you know."
Miss King was mollified by the apology. She looked up from her papersand smiled.
"How did you find me out?" she asked.
"By your picture in the papers," he said. "If you'll allow me to sayso, it's a particularly good likeness and well reproduced. Of course,in your case, they'd take particular care not to print the usual kindof smudge."
Miss King was strongly inclined to ask for the papers. Her portraithad, she knew, appeared in the _Illustrated London News_ and in twoliterary journals. She did not know that it had been reproduced in thedaily press. The news excited and pleased her greatly. She had ashort struggle with herself, in which self-respect triumphed. She didnot ask for the papers, but assumed an air of bored indifference.
"They're always publishing my photograph," she said. "I can't imaginewhy they do it."
"I quite understand now," said Meldon, "why you're going down toBallymoy. You couldn't go to a better place for privacy and quiet;complete quiet. I'm sure you want it."
"Yes," said Miss King. "I feel that I do. Now that you know who I am,you will understand. I chose Ballymoy because it seemed so very remotefrom everywhere."
She did not think it necessary to mention that she wanted to study theIrish character. Now that Meldon was talking in an interesting way shefelt inclined to encourage him to reveal himself.
"Quite right. It is. I don't know a remoter place. Nobody will knowyou there, and if anybody guesses, I'll make it my business to put themoff the scent at once. But there'll be no necessity for that. Thereisn't a man in the place will connect Miss King with the other lady.All the same, I don't think I'd stop too long at Doyle's hotel if Iwere you. Doyle is frightfully curious about people."
"I'm not stopping there," said Miss King. "I have taken a house."
"What house? I know Ballymoy pretty well, and there isn't a house init you could take furnished, except the place that belonged to old SirGiles Buckley."
"I've taken that for two months," said Miss King.
Meldon whistled softly. He was surprised. Ballymoy House, even if letat a low rent, is an expensive place to live in.
"My servants went down there yesterday," said Miss King. She openedher bag and groped among the contents as she spoke.
"Would you be very much shocked if I smoked a cigarette?" she asked.
"Not in the least," said Meldon. "I smoke myself."
"I was afraid--being a clergyman--you are a clergyman, aren't you?Some people are so prejudiced against ladies smoking."
"I'm not," said Meldon. "I'm remarkably free from prejudices of anykind. I pride myself on being open-minded. My wife doesn't smoke, butthat's merely because she doesn't like it. If she did, I shouldn'tmake the slightest objection. All the same, you oughtn't to go puffingcigarettes about the streets of Ballymoy. The Major's a bitold-fashioned in some ways, and I don't expect Doyle is accustomed tosee ladies smoking. You'll have to be very careful. If you startpeople talking they may find out who you are, and then there willcertainly be unpleasantness."
"Would they disapprove of me?"
"Almost sure to. We Irish have the name of being a wild lot, I know;but--well, if you don't mind my saying so, most of us would be rathershy of you. I don't mind you myself in the least, of course. I'm notthat kind of man. Still, your reputation! You've been a good deal inthe papers, haven't you?"
Miss King, curiously enough, seemed pleased at this account of herreputation. It is gratifying to a novelist to be famous, and evennotoriety is pleasant. She felt that, having braved the censure ofLady Hawkesby, she could afford to despise the morality of the peopleof Ballymoy.
"The Major?" she said. "You've mentioned him once or twice. What sortof man is he? Does my work shock him?"
"I expect it does," said Meldon. "I haven't seen him for some time,and so we haven't discussed you. But from what I know of him I shouldsay that your work, as you call it, will shock him frightfully. Youcan't altogether blame him. He's a bachelor, and has very strict ideasabout a wife's duty to her husband."
Miss King was moved by a desire to startle Meldon. She was reallyengaged on quite an innocent novel, but she chose to pretend that shewas going on in her old way.
"What will he say," she said, "when he finds out that I'm going on withmy work under his very eyes, so to speak, in Ballymoy?"
Meldon sat up suddenly.
"You don't mean that? Surely you can't intend--"
"Now you're shocked," said Miss King, "and you said you wouldn't be."
"I am a little. I didn't think I could be. But I am. I neverimagined--"
"But that's exactly what I'm going to Ballymoy for. I want completequiet in a lonely place where I shan't be disturbed."
"Of course, it's no business of mine," said Meldon. "But don't youthink that perhaps you've done enough?"
"No. I have a great deal to do yet. If it were simply a question ofearning money--"
Meldon looked at her. She was very well dressed. The bag which layopen at her side was fitted with silver-topped bottles. Her cigarettecase appeared to be of gold. She was travelling first class. She hadtaken Ballymoy House for two months. He was quite ready to believethat she did not want money.
"Do you mean to say that you're doing it simply for amusement?" heasked.
"No. Not amusement." Her voice dropped to a kind of solemn whisper."For the love of my art."
Miss King took herself very seriously indeed, and was accustomed totalk a good deal about her art. Literary people who might have knownbetter, and critics who certainly did know better, encouraged her.They also talked about her art.
"Of course, if you look at it that way," said Meldon, "there's no moreto be said; but you mustn't expect me to help you."
"You!"
"No. As a clergyman I can't possibly do it. Nor will the Major,unless he's greatly changed. I don't expect Doyle will either. He'spresident of the local branch of the League, but I'm sure he draws theline at--"
"But I don't want any of you to help me. Why should I?"
"I'm glad to hear that, at all events," said Meldon. "For, unlessunder very exceptional circumstances, I couldn't conscientiously assistyou in any way."
"You said just now," said Miss King, "that you had no prejudices, andthat nothing shocked you."
"Very few things do," said Meldon. "In fact I can't recollect everhaving been shocked before; but this idea is a little new to me. Icandidly confess that I never--hullo! We're slowing down into astation. Now I expect there'll be trouble about my ticket."
There was--considerable trouble. But Meldon emerged from itvictoriously. He flatly refused to move from the carriage in which hesat. The guard, the station-master, a ticket-collector, and fourporters gathered round the door and argued with him. Meldon arguedfluently with them. In the end they took
his name and address,threatening him with prosecution. Then, because the train was a mailtrain and obliged to go on, the guard blew his whistle and Meldon wasleft in peace.
"It's a nuisance," he said to Miss King, "being worried by those men.I wanted to send a telegram, but I couldn't. If I'd ventured out ofthe carriage they'd never have let me back again. The Major won't beexpecting me till the next train. I only caught this one by accident."
"By accident?"
"Yes. The fact is I was up early this morning, wakened by my littledaughter, a baby not quite two years old yet. I told you I wasmarried, didn't I? The poor child was upset by the journey fromEngland, and didn't sleep properly. When she had me wakened I thoughtI might as well get up. I intended to stroll up towards the stationquietly. I walked rather faster than I meant to, and when I got withinabout three hundred yards of the station I discovered that I might justcatch this train by running; so, of course, I ran. I'm very glad I didnow. If I hadn't I shouldn't have met you."
"What did you do with the baby?"
"I didn't drop her on the way, if that's what you're thinking of. I'mnot that kind of man at all, and I am particularly fond of the child.I scarcely ever complain when she keeps me awake at night, though manymen I know would want to smother her. She and my wife are stoppingwith my mother-in-law in Rathmines. I'm going down for a fortnight'syachting with the Major. I might persuade him to give you a day'ssailing, perhaps, if he doesn't find out who you are, and we succeed inkeeping it dark about your going on with your work. I daresay it wouldcheer you up to go out on the bay. I expect you find your work prettytrying."
"It is very trying. I often feel completely exhausted at the end ofthe day."
"Nerve strain," said Meldon. "I don't wonder. It's a marvel how youstand it."
"Then I can't sleep," said Miss King. "Often I can't sleep for two orthree nights together."
"It surprises me to hear that you ever sleep at all. Don't they hauntyou? I've always heard--"
"My people?"
"Yes, your people, if that's what you call them. I'd have thoughtthey'd never have let you alone."
"Some of them do haunt me. I often cry when I think of them. It'svery foolish, of course; but in spite of myself I cry."
"Then why on earth do you go on with it?"
"It's my art," said Miss King.
"I'm not an artist myself," said Meldon, "in any sense of the word, soI can't exactly enter into your feelings; but I should say, speaking asa complete outsider, that the proper thing for you would be to drop thewhole thing, take to smoking a pipe instead of those horrid scentedcigarettes, drink a bottle of porter before you go to bed, and thensleep sound."
Miss King sighed. There was something in the ideal which Meldon setbefore her which was very attractive. The details she ignored.Bottled porter was not a drink she cared for, and no woman, howeveremancipated, likes a pipe. In spite of the satisfaction she found inher literary success, there was in her a desire for quiet and restfulways of life. There was no doubt that she would sleep sounder at nightif she lived simply, somewhere in the country, and forgot theexcitements of the novelist's art. Meldon, indeed, did not seem toenjoy absolutely unbroken rest at night; but Miss King's imagination,although she wrote improper novels, did not insist on representing ababy as an inevitable part of domesticated life. She got no furtherthan the dream of a peaceful house, with the figure of an inoffensivehusband somewhere in the background.
The Simpkins Plot Page 2
