CHAPTER XIII.
Sir Gilbert Hawkesby had the reputation of being a just and able judge,a man of fine intellect, great vigour, and immense determination ofcharacter. On the bench he looked the part which popular imaginationhad given him to play. His eyes were described as "steely" by a ladyjournalist, who had occasion to watch him during the sensational trialof Mrs. Lorimer. His chin she described later on in her article as"characteristic of a strong fighter." His manner in court wasexceedingly severe. In private life, especially during his summerholiday, he tried not to look like a judge, and was always pleased whenstrangers mistook him for a country gentleman, the owner of a landedproperty. He had a broad figure, and emphasised its breadth by wearingon his holiday loose jackets of rough tweed. He had strong, stout legswhich looked well in knickerbockers and shooting stockings. A casualobserver, not knowing the man, would have set him down as an ardentsportsman, and would have been perfectly right. The judge lovedfishing, and was prepared to go long distances in the hope of catchingsalmon. He liked yachting, and owned a small cutter which was one ofthe crack boats of her class. Men who met him for the first time onthe banks of a Norwegian river, or at a regatta at Cowes, were moreimpressed by his physical than his intellectual strength. They wouldperhaps have suspected him of obstinacy, the obstinacy of theinveterate prejudice of the country gentleman. They would not, unlessthey knew him, have given him credit for being a man of wide reading,and a judgment in literary matters as sound as his decisions in court.
Sir Gilbert had spent nearly a week in the Bournemouth villa which hehad taken for Lady Hawkesby. The place wearied him, and nothing but achivalrous sense of the duty he owed to his wife kept him there solong. Lady Hawkesby was a little exacting in some ways; and though sherecognised that the judge had a right to go fishing, she disliked hisrunning away without spending a few days with her after the busy seasonwas over, and she was able to leave London. The day of the judge'sdeparture had arrived, and he sat with Lady Hawkesby after luncheon,waiting for the carriage which was to take him to the station.
"You'll see Millicent, of course," said Lady Hawkesby. "Be sure tokeep her out of mischief if you can."
"I don't suppose," said Sir Gilbert, "that Millicent can get into anymischief in Ballymoy."
Lady Hawkesby sighed. She distrusted her niece, regarding her as ahighly dangerous person who might at any moment create a sensationwhich would amount to a public scandal.
"I understand," she said, "that the place is twenty miles away from thenearest railway station."
She sighed again. She was a little uncertain as to whether she oughtto find comfort or fresh cause of anxiety in the remoteness of Ballymoyfrom civilisation. On the one hand, scandals of a literary kind--andLady Hawkesby did not suspect Miss King of giving occasion for anythingworse--are unlikely in the wilds of Connacht. On the other hand, herdistance from all friends and advisers would give Miss King a freedomwhich was very perilous.
"I can't think," she said, "what takes either of you to such a place."
"I'm going to catch salmon," said Sir Gilbert. "Millicent tells methat she wants rest and quiet. I daresay she does."
"I wish very much," said Lady Hawkesby, "that she was safely married tosome quiet sensible man."
There was a good deal of sound common sense and knowledge of humannature in her "safely." Lady Hawkesby was not a brilliant woman. Shewas in many ways a foolish woman. But she had certain beliefs foundedon the experience of many generations of people like herself, andtherefore entitled to respect. She believed that a woman is much lesslikely to wander from the beaten paths of life when her hands are heldby a husband, if possible "a quiet sensible man," and her petticoatsgrasped by several clinging children.
"I'm afraid," said Sir Gilbert, "that she's not likely to meet with anysuitable person in Ballymoy, but if she does I'll give her yourblessing as well as my own."
The fact that Miss King was not likely to meet an eligible man inBallymoy set Lady Hawkesby's thoughts working in a fresh direction.
"I am sure," she said, "that Millicent will be very glad to see you.In a place like that where there can't be anybody to talk to--"
"Even I might be welcome. I'll look her up every Sunday. I'll dinewith her if she asks me on week-days; but I'm not going to stay withher in the house she has taken. I like to be a free bird of the wildwhen I'm on my holidays. The local inn, which is called the ImperialHotel, and owned by a man named Doyle, is the place for me. I've takenrooms in it."
"I'm sure they'll cook abominably. You'll be half-starved."
"Potato cake and bottled porter," said Sir Gilbert. "That's what Ialways live on when I go to Ireland. In Scotland I have oatcake andwhisky. Last summer, in Norway, I throve on smoked salmon."
"I hear the carriage. I hope all your things are properly packed, andthat nothing is forgotten."
"As long as I have my rods and my fly book," said Sir Gilbert, "I shallbe able to get along. Good-bye, my dear. I shall dine at the club,and catch the night mail from Euston."
"Do write to me, Gilbert."
"I'll write on Sunday, not sooner, unless I find that Milly has gotinto a scrape."
Sir Gilbert travelled comfortably, and enjoyed his journey. At Eustonhe got into the carriage with an Irish Member of Parliament, aUnionist, who was returning to his native Dublin after making himselfas brilliantly objectionable as possible for six months to a LiberalChief Secretary. He mistook the judge for an Irish country gentleman,and gave expression to political opinions which Sir Gilbert foundextremely amusing. On the steamer he fell in with another Member ofParliament, this time a Nationalist, who had travelled third class inthe train, and only emerged into good society at Holyhead. He, gettingnearer to the truth than his enemy, thought the judge was an Englishtourist, and explained the good intentions of the Congested DistrictsBoard at some length. The judge found him amusing too, and sat uptalking to him in the smoking-room. In the morning he introduced histwo acquaintances to each other at five o'clock, just as the steamerreached Kingstown pier. He was delighted with the result. They bothlooked round them cautiously, and satisfied themselves that there wasno one on the pier who knew them. Then they fell into an animatedconversation, and found each other so agreeable that they travelledtogether in a second-class carriage to Dublin, the Nationalist payingninepence extra for the privilege, the Unionist sacrificing theadvantages conferred by his first-class ticket. The judge, who wasgoing in a different train, put his head into the window of theircompartment and urged them to settle their political differences by asimilar compromise. He made a habit of being festive and jocular whenhe was on holiday, and he particularly enjoyed poking fun at theinhabitants of foreign countries.
In the breakfast car of the train which carried him westwards he cameinto contact with a Local Government Board inspector. This gentlemanwas extremely reticent for a long time, and was only persuaded to talkin the end when the judge assured him that he was a complete strangerin Ireland, and was not a newspaper correspondent. Then the inspectortalked. He told a series of amusing tales which were all of them true,but which Sir Gilbert regarded as inventions. He had to change hiscarriage at Athlone, and parted from the inspector with great regret.For the rest of his journey he was alone. It was his first visit tothe part of Ireland he was travelling through, and he looked with keeninterest at the bogs, the scattered cottages, the lean cattle, scantypasture lands, potato fields, patches of oats, and squalid towns.
At Donard Station, which is the terminus of this branch of the railway,and the nearest station to Ballymoy, he got out. He had telegraphed tothe hotel for luncheon, and given orders that a car should be ready todrive him over to Ballymoy, He was accosted on the platform by twostrangers. He eyed them with some surprise. The one was a shabby,red-haired clergyman, with a bristling moustache and a strikinglybattered hat. He looked about thirty years of age. The other was aslightly older man, dressed in a seedy grey suit and a pair ofsurprisingly bright yell
ow gaiters.
"Sir Gilbert Hawkesby, I presume?" said Meldon.
"Yes," said the judge; "I am Sir Gilbert Hawkesby."
"This," said Meldon, "is my friend Dr. O'Donoghue, medical officer ofhealth for the Poor Law Union of Ballymoy, a man greatly respected inthe neighbourhood for his scientific attainments and the uncompromisinghonesty of his character. I need scarcely remind you, Sir Gilbert,that the two things don't always go together."
Dr. O'Donoghue bowed and took off his cap.
"And you?" said the judge. "May I ask who you are?"
"It doesn't really matter who I am," said Meldon. "The important factfor you to grasp is that O'Donoghue is the officer of health of theUnion of Ballymoy. That's what you are, isn't it, O'Donoghue?"
"It is," said O'Donoghue.
"I'll make a note of it at once," said the judge.
"A mental note will do," said Meldon. "You needn't bother writing itdown. If you happen to forget it in the course of our conversation,you've only got to mention that you have and I'll tell it to you again."
"Thanks," said the judge. "I'm so glad that we are to have aconversation. When shall we begin?"
Sir Gilbert was enjoying Meldon very much so far. He'd never beforecome across any one exactly like this clergyman, and he wanted to seemore of him.
"Perhaps," said Meldon, "as what we have to say is of a strictlyprivate kind, and may turn out to be actually libellous, we'd better godown to the hotel."
"Certainly," said the judge. "I've ordered luncheon there. If you andthe medical officer of health will join me I shall be delighted. Afterluncheon I shall have to leave you, I'm afraid. I have a long drivebefore me. I'm on my way to Ballymoy."
"When you've heard what we have to say," said Meldon, "you won't go toBallymoy."
"I expect I shall," said the judge. "But of course I don't know yetwhat form your libel is going to take. Still, I can hardly imaginethat the defamation of any one's character will keep me out ofBallymoy. I have a car waiting for me outside the station, but I'mafraid I cannot offer to drive you down to the hotel. I have a gooddeal of luggage."
"As far as the luggage is concerned," said Meldon, "you may just aswell leave it here. There's no point in dragging a lot of trunks andfishing-rods down to the hotel when you'll simply have to drag them allback again. When you've heard what we have to say you'll take the nexttrain home."
"I don't expect I shall. In fact, I feel tolerably certain I shall goon. I'll take the luggage with me any how, in case I do."
"You mustn't think," said Meldon, "that I'm suggesting your leaving theluggage behind simply in order to get a seat on your car."
"I assure you," said the judge, "that such a suspicion never crossed mymind."
"O'Donoghue and I both have bicycles, so we don't want to drive. Hehas his own, a capital machine, and I borrowed Doyle's this morning,which is quite sound except for the left pedal. It's a bit groggy, andcame off twice on the way here."
"That makes me all the more sorry I can't drive you down," said thejudge, "but you see what a lot of things I have. I needn't saygood-bye: we shall meet again at the hotel."
Luncheon--chops and boiled potatoes--was served in the commercial roomof the hotel. When the maid had gone away after supplying the threemen with whisky and soda, Meldon laid down his knife and fork.
"I may introduce my subject," he said, "by saying that I have a highrespect for you. So has O'Donoghue. Haven't you, O'Donoghue?"
"I have," said O'Donoghue.
"Thanks," said the judge. "It's kind of you both to say that."
"Not at all; it's the simple truth. I look up to you a good deal inyour capacity of judge. Judge of the King's Bench, I think?"
The judge nodded.
"In order to make my position quite plain," said Meldon, "and toprevent any possibility of your thinking that I'm meddling with youraffairs in an unwarrantable manner, I may add that I recognise in youone of the pillars of society, a bulwark of our civil and religiousliberty, a mainstay of law and order. So does O'Donoghue."
"I'm a Nationalist myself," said the doctor, who felt that he was beingcommitted to sentiments which he could not entirely approve.
"I'm speaking of Sir Gilbert as an English judge," said Meldon, "andthe law and order I refer to are, so far as Sir Gilbert is concerned,purely English. Nothing that I am saying now compromises you in theslightest either with regard to the land question or Home Rule."
"I didn't understand that at the time you spoke," said the doctor; "butif you don't mean any more than that I'm with you heart and soul."
"You hear what he says," said Meldon to the judge.
"I need scarcely say," replied Sir Gilbert, "that all this is immenselygratifying to me."
"It won't surprise you now," said Meldon, "to hear that we look uponyour life as a most valuable one--too valuable to be riskedunnecessarily."
"I should appreciate this entirely unsolicited testimonial," said thejudge, "even more than I do already, if I knew exactly who was givingit to me."
"I don't suppose that you'd be much the wiser if I tell you that myname is Meldon--J. J. Meldon. I was at one time curate of Ballymoy."
"Thanks," said the judge. "Won't you go on with your luncheon? I'mafraid your chop will be cold."
"I have," said Meldon, "a duty to perform. I don't mind in the leastif my chop does get cold. I wish to warn you that your life, yourvaluable life--and I never realised how valuable your life was until Iread your summing-up in the case of Mrs. Lorimer. That was, if I maysay so, masterly. Milton himself couldn't have done it better."
"Milton?" said the judge.
"I mentioned Milton," said Meldon, "because he was the most violentmisogynist I ever heard of. Read what he says about Delilah in 'SamsonAgonistes' and you'll see why I compare your remarks about Mrs. Lorimerto the sort of way he wrote."
"I've read it," said the judge, "and I think I recollect the passagesyou allude to. I don't quite see myself what connection there isbetween his views and the case of Mrs. Lorimer. Still, I'm greatlyobliged to you for what you say about my summing-up. But you werespeaking of my life just before you mentioned Milton."
"The connection is obvious enough," said Meldon; "and if you've reallyread the poem--"
"I have," said the judge.
"Then you ought to recognise that the strong anti-feminist bias whichMilton displays is exactly similar to the spirit in which youattributed the worst possible motives to Mrs. Lorimer. I'm not nowentering on a discussion of the question of whether you and Milton areright or wrong in your view of women. That would take too long, and,besides, it hasn't anything to do with the business on hand."
"That," said the judge, "as well as I recollect, is the danger of mylosing my life."
"Your life," said Meldon, "will not be safe in Ballymoy. We met you atthe station to-day in order to warn you to go straight home again."
"Really!" said the judge. "I travelled down from London with a Memberof Parliament last night, and he gave me a description of the state ofthe country which bears out what you say. He mentioned anarchy andconspiracy as being rampant--or else rife; I forget for the momentwhich word he used. He said that the west of Ireland lay at the mercyof an organised system of terrorism, and that--"
"That must have been a Unionist," said Meldon.
"Damned lies," said O'Donoghue.
"He was a Unionist," said the judge. "But I met another man in thesteamer, also an M.P., who said that, owing to the beneficent action ofthe Congested Districts Board, Connacht was rapidly becoming a happyand contented part of the empire; that the sympathy with Irish ideasdisplayed by the present Government was winning the hearts andaffections of the people, and--"
"That," said Meldon, "must have been a Nationalist."
"More damned lies," said Dr. O'Donoghue.
"And now," said the judge, "I meet you two gentlemen, one of you aNationalist and the other a Unionist--"
"Don't call me tha
t," said Meldon; "I'm non-political. Nothing onearth would induce me to mix myself up with any party."
"And you," the judge went on, "after comparing me in the mostflattering manner to the poet Milton, tell me that my life won't besafe in Ballymoy. I'm inclined to think that the best thing I can dois to go and find out the truth for myself."
"If it was simply a question of murder," said Meldon, "I shouldstrongly advise you to go on and see the thing through; but what wehave in mind is something infinitely worse. Isn't it, O'Donoghue?"
"It is," said the doctor; "far worse."
"Is it," said the judge, "high treason? That's the only crime I knowwhich the law regards as more malignant than murder. The penalties area little obsolete at present, for nobody has ventured to commit thecrime for a great many years; but if you like I'll look the subject upwhen I go home and let you know."
"We're not talking about crime," said Meldon, "but drains. Doyle'sdrains."
"I beg your pardon," said the judge. "Did you say drains?"
"Yes," said Meldon distinctly. "Drains--Doyle's drains. The drains ofthe house you mean to stop in. I needn't tell you what drains mean.Blood-poisoning, typhoid, septic throats, breakings out in variousparts of your body, and a very painful kind of death. For althoughO'Donoghue will do his best for you in the way of mitigating yoursufferings he can't undertake to save your life."
"I'm pretty tough," said the judge, "and I'm paying a good price for myfishing. I think I'll face the drains."
"I don't expect that you quite realise how bad those drains are. Doeshe, O'Donoghue?"
"He does not," said the doctor.
"Then you tell him," said Meldon. "As a medical man you'll put it muchmore convincingly than I can."
O'Donoghue cleared his throat.
"I've no doubt," said the judge, "that you can make out a pretty badcase against those drains; but I'm going on to Ballymoy to catch salmonif they're twice as rotten as they are."
"It was only last winter," said Meldon, "that Mr. Simpkins wanted toprosecute Doyle on account of the condition of his drains. Youprobably don't know Simpkins; but if you did, you'd understand thathe's not the kind of man to take drastic action unless the drains werepretty bad."
"And they're worse since," said O'Donoghue.
"It's extremely kind of you," said the judge, "to have come all thisway to warn me, and of course if I knew Simpkins I might, as you say,act differently. But I think, on the whole, I'll go on and risk it.If I do get a septic throat or anything of the kind I shall send atonce for Dr. O'Donoghue; and I shall ask you, Mr. Meldon, to write anobituary notice for the papers in case I succumb. I am sure you'd doit well, and you could put in all you said about Delilah and Mrs.Lorimer. I shan't mind once I'm buried."
"You won't be able to say afterwards," said Meldon, "that you were notfairly warned. We've done our duty whatever happens."
"You've done it in the most thorough way," said the judge, "and I hopeI shall see a great deal of you while I'm in Ballymoy."
"I'll just finish this chop," said Meldon, "and then O'Donoghue and Imust be off. We have a long ride before us. I'll tell Doyle tosprinkle some chloride of lime in your bedroom, and to damp the sheetswith Condy's Fluid. I don't suppose it will be much use, but it's thebest we can do if your mind is made up."
The Simpkins Plot Page 13
