Icannot make out why everybody thinks I am a Liberal. Lady Moyne was the first who mentioned to me this slur on my character. Babberly evidently believed it. Then, shortly after the Belfast meeting, I had a letter, marked “Private and Confidential,” from Sir Samuel Clithering. Although Clithering is not a member of the Government, he is in close touch with several very important Ministers. Under ordinary circumstances I should not mention Clithering’s name in telling the story of his letter. I know him to be a conscientious, scrupulously honourable man, and I should hate to give him pain. Under ordinary circumstances, that is, if things had gone in Ulster in the way things usually do go, Clithering would have felt it necessary to assert publicly in the papers that he did not write the letter. This would have been very disagreeable for him because he does not like telling lies; and the unpleasantness would certainly be aggravated by the fact that nobody would believe him. So many important and exciting things, however, have happened in Ulster since I got the letter that I do not think Clithering will now want to deny that he wrote it. I have, therefore, no hesitation in mentioning his name.
This letter was written in the best politico-diplomatic style. I had to read it nine times before I could find out what it was about. When I did find out I made a translation of it into the English of ordinary life, so asto make quite sure of not acting beyond my instructions. I was first of all complimented on not being a party politician. This, coming from one of the Government wire-pullers, meant, of course, that I was in his opinion a strong Liberal. I have noticed for years that the only party politicians in these islands are the people who are active on the other side; and that party politics are the other side’s programme. My correspondent evidently agreed with Lady Moyne and Babberly that as I was not a Conservative, I must be a supporter of the Government.
Having made this quite unwarranted assumption, the letter went on to suggest that I should ask Conroy if he would like a peerage. The point was not made quite clear, but I gathered that Conroy could have any kind of title that he liked, up to an earldom. I know, of course, that peerages are given in exchange for subscriptions to party funds, by the party, whichever it may be, which receives the subscriptions. I did not know before that peerages were ever given with a view to inducing the happy recipient not to subscribe to the funds of the other party. But in Conroy’s case this must have been the motive which lay behind the offer. He had certainly given Lady Moyne a handsome cheque. He was financing McNeice’s little paper in the most liberal way. He had, I suspected, supplied Crossan with the motor car in which he went about the country tuning up the Orange Lodges. It seemed quite likely it was his money with which Rose’s young man bought the gold brooch which had attracted Marion’s attention. Conroy was undoubtedly subsidizing Ulster Unionism very generously. I suppose it must have been worth while to stop this flow of money.Hence the suggestion that Conroy might be given a peerage. This, at least, was the explanation of the letter which I adopted at the time. I have since had reason to suppose that the Government knew more than I did about the way Conroy was spending his money, and was nervous about something more important than Babberly’s occasional demonstrations.
My first impulse was to burn the letter and tell my correspondent that I was not a politician of any sort, and did not care for doing this kind of work. Then my curiosity got the better of my sense of honour. A man cannot, I think, be both an historian and a gentleman. It is an essential part of the character of a gentleman that he should dislike prying into other people’s secrets. The business of the historian, on the other hand, is to rake about if necessary through dust-bins, until he finds out the reasons, generally disreputable, why things are done. A gentleman displays a dignified superiority to the vice of curiosity. For the historian curiosity is a virtue. I am, I find, more of an historian than a gentleman. I wanted very much to find out how Conroy would take the offer of a peerage. I also wanted to understand thoroughly why the offer was made.
Some weeks were to pass before I learned the Government’s real reason for wanting to detach Conroy from the Unionist cause; but luck favoured me in the matter of sounding Conroy himself. I had a letter from him in which he said that he was coming to our neighbourhood for a few days. I immediately asked him to stay with me.
Then I tried, very foolishly, to make my nephew Godfrey feel uncomfortable.
“Conroy,” I said, “is coming here to stay with me next Tuesday.”
“How splendid!” said Godfrey. “I say, Excellency, you will ask me up to dinner every night he’s here, won’t you?”
“I thought,” I said, “that you wouldn’t like to meet Conroy.”
“Of course I’d like to meet him. He might give me a job of some kind or get me one. A man like that with millions of money must have plenty of jobs to give away.”
When Godfrey speaks of a job he means a salary. Nearly everybody does.
“If I can only get the chance of making myself agreeable to him,” said Godfrey, “I’m sure I’ll be able to get something out of him.”
“I’m surprised,” I said, “at your wanting to meet him at all. After the post-card he wrote you—”
“Oh, I don’t mind that in the least,” said Godfrey. “I never take offence.”
This is, indeed, one of Godfrey’s chief vices. He never does take offence. It was Talleyrand, I think, who said that no man need ever get angry about anything said by a woman or a bishop. Godfrey improves on this philosophy. He never gets angry with any one except those whom he regards as his inferiors.
“It would be a good opportunity,” said Godfrey, “for your second menagerie party. We’ve only had one this year. I expect it would amuse Conroy.”
“I’m nearly sure it wouldn’t.”
“We’ll have to do something in the way of entertaining while he’s here,” said Godfrey. “I suppose you’ll have the Moynes over to dinner?”
I knew that the Moynes were in London, so I told Godfrey that he could write and ask them if he liked. I tried to be firm in my opposition to the garden-party, but Godfrey wore me down. It was fixed for Wednesday, and invitations were sent out. I discovered afterwards that Godfrey told his particular friends that they were to have the honour of meeting a real millionaire. In the case of the Pringles he went so far as to hint that Conroy was very likely to give him a lucrative post. On the strength of this expectation, Pringle, who is an easy man to deceive, allowed Godfrey to cash a cheque for £10.
Conroy arrived on Sunday afternoon, travelling, as a millionaire should, in a motor car. Godfrey dined with us that night, and made himself as agreeable as he could. Conroy had, apparently, forgotten all about the post-card. I did not get a minute alone with my guest that night and so could do nothing about the peerage. I thought of approaching him on the subject next morning after breakfast, though that is not a good hour for delicate negotiations. But even if I had been willing to attack him then, I hardly had the chance. Godfrey was up with us at half-past ten. He wanted to take Conroy on a personally conducted tour round the objects of interest in the neighbourhood. Conroy said he wanted to go to the house of a man called Crossan who lived somewhere near us, and would be very glad if Godfrey would act as guide. It is a remarkable proof of Godfrey’s great respect for millionaires that he consented to show Conroy the way to Crossan’s house. They went off together, and I saw no more of Conroy till dinner-time.
He deliberately avoided my garden-party, althoughGodfrey had explained to him the night before that my guests would be “quite the funniest lot of bounders to be found anywhere.”
The Pringles must have been disappointed at not meeting Conroy. Miss Pringle, whose name I found out was Tottie, looked quite pretty in a pink dress, and smiled almost as nicely as she did when Bob Power took her to gather strawberries. Mrs. Pringle asked Godfrey to dine with them that night, and Tottie looked at him out of the corner of her eyes so as to show him that she would be pleased if he accepted the invitation. Pringle himself joined in pressing Godfrey. I suppose he must really have believed in the salary which Godfrey expected to get from Conroy.
Godfrey promised to dine with them. He explained his position to me afterwards.
“I needn’t tell you, Excellency,” he said, “that I don’t want to go there. I shall get a rotten bad dinner and Mrs. Pringle is a rank outsider.”
“Miss Pringle,” I said, “seems a pleasant girl. She’s certainly pretty.”
“Poor little Tottie!” said Godfrey. “That sort of girl isn’t bad fun sometimes; but I wouldn’t put up with boiled mutton just for the sake of a kiss or two from her. The fact is—”
“Your banking account,” I said.
“That’s it,” said Godfrey. “Pringle’s directors have been writing rather nasty letters lately. It’s perfectly all right, of course, and I told him so; but all the same it’s better to accept his invitation.”
Godfrey is the most unmitigated blackguard I’ve ever met.
“I hardly see Tottie Pringle as the next Lady Kilmore,” said Godfrey; “but, of course, that’s the game.”
I do not believe it. Tottie Pringle—I do not for a moment believe that she ever allowed Godfrey to kiss her—does not look the kind of girl who—
“You’ll make my excuses to Conroy, won’t you, Excellency? Tell him—”
“What is the exact amount of the over-draft?” I said; “he’ll probably want to know.”
“Better not say anything about that,” said Godfrey. “Tell him I had a business engagement.”
Godfrey’s necessity gave me my opportunity. I had Conroy all to myself after dinner, and I sounded him very cautiously about the title. The business turned out to be much more difficult than I expected. At first Conroy was singularly obtuse. He did not seem to understand what I was hinting at. There was really no excuse for him. Our surroundings were very well suited for delicate negotiations. I had given him a bottle of champagne at dinner. I had some excellent port on the table afterwards. My dining-room is a handsome apartment, a kind of large hall with a vaulted roof. The light of the candles on the table mingled in a pleasantly mysterious way with the twilight of the summer evening. The long windows lay wide open and a heavy scent of lilies crept into the room. The lamp on the sideboard behind me lit up the impressive portrait of my great grandfather in the uniform of a captain of volunteers, the Irish volunteers of 1780. Any one, I should have supposed, would have walked delicately among hints and suggestions in such an atmosphere, among such surroundings. But Conroywould not. I was forced at last to speak rather more plainly than I had intended to. Then Conroy turned on me.
“What does your Government think I should want the darned thing for?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose the usual reasons.”
“What are they?” said Conroy, “for I’m damned if I know.”
“Well,” I said, “when you put it that way I don’t know that I can exactly explain. But most people like it. I like it myself, although I’m pretty well used to it. I imagine it would be much nicer when you came to it quite fresh. If you happen to be going over to London, you know, it’s rather pleasant to have the fellow who runs the sleeping-car bustling the other people out of the way and calling you ‘my lord.’”
Conroy sat in grim silence.
“There’s more than that in it,” I said. “That’s only an example, quite a small example of the kind of thing I mean. But those little things count, you know. And, of course, the extra tip that the fellow expects in the morning wouldn’t matter to you.”
Conroy still declined to make any answer. I began to feel hot and flurried.
“There are other points, too,” I went on. “For instance a quite pretty girl called Tottie Pringle wants to marry my nephew Godfrey—at least he says she does—simply because he’ll be Lord Kilmore when I’m dead. You’ve met my nephew Godfrey, so you’ll realize that she can’t possibly have any other motive.”
“What,” said Conroy, “does your Government expect me to do in return for making me attractive to Tottie Pringle?”
“It’s not my Government,” I said. “I’m not mixed up with it or responsible for it in any way.”
“I always understood,” said Conroy, “that you are a Liberal.”
“Everybody understands that,” I said, “and it’s no use my contradicting it. As for what the Government wants you to do, I haven’t been actually told; but I fancy you’d be expected to stop giving subscriptions to Lady Moyne.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all I can think of. But, of course, there may be other things.”
“I reckon,” said Conroy, “that your Government can’t be quite fool enough to mind much about what Lady Moyne does with my money. The pennies she drops into the slot so as to make Babberly talk won’t hurt them any.”
This was very much my own opinion. If I were a member of the government—I rather think I actually was, a few weeks later—Babberly would merely stimulate me.
“You can tell your Government from me—” said Conroy.
“It’s not my Government.”
“Well tellthatGovernment from me, that when I want a title I’ll put down the full market price. At present I’m not taking any.”
Next day Conroy went off with Crossan in his motor car. He did not come back. I got a telegram from him later in the afternoon asking me to forward his luggage to Belfast. I forget the excuse he made for treating me in this very free and easy way; but there was an excuse, I know, probably quite a long one, forthe telegram filled three sheets of the paper which the post-office uses for these messages.
Conroy’s sudden departure was a bitter sorrow and disappointment to Godfrey. He came up to dinner that night with three new pearl studs in the front of his shirt.
“What I can’t understand,” he said, “is why a man like Conroy should spend his time with your upper servants; people like Crossan, whom I shouldn’t dream of shaking hands with.”
“I’m afraid,” I said, “that he’s not going to give you that job you hoped for.”
“He may,” said Godfrey. “I think he liked me right enough. If only he could be got to believe that Power is robbing him right and left.”
“But is he?”
“He’s doing what practically comes to the same thing. Once Conroy finds out—and he will some day—I should think I’d have a middling good chance of getting his secretaryship. He must have a gentleman for that job, otherwise he’d never be able to get along at all. I don’t suppose he knows how to do things a bit. He evidently doesn’t know how to behave. Look at the way he’s gone on with Crossan since he’s been here. Now if I were his secretary—”
Godfrey mumbled on. He evidently has hopes of ousting Bob Power. He may possibly succeed in doing so. Godfrey has all the cunning characteristic of the criminal lunatic.
Three days later he got his chance of dealing with Bob Power. TheFinolaanchored in our bay again and Bob Power was in command of her.
Bob Power spent the afternoon with us. Strictly speaking, I ought to say he spent the afternoon with Marion. I only saw him at tea-time. He let me understand then that he would like to stay and dine with us. I felt that I ought to be vexed at the prospect of losing another quiet evening. Conroy had cost me two evenings. My visit to Castle Affey, my political March Past, and my expedition to Dublin had robbed me of nine others. I could ill afford to spare a twelfth to Bob Power. Yet I felt unreasonably pleased when he promised to dine with us. There is a certain flavour of the sea about Bob, a sense of boisterous good fellowship, a joyous irresponsibility, which would have been attractive to me at any time, and were singularly pleasant after my political experiences. I was not at all so well pleased when a note arrived from Godfrey in which he asked whether he too could dine with us.
He arrived long before dinner, before I had gone upstairs to dress, and explained himself.
“I heard,” he said, “that Power was up here, so I thought I’d better come too.”
“How lucky it is,” I said, “that Pringle didn’t invite you to-night.”
“I shouldn’t have gone if he had. I should have considered it my duty to come here. After all, Excellency, some one ought to look after Marion a bit.”
“For the matter of that,” I said, “some one ought to look after Tottie Pringle.”
“You never can tell,” said Godfrey, “what silly fancy a girl will take into her head, and that fellow Power is just the sort who might—”
Godfrey nodded sagaciously. It has always been understood that Godfrey is to marry Marion at some future time. I have always understood this and, on personal grounds, dislike it very much; though I do not deny that the arrangement is convenient. My title is not a very ancient or particularly honourable one, but I do not like to think of its being dragged in the gutter by a pauper. If Godfrey married Marion he would have the use of her income. Godfrey has certainly understood this plan for the future. He may treat himself occasionally to the kisses of Tottie Pringle, but he is not the man to allow kissing to interfere with his prospect of earning a competence. Whether Marion understood her fate or not, I do not know. She always endured Godfrey with patience. I suppose that this condition of affairs gave Godfrey a certain right to nod sagaciously when he spoke of looking after Marion. But I resented both his tone and the things he said. I left him and went up to dress.
Marion’s behaviour during the evening fully justified Godfrey’s fears, though I do not think that anything would have excused him for expressing them to me. She was amazingly cheerful during dinner, and in so good a temper, that she continued smiling at Godfrey even when he scowled at her. Bob Power was breezily agreeable, and I should have thoroughly enjoyed the stories he told us if I had not been conscious all the time that Godfrey was frowning at my right ear. Hesat on that side of me and Bob Power on the other, so my ear was, most of the time, the nearest thing to my face that Godfrey could frown at.
After dinner Bob and Marion behaved really badly; not to Godfrey, but to me. No one could behave badly to Godfrey because he always deserves worse than the worst that is done to him. But I am not a very objectionable person, and I have during the last twenty-two years shown a good deal of kindness to Marion. I do not think that she and Bob ought to have slipped out of the drawing-room window after singing one short song, and left me to be worried by Godfrey for the whole evening. Only one way of escape presented itself to me. I pretended to go to sleep. That stopped Godfrey talking after a time; but not until I had found it necessary to snore. I heard every word he said up to that point. I woke up with a very good imitation of a start when Bob and Marion came in again. That happened at ten o’clock, and Bob immediately said good night. Under ordinary circumstances Godfrey stays on till nearly eleven; but that night he went away five minutes after Bob left.
Next morning there was trouble. It began with Marion’s behaviour at breakfast. As a rule she is a young woman of placid and equable temper, one who is likely in the future to have a soothing effect on her husband. That morning she was very nearly hysterical. When we went into my study after breakfast she was quite incapable of work, and could not lay her hands on any of the papers which I particularly wanted. I was irritated at the moment, but I recognized afterwards that she had some excuse, and in any case my morning’s work would have been interrupted.
At half-past ten I got a note from Godfrey—written in pencil and almost illegible—in which he asked me to go down to see him at once. He said that he was in severe pain and for the time confined to bed.
“You’re sure,” he said, “to have heard a garbled account of what happened, before you get this letter. I want to tell you thefactsbefore I take further action.”
The word “facts” was underlined shakily. I had, of course, heard no account of anything which had happened. I handed the letter to Marion.
“Do you know what this means?” I asked.
Marion read it.
“Rose told me this morning,” she said, “that there had been some kind of a row last night. She said Godfrey was killed.”
“That isn’t true at all events,” I said. “He’s still alive.”
“Of course I didn’t believe her,” said Marion.
“But I think you ought to have told me at breakfast,” I said. “I hate having these things sprung on me suddenly. At my time of life even good news ought to be broken to me gradually. Any sudden shock is bad for the heart.”
“I thought there might be no truth in the story at all,” said Marion, “and you know, father, that you don’t like being worried.”
I don’t. But I am worried a great deal.
“I suppose,” I said, “that I’d better go down and see him. He says he’s in great pain, so he’s not likely to be agreeable; but still I’d better go.”
“Do,” said Marion; “and, of course, if there’s anything I can do, anything I can send down to him—”
“I don’t expect he’s as bad as all that,” I said. “Men like Godfrey are never seriously hurt. But if he expresses a wish for chicken jelly I’ll let you know at once.”
I started at once. I met Bob Power just outside my own gate. He was evidently a little embarrassed, but he spoke to me with the greatest frankness.
“I’m extremely sorry, Lord Kilmore,” he said, “but I am afraid I hurt your nephew last night.”
“Badly?”
“Not very,” said Bob. “Collar bone and a couple of ribs. I saw the doctor this morning.”
“Broken?”
“Yes. It wasn’t altogether my fault. I mean to say—”
“I’m sure it was altogether Godfrey’s,” I said. “The thing which surprises me is that nobody ever did it before. Godfrey is nearly thirty, so for twenty years at least every man he has met must have been tempted to break his ribs. We must, in spite of what everybody says, be a Christian nation. If we were not—”
“He would keep following me about,” said Bob. “I told him several times to clear away and go home. But he wouldn’t.”
“He has a fixed idea that you’re engaged in smuggling.”
“Even if I was,” said Bob, “it would be no business of his.”
“That’s just why he mixes himself up in it. If it had been his business he wouldn’t have touched it. There’s nothing Godfrey hates more than doing anything he ought to do.”
“I’m awfully glad you take it that way,” said Bob. “I was afraid—”
“My dear fellow,” I said, “I’m delighted. But you haven’t told me yet exactly how it happened.”
“I was moving a packing-case,” said Bob, “a rather large one—”
He hesitated. I think he felt that the packing-case might require some explanation, especially as it was being moved at about eleven o’clock at night. I hastened to reassure him.
“Quite a proper thing for you to be doing,” I said, “and certainly no business of Godfrey’s. Every one has a perfect right to move packing-cases about from place to place.”
“He told me he was going for the police, so—”
“I don’t think you need have taken any notice of that threat. The police know Godfrey quite well. They hate being worried just as much as I do.”
“So I knocked him down.”
“You must have hit him in several places at once,” I said, “to have broken so many bones.”
“The fact is,” said Bob, “that he got up again.”
“That’s just the sort of thing he would do. Any man of ordinary good feeling would have known that when he was knocked down he was meant to stay down.”
“Then the two other men who were with me, young fellows out of the town, set on him.”
“Was one of them particularly freckly?” I asked.
“I didn’t notice. Why do you ask?”
“If he was it would account for my daughter’s maid getting hold of an inaccurate version of the story thismorning. But it doesn’t matter. Go on with what you were saying.”
“There isn’t any more,” said Bob. “They hammered him, and then we carried him home. That’s all.”
“I am going down to see him now,” I said. “He’s thinking of taking further action.”
“Let him,” said Bob. “Is Miss D’Aubigny at home?”
“Yes, she is. If you’re going up to see her—”
“I would,” said Bob, “if I thought she wouldn’t be angry with me.”
“She’s nervous,” I said, “and excited; but she didn’t seem angry.”
Just outside the town I met Crossan and, very much to my surprise, McNeice walking with him. Crossan handed me a letter. I put it into my pocket and greeted McNeice.
“I did not know you were here,” I said. “When did you come?”
“Last night,” said McNeice. “Crossan brought me on his motor.”
“Were you in time for the scrimmage?”
“You’d maybe better read the letter I’ve given you, my lord,” said Crossan.
“If I’d been there,” said McNeice, “your nephew would probably be dead now. In my opinion he ought to be.”
“The letter I’ve just given your lordship,” said Crossan, “is an important one.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said. “But I haven’t time to read it now.”
“What’s in it, my lord, is this. I’m resigning the management of your business here, and the sooner you’re suited with a new man the better.”
“If my nephew Godfrey has been worrying you, Crossan,” I said, “I’ll take steps—”
“It’s not that, my lord. For all the harm his talk ever did me I’d stay on. But—”
He looked at McNeice as if asking permission to say more.
“Political business,” said McNeice.
“Of course,” I said, “if it’s a matter of politics, everything must give way to politics. But I’m very sorry to lose you, Crossan. My business affairs—”
“You’ll have no business affairs left, my lord, if the Home Rule Bill passes.”
“But you’re going to stop it,” I said.
“We are,” said Crossan.
He certainly believed that he was. At the present moment he believes that he did stop it.
I found Godfrey propped up in bed. His face had a curiously unbalanced appearance owing to the way in which one side of his jaw was swollen. Bob Power’s original blow must have been a hard one. I noticed when he spoke that one of his eye teeth was broken off short. He began to pour out his complaint the moment I entered the room.
“A murderous assault was made on me last night,” he said. “After I left your house I walked down—”
“Don’t talk if it hurts you, Godfrey,” I said.
He was speaking in a muffled way which led me to think that the inside of his mouth must be nearly as much swollen as the outside.
“That fellow Power had a band of ruffians with him.If he had fought fair I shouldn’t have minded, but—”
“What were you doing,” I said, “to make him attack you? He must have had some reason.”
“I wasn’t doing anything. I was simply looking on.”
“That may have been the most objectionable thing possible,” I said. “I don’t say that his violence was justified; but it may have been quite excusable if you insisted on looking on at something which he didn’t want you to see.”
Godfrey actually tried to smile. He could not do so, of course, on account of the condition of his mouth, but I judged by the expression of his eyes that he was trying to. Godfrey’s smiles are always either malicious or idiotic. This one, if it had come off, would have been malicious.
“I saw all I wanted to,” he said, “before they attacked me. In fact, I was just going for the police—”
“I suppose you sent for the police this morning?” I said.
“No, I didn’t. I don’t trust the police. I wouldn’t trust the magistrates here, except you, of course, Excellency. What I’m going to do is write to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
“Good gracious, Godfrey! Why the Chancellor of the Exchequer? What interest can you expect him to take in your fights? If you are going to make a political matter of it at all, you’d far better try the Secretary of State for War. It’s much more in his line.”
“But the Chancellor of the Exchequer is the man who’s responsible for the revenue, isn’t he?”
“You can’t expect him to give you a pension simply because Power knocked out your teeth.”
“He’ll stop Power smuggling,” said Godfrey.
“I suppose,” I said, “that it’s no use my telling you that he was not smuggling?”
“I saw him at it,” said Godfrey, “and I’m going to write to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
“What on earth do you expect to gain by that?” I asked.
“He ought to be grateful to me for putting him on the track of the smuggling,” said Godfrey. “I should think he’d want to do something for me afterwards. He might—”
“Give you a job,” I said.
“Yes,” said Godfrey. “I always heard that fellows in the Treasury got good salaries.”
I was greatly relieved when I left Godfrey. I expected that he would want to take some sort of legal proceedings against Bob Power which would have involved us all in a great deal of unpleasantness. I should not have been surprised if he had tried to blackmail Bob or Conroy, or both, and I should have disliked that very much. But his letter to the Chancellor of the Exchequer seemed to be merely foolish. In the first place Bob Power was not smuggling. In the next place the Chancellor of the Exchequer would never see Godfrey’s letter. It would be opened, I supposed, by some kind of clerk or secretary. He would giggle over it and show it to a friend. He would also giggle. Then unless the spelling was unusually eccentric the letter would go into the waste-paper basket. Nothing whatever would happen.
I was, I own, entirely wrong. The Chancellor of the Exchequer did see the letter. I take that for granted, because the Prime Minister saw it, and I cannotsee how it could have got to him except through the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The spelling may have been as bad as Godfrey’s spelling usually is, but the letter evidently gave a detailed account of what had happened, the kind of account which impresses people as being true. The letter was, in fact, the first direct evidence the Government got about what Conroy and McNeice and Bob were doing. I dare say there were suspicions abroad before. The offer of a peerage to Conroy showed that there was good reason to placate him. But it was Godfrey’s absurd letter which first suggested to the minds of the Cabinet that Conroy was using his yacht, theFinola, for importing arms into Ulster. Even then I do not think that anybody in authority suspected how thoroughly Conroy and Bob were doing the work. They may have thought of a cargo of rifles, and a few thousand cartridges. The existence of the Ulster artillery was a surprise to them at the very moment when the guns first opened fire.
So far from having no consequences at all, Godfrey’s ridiculous letter actually precipitated the conflict which took place. I do not think that it made any difference to the result of the fighting. That would have been the same whether the fighting came a little sooner or a little later. But the letter and the action of the Government which followed it certainly disorganized Conroy’s plans and hustled McNeice.
I found McNeice in my study when I got home. I told him, by way of a joke, about the letter which Godfrey intended to write. To my surprise he did not treat it as a joke. I suppose he realized at once what the consequences of such a letter might be.
“They ought to have put him past writing letters,” he growled, “when they had him.”
Then, without even saying good-bye to me, he got up and left the room. In less than an hour he and Crossan were rushing off somewhere in their motor car. They may have gone to hold a consultation with Conroy. He was in Belfast at the time.
I found Bob Power and Marion in the garden, but not, as I expected, eating gooseberries. They were sitting together on a seat opposite a small artificial pond in which I try to keep gold fish. When I came upon them they were sitting up straight, and both of them were gazing intently into the pond. This surprised me, because all the last consignment of gold fish had died, and there was nothing in the pond to look at.
I told Bob about Godfrey and the letter to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. His reception of the news was even more disappointing than McNeice’s was. He neither laughed, as I hoped, nor even scowled. In fact, if I had not spoken quite distinctly, I should have thought that he did not hear what I said.
“Lord Kilmore,” he said, “I think I ought to tell you at once—”
Then he stopped and looked at Marion. She became very red in the face.
“Father,” she said, “Bob and I—”
Then she stopped too. I waited for a long time. Neither of them did more than begin a sentence; but Bob took Marion’s hand and held it tight. I thought it better to try to help them out.
“I don’t know,” I said, “whether I’ve guessed rightly—”
“Of course you have, father,” said Marion.
“If not,” I said, “it’ll be very embarrassing for all of us when I tell you what my guess is.”
“Marion and I—” said Bob.
“Have spent the morning,” I said, “in finding out that you want to marry each other?”
“Of course we have,” said Marion.
“Of course,” said Bob.
The discovery that they both wanted the same thing made them ridiculously happy. Marion kissed me with effusive ardour, putting her left arm tight round my neck, but still holding on to Bob with her right hand. Bob, after our first raptures had subsided a little, insisted on going down to Godfrey’s lodgings, and apologizing for breaking his ribs. I told him that an apology delivered in that spirit would merely intensify Godfrey’s wish to write to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. But nothing I said moved Bob in the least. He was so happy that he wanted to abase himself before some one.
Babberly is in some ways a singularly unlucky man. A place for him, and that a high one, ought to have been quite secure in the next Unionist Cabinet. Now he will never hold office under any government, and yet no one can say that his collapse was in any way his own fault.
On the very day on which the Chancellor of the Exchequer received Godfrey’s letter, Babberly announced his intention of holding another Unionist demonstration in Belfast. He did not mean any harm by this. He intended nothing worse than another eloquent speech and expected nothing more serious than the usual cheers. He regards demonstrations very much as my nephew Godfrey does garden-parties. They are troublesome functions, requiring a good deal of labour and care for their successful accomplishment, but they are necessary. People expect something of the kind from time to time; and—if I do not give garden-parties, I should not, so Godfrey says, keep up my position in the county. If Babberly did not, so to speak, give demonstrations he would lose his position in the political world. Babberly’s position is, of course, vastly more important than mine.
Moyne, goaded on I suppose by Lady Moyne, wrote a letter to the papers—perhaps I should say published a manifesto—urging the extreme importance of Babberly’s demonstration. This was necessary becauseMcNeice and O’Donovan, inThe Loyalist, had lately adopted a sneering tone about demonstrations. AndThe Loyalistwas becoming an effective force in the guidance of Ulster opinion. Thanks to the exertions of Crossan, Malcolmson and some others the paper was very widely circulated and wherever it went it was read. Lady Moyne, I knew, dislikedThe Loyalistand was uneasy about the tone of its articles. She felt it necessary to stimulate the popular taste for demonstrations, and wrote Moyne’s manifesto for him. It was a very good manifesto, full of weighty words about the present crisis and the necessity of standing shoulder to shoulder against the iniquitous plot of the Government for the dismemberment of the Empire.
Very much to my surprise, and I am sure to Lady Moyne’s,The Loyalistprinted a strong article in support of the proposed demonstration. Nothing could have been more flattering than its reference to Babberly and Lord Moyne; nothing better calculated to insure the success of the performance than the way in which it urged all Unionists to attend it. “Assemble in your Thousands” was the phrase used four times over in the course of the article. There was only one sentence in it which could cause any one the slightest uneasiness.
“Previous demonstrations,” so the article concluded, “have served their purpose as expressions of our unalterable convictions. This one must do something more.It must convince the world that we mean what we say.”
That, of course, was nothing more than Babberly had proclaimed a dozen times in far more eloquent language. Nor was the fact that McNeice printed the last sentencein italics particularly startling. Babberly had emphasized the same statement with all the violence possible. But, so tense was the public mind at this time, everybody was vaguely anxious and excited. We felt that McNeice attached more meaning to the words than Babberly did.
A member of the Cabinet happened to be speaking two days later at a large public meeting in Croydon. He was supposed to be explaining the advantages of the new Insurance Act to the mistresses and servants of the smaller middle-class households. There were, I believe, very few people with sufficient faith in his power of apology to go to hear him; but, of course, there were plenty of newspaper reporters. The Cabinet Minister addressed them, and, ignoring for the time the grievances of the British house-and-parlourmaid, he announced that the Government was going to stand no nonsense from Ulster.
“The leaders,” he said, “of the unfortunate dupes who are to assemble next week in Belfast, must understand once for all that in a democratically governed country the will of the majority must prevail, and His Majesty’s Government is fully determined to see that it does prevail, at any cost.”
This, again, was nothing more than the usual thing. Only the last three words conveyed anything in the nature of a threat, and many papers did not report the last three words. Babberly, I think, was quite justified in supposing that the Cabinet Minister was saying no more than, according to the rules of the game, he was bound to say; that he was, in fact, giving a garden-party of his own to keep up his position in the county. At all events Babberly replied to the Government’s pronouncementwith a defiance of the boldest possible kind.The Loyalist, in a special number, published in the middle of the week, patted Babberly on the back, and said that the men of Ulster would, if necessary, assert their right of public meeting with rifles in their hands.
This was not going much further than Babberly himself had often gone in earlier stages of the controversy. It is true that he had always spoken of “arms” which is a vague word and might mean nothing worse than the familiar paving stones.The Loyalistspecified the kind of arms, mentioned rifles, which are very lethal weapons. Still, viewed from a reasonable standpoint, there was nothing very alarming in the word rifles.
Two days later Moyne motored over to my house. He seemed greatly disturbed, so I took him into my study and gave him tea. While we were drinking it he told me what was the matter with him.
“Look here, Kilmore,” he said, “do you know anything about a rumour that’s flying about?”
“There are so many,” I said.
“About the importation of arms into this country.”
I had my suspicions, rather more than suspicions, for I had been thinking over the somewhat remarkable performances of Bob Power and theFinola. I did not, however, want to say anything definite until I knew how much information Moyne had. After all Bob Power had now arranged to be my son-in-law. I do not know what the law does to people who import arms into a peaceful country; but the penalty is sure to be severe, and I did not want Marion’s wedding-day to be blighted by the arrest of the bridegroom.
“They say,” said Moyne, “that some of the cargoes have been landed here under your windows.”
“I can only assure you,” I said, “that I have never in my life imported so much as a pocket pistol.”
“I had a long letter from Babberly this morning,” said Moyne. “He had an interview with the Prime Minister yesterday. It appears that the Government has some information.”
“Why doesn’t the Government act upon it then?”
“They are acting. They want me and Babberly to come out and denounce this kind of thing, to discountenance definitely—”
“That’s all well enough,” I said, “but I don’t see why you and Babberly should be expected to get the Government out of a hole. In fact it’s your business to keep them in any holes they fall into.”
“Under ordinary circumstances,” said Moyne, “we shouldn’t, of course, stir hand or foot. We’d let them stew in their own juice. And I may tell you that’s the line Babberly thinks we ought to take. But I don’t know. If there’s any truth in these rumours, and there may be, you know, it seems to me that we are face to face with a very serious business. Party politics are all right, of course; and I’m just as keen as any man to turn out this wretched Government. They’ve done mischief enough, but—well, if there’s any truth in what they say, it isn’t exactly a question of ordinary politics, and I think that every loyal man ought to stand by—”
“If there’s any truth in the rumours—” I said.
“The country’s in a queer state,” said Moyne. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“If the people have got rifles,” I said, “they’re not likely to give them up because you and Babberly tell them to.”
“Babberly says there’s nothing in it,” said Moyne,doubtfully, “and her ladyship agrees with him. She thinks it’s simply a dodge of the Government to spike our guns.”
It is curious that Moyne cannot help talking about guns, even when he’s afraid that somebody or other may really have one. He might, under the circumstances, have been expected to use some other metaphor. “Cook our goose,” for instance, would have expressed his meaning quite well, and there would have been no suggestion of gunpowder about the words.
“I don’t see,” I said, “how you can very well do anything when both Lady Moyne and Babberly are against you.”
“I can’t—I can’t, of course. And yet, don’t you know, Kilmore, I don’t know—”
I quite appreciated Moyne’s condition of mind. I myself did not know. I felt nearly certain that Bob Power had been importing arms in theFinola. I suspected that Crossan and others had been distributing them. And yet it seemed impossible to suppose that ordinary people, the men I lunched with in the club, like Malcolmson, the men who touched their hats to me on the road, like Rose’s freckly-faced lover, the quiet-looking people whom I saw at railway stations, that those people actually meant to shoot off bullets out of guns with the intention of killing other people. Of course, long ago, this sort of killing was done, but then, long ago, men believed things which we do not believe now. Perhaps I ought to say which I do not believe now. Malcolmson may still believe in what he calls “civil and religious liberty.” Crossan certainly applies his favourite epithet to the “Papishes.” He may conceivably think that they would put him on a rack if theygot the chance. If he believed that he might fight. And yet the absurdity of the thing prevents serious consideration.
The fact is that our minds are so thoroughly attuned to the commonplace that we have lost the faculty of imaginative vision of unusual things. Commonplace men—I, for instance, or Babberly—can imagine a defeat of the Liberal Government or a Unionist victory at the General Election, because Liberal Governments have been defeated and Unionist victories have been won within our own memories. We cannot imagine that Malcolmson and Crossan and our large Dean would march out and kill people, because we have never known any one who did such things. Men with prophetic minds can contemplate such possibilities, because they have the power of launching themselves into the unseen. We cannot. This is the reason why cataclysms, things like the Flood recorded in the Book of Genesis, and the French Revolution, always come upon societies unprepared for them. The prophets foretell them, but the common man has not the amount of imagination which would make it possible for him to believe the prophets. “They eat and drink, marry, and are given in marriage,” until the day when the thing happens.
Looking back now and considering, in the light of what actually happened, my own frame of mind while I was talking to Moyne, I can only suppose that it was my lack of imagination which prevented my realizing the meaning of what was going on around me.
The next event which I find it necessary to chronicle is Conroy’s visit to Germany. I heard about it from Marion. She got a letter almost every day from Bob Power, and it was understood that he was to pay us ashort visit at the end of that week. He explained, much to Marion’s disappointment and mine, that this visit must be postponed.
“The chief,” it was thus he wrote of Conroy, “has gone over to Germany. He’s always going over to Germany. I fancy he must have property there. But it doesn’t generally matter to me whether he goes or not. This time—worse luck—he has taken it into his head to have the yacht to meet him at Kiel. I have to go at once.”
At the moment I attached no importance whatever to Conroy’s visit to Germany. Now I have come to think that he went there on a very serious business indeed. His immense financial interests not only kept him in touch with all the money markets of the world. They also gave him a knowledge of what was being done everywhere by the great manufacturers and the inventors. Moreover Conroy’s immense wealth, when he chose to use it, enabled him to get things done for him very quietly. He could secure the delivery of goods which he ordered in unconventional ways, in unusual places. He could, for instance, by means of lavish expenditure and personal interviews, arrange to have guns put unobtrusively into innocent looking tramp steamers and transhipped from them in lonely places to the hold of theFinola. Whether the German Government had any idea of what was going on I do not know. Foreign governments are supposed to be well supplied with information about the manufacture and destination of munitions of war. The English Government, I am sure, had not up to the last moment any definite information. Its suspicions were of the very vaguest kind before the Chancellor of the Exchequer received Godfrey’s letter.
The Belfast demonstration—Babberly’s defiance of the Government’s warning—was fixed for the first Monday in September. On the 24th of August, ten days before the demonstration,The Loyalistbecame a daily instead of a weekly paper. Its circulation increased immediately. It was on sale everywhere in the north of Ireland, and it was delivered with striking regularity in out of the way places in which it was almost impossible to get any other daily paper. It continued to press upon its readers the necessity of attending Babberly’s demonstration in Belfast. It said, several times over, that the demonstration was to be one of armed men. Parliament was sitting late, debating wearily the amendments proposed by Unionists to the Home Rule Bill. A Nationalist member arrived at Westminster one day with a copy ofThe Loyalistin his pocket. He called the attention of the Chief Secretary for Ireland to the language used in one of the leading articles, and asked what steps were being taken to prevent a breach of the peace in Belfast on the first Monday in September. Before the Chief Secretary could answer Babberly burst in with another question.
“Is it not a fact,” he asked, “that the paper in question is edited by a notorious Nationalist, a physical force man, a declared rebel, one of the chosen associates of the honourable gentleman opposite?”
The Chief Secretary replied that he had no knowledge of the political opinions of the editor in question further than as they obtained expression in his paper. He appeared to be a strong Unionist.
Considering that O’Donovan had been in prison three times, and that papers edited by him had been twice suppressed by the Government, the Chief Secretary musthave meant that he had no official knowledge of O’Donovan’s opinions. The distinction between knowledge and official knowledge is one of the most valuable things in political life.
Babberly displayed the greatest indignation at this answer to his question.
“Is the fair fame of the men of Ulster,” he asked, “to be traduced, is their unswerving loyalty to the Crown and Constitution to be impeached, on the strength of irresponsible scribblings emanating from a Dublin slum?”
The office ofThe Loyalistis in a slum. So far Babberly was well informed. He cannot have known that the “scribblings” were by the pen of an eminent fellow of Trinity College, or that the money which paid for printing and circulation was Conroy’s.
The Nationalist member pressed for a reply to his original question. He said that he desired nothing except that the Government should perform the elementary duty of preserving law and order.
That particular Nationalist member had, in the days past, been put into prison with the utmost regularity whenever a government undertook to perform the elementary duty he now desired to see undertaken. And no government ever, in old times, undertook such work except when goaded to desperation by Babberly. The seething of a kid in its mother’s milk is forbidden by the law of Moses, which shows that it must be a tempting thing to do. That Nationalist member felt the temptation strongly. He evidently had hopes of sacrificing Babberly on the altar of the twin gods so long worshipped by the Ulster members, incarcerating him in the sacred names of law and order. But the ChiefSecretary did not see his way to make Babberly the hero of a state trial. He replied that the Government was fully alive to the duty of preserving order in Belfast, and refused to commit himself to any definite plan for dealing with Babberly.
The newspapers made the most of the incident, and O’Donovan’s record was scrutinized by both parties. A lively discussion ensued as to whether a “Hill-sider”—some one discovered that picturesque description of O’Donovan—could become a militant Unionist. The text from the prophet Jeremiah about the spots on the leopard was quoted several times with great effect.
McNeice’s name was not mentioned, nor was Conroy’s. We may suppose that his connection with the University saved McNeice. Trinity College has, of late years, displayed such a capacity for vigorous self-defence, that the boldest politician hesitates to attack it or any one under its immediate protection. Conroy escaped because no one, not even an Irish member, cares to ride atilt against a millionaire. We respect little else in heaven or earth, but we do, all of us, respect money.
On the Wednesday before the day fixed for the Belfast demonstration, a meeting of the Ulster Unionist leaders was held in London. Moyne was at it. Lady Moyne, although the absurd conventions of our political life prevented her being present in person, was certainly an influence in the deliberations. She gave a dinner-party the night before in Moyne’s town house. Babberly, of course, was at the dinner, and with him most of the small group of Ulster Members of Parliament. Three or four leading members of the Opposition, Englishmen who had spoken on Ulster platforms and were in full sympathy with the Ulster dislike of Home Rule, were also present. Cahoon was not. He travelled from Belfast during the night of the dinner-party and only reached London in time for the meeting of the Party next day. I do not know whether Cahoon was invited to the dinner or not. Malcolmson was invited. He told me so himself, but he did not accept the invitation. He said he had business in Belfast and he went to London with Cahoon. The Dean was at the dinner-party. His name appeared in the newspaper lists of guests next morning. McNeice was not there. Lady Moyne did not like McNeice, and, although he was a member of the “Ulster Defence Committee,” he was never admitted to what might be called the social gatherings of the party.
The newspapers, in their columns of fashionable intelligence,printed a full list of the guests at this dinner, and even noted the dresses worn by some of the chief ladies. It was described as a brilliant function, and Lady Moyne figured as “one of the most successful of our political hostesses.” I have no doubt that she was successful in impressing her views on Babberly and the others. Whether she thought it worth while to spend time that night in talking to the Dean I do not know. Immediately under the account of the dinner-party there was a short paragraph which stated that Conroy, “the well-known millionaire yachtsman,” had returned from a cruise in the Baltic Sea, and that theFinolawas lying off Bangor in Belfast Lough.
In quite a different part of the papers there were comments and articles on the meeting of the Ulster leaders to be held that afternoon. The articles in Liberal papers oscillated between entreaties and threats. One of them, in a paper supposed to be more or less inspired by the Government, pleased me greatly. It began with a warm tribute to the loyalty which had always characterized the men of Ulster. Then it said that troops were being moved to Belfast in order to overcome a turbulent populace. It went on from that to argue that troops were entirely unnecessary, because Ulstermen, though pig-headed almost beyond belief in their opposition to Home Rule, would not hesitate for a moment when the choice was given them of obeying or defying the law. They would, of course, obey the law. But, so the article concluded, if they did not obey the law the resources of civilization were by no means exhausted.
As no law had, up to that time, been made forbidding the holding of the Belfast demonstration, this articlewas perhaps premature in its attempt to impale Babberly and his friends on the horns of a dilemma.
The Conservative papers assumed an air of calm confidence. One of them, the editor of which was in close touch with Babberly, said plainly that dear as the right of free speech was to the Unionist leaders they would cheerfully postpone the Belfast demonstration rather than run the smallest risk of causing a riot in the streets. Political principles, it is said, were sacred things, but the life of the humblest citizen was far more sacred than any principle, and the world could confidently rely on Babberly’s being guided in his momentous decision by considerations of the loftiest patriotism.
I have no doubt that Babberly fully intended to do as that paper said he would do. I feel certain that the informal consultation of the politicians at Lady Moyne’s dinner-party had ended in a decision to postpone the demonstration. But things had passed beyond the control of Babberly and Lady Moyne. No newspaper was able to give any report of the proceedings of the meeting held that afternoon. But Malcolmson, Cahoon and McNeice were all present, and the Dean, having escaped the overpowering atmosphere of Moyne House, was able to express his opinions freely and forcibly. On the other hand Lady Moyne was not there, and Moyne, when it comes to persuading men, is a very poor substitute for her. The English Unionists could not be there, so the weight of their moderation was not felt. The meeting broke up without reaching any decision at all; and the Belfast demonstration remained on the list of fixtures for the next week.
Sir Samuel Clithering, originally a manufacturer of hosiery in the midlands, was at this time acting regularlyas an official ambassador of the Cabinet. The fact that he was a leading Nonconformist was, I fancy, supposed to commend him in some obscure way to the Ulster party. He spent the evening after the meeting in flying about in his motor between the House of Commons where Babberly was proposing amendments to the Bill, Moyne House where Lady Moyne and her secretary sat over her typewriter, a military club in St. James’ Street where Malcolmson sat smoking cigars, and a small hotel in the Strand where McNeice and Cahoon were stopping. The Dean had left London for Belfast immediately after the meeting. I have no doubt that Sir Samuel Clithering did his best; but diplomacy applied to men like McNeice and Malcolmson is about as useful as children’s sand dykes are in checking the advance of flowing tides.
It is a source of regret to me that my account of what happened in London is meagre and disjointed. I was not there myself and events became so much more exciting afterwards that nobody has any very clear recollection of the course of these preliminary negotiations.
My own personal narrative begins again two days after the London meeting, that is to say on the Friday before the Belfast demonstration.
Godfrey came up to see me at eleven o’clock with his arm in a sling.
“Excellency,” he said, “the Dean has just hoisted a large flag on the tower of the church. I’m sure you don’t approve of that.”
It is, I hope, unnecessary to say that Godfrey is at feud with the Dean. The Dean is a straightforward and honourable man. He and Godfrey live in the sametown. A quarrel between them was therefore inevitable.
As a matter of fact I do not approve of the hoisting of flags on the church tower. In Ireland we only hoist flags with a view to irritating our enemies, and—I am not an expert in Christian theology but it seems to me that church towers are not the most suitable places for flaunting defiances. The Dean and I argued the matter out years ago and arrived at a working compromise. I agreed to make no protest against flags on the 12th of July. The Dean promised not to hoist them on any other day. This is fairly satisfactory to the Dean because he can exult over his foes on the day of the year on which it is most of all desirable to do so. It is fairly satisfactory to me because on three hundred and sixty-four days out of every year the church remains, in outward appearance at least, a house of prayer, and I am not vexed by having to regard it as a den of politicians. That is as much as can be expected of any compromise, and I was always quite loyal to my share of the bargain. The Dean, it now appeared, was not; and Godfrey saw his chance of stirring up strife.
“I don’t think,” I said, “the Dean can have anything to do with the flag. He is in London.”
“He came back yesterday,” said Godfrey, “and the flag he has hoisted is a large Union Jack.”
Now the Union Jack is of all flags the most provocative. Any other flag under the sun, even the Royal Standard, might be hoisted without giving any very grave offence to any one. But the Union Jack arouses the worst feelings of everybody. Some little time ago a fool flew a Union Jack out of the window of a Dublin house underneath which the Irish leader happened atthe moment to be proclaiming his loyalty to the Empire and his ungovernable love for the English people. The fool who hoisted the flag was afterwards very properly denounced for having gone about to insult the Irish nation. The Dean might, I think, have set floating a banner with three Orange lilies emblazoned upon it like the fleur-de-lys of ancient France. No one’s feelings would have been much hurt and no one’s enthusiasm unusually stirred. But it is characteristic of the Dean that when he does a thing at all he does it thoroughly.
“Just come and look at it,” said Godfrey. “It’s enormous.”
We went into the library, from the windows of which a clear view can be obtained of the town and the church which stands above it. There certainly was a flag flying from the church tower. I took a pair of field-glasses and satisfied myself that it was the Union Jack.
“Would you like me to speak to the Dean about it?” said Godfrey.
“Certainly not,” I said. “Any interference on your part would merely—and these are rather exciting times. The Dean is entitled, I think, to a little license. I don’t suppose he means to keep it there permanently.”
Then, borne to us by a gentle breeze across the bay, came the sound of the church bells. We have a fine peal of bells in our church, presented to the parish by my father. They are seldom properly rung, but when they are—on Christmas Day, at Easter and on the 12th of July—the effect is very good.
“Surely,” I said, “the Dean can’t be having a Harvest Thanksgiving Service yet? It’s not nearly time.”
Then I noticed that instead of one of the regular chimes the bells were playing a hymn tune. It was, asI might have guessed, the tune to which “O God, our help in ages past” is sung in Ireland. The hymn, since Babberly’s first demonstration in Belfast, had become a kind of battle song. It is, I think, characteristic of the Irish Protestants that they should have a tune of their own for this hymn. Elsewhere, in England, in Scotland, in the United States and the Colonies this metrical version of the 90th Psalm is sung to a fine simple tune called St. Ann. But we are not and never have been as other men are. Without a quiver of our nerves we run atilt at the most universally accepted traditions. The very fact that every one else who uses the hymn sings it to the tune called St. Ann would incline us to find some other tune if such a thing were obtainable. We found one which musicians, recognizing that we had some right to claim it as ours, called “Irish” or “Dublin.” This tune emerged suddenly from nowhere in response to no particular demand in the middle of the eighteenth century. It is anonymous, but it was at once wedded to the words of that particular hymn, and we have used it ever since. It is difficult to give an opinion on the comparative merits of two hymn tunes, and I hesitate to say that ours is a finer one than that used by the rest of the English-speaking world. I am, however, certain that there is in our tune an unmistakable suggestion of majestic confidence in an eternal righteousness, and that it very well expresses the feeling with which we sing the hymn at political demonstrations and elsewhere. It came to me that day across the waters of the bay, hammered slowly out by the swinging bells, with a tremendous sense of energy. The English St. Ann seemed lilty and almost flippant in comparison.
I raised my glasses again and took another look at the Union Jack, blown out from its flag-post and displaying plainly its tangled crosses. Then I noticed that men were entering the churchyard singly, in pairs and in little groups of three and four.
“The Dean,” I said, “must have some sort of service in church to-day. If it isn’t the Harvest Thanksgiving it must be an anniversary of something. What happened at this time of year, Godfrey? I can’t remember anything.”