The committee met at three o'clock in the afternoon. Sir Samuel
Clithering was not, of course, a member of it; but he lurked about
outside and waylaid us as we went in. He was in a condition of pitiful
bewilderment. Alice whose adventures in Wonderland have been very dear
to me since I first read them aloud to Marion, was once placed in a
difficult and awkward position by the kings, queens and knaves of the
pack of cards with which she was playing coming to life. This was
sufficiently embarrassing. But Clithering was much worse off than
Alice. In her story all the cards came to life, and though the
unexpectedness of their behaviour made things difficult for her there
was a certain consistency about the whole business. A card player
might in time adjust himself to a game played with cards which
possessed wills of their own. But poor Clithering had to play with a
pack in which one suit only, and it not even the trump suit, suddenly
insisted that the game was a reality. The other three suits, the
Liberals, the Conservatives, and the Irish Nationalists still behaved
in the normal way, falling pleasantly on top of each other, and
winning or losing tricks as the rules of the game demanded. The Ulster
party alone--Clubs, we may call them--would not play fairly. They
jumped out of the player's hand and obstinately declared that the
green cloth was a real battlefield. The higher court cards of the
suit--Lady Moyne for instance, and Babberly--Clithering felt himself
able to control. It was the knaves--I am sure he looked on McNeice as
a knave--the tens, the sevens and the humble twos which behaved
outrageously.
And Clithering was not the only player who was perplexed. I had been
to luncheon with the Moynes. Babberly was there of course. So was
Malcolmson. Clithering sat next but one to Lady Moyne. Malcolmson was
between them. It was a curious alliance. The emissary of the
Government, which had passed measures which all good aristocrats
disliked intensely, joined hands for the moment with the lady whose
skill as a political hostess had frequently been troublesome to
Clithering's friends. I do not suppose that such an alliance could
possibly last long. Those whom misfortune, according to the old
proverb, forces into bed together, always struggle out again at
opposite sides when the clouds cease to be threatening. But while it
lasted the alliance was firm enough. They were both bent on pressing
the advantages of moderation on Malcolmson. They produced very little
effect. Malcolmson is impervious to reason. He kept falling back, in
replying to their arguments, on his original objection to Home Rule.
"I shall never consent," he said, "to be governed by a pack of
blackguards in Dublin."
It was really a very good answer, for every time he made it he drove a
wedge into the coalition against him. Lady Moyne was bound to admit
that all Irishmen outside Ulster are blackguards, and that the
atmosphere of Dublin is poisonous. Clithering, on the other hand, was
officially committed to an unqualified admiration for everything south
of the Boyne. I do not think that Malcolmson appreciated his dialectic
advantage. His mind was running on big guns rather than arguments.
Lady Moyne squeezed my hand as we parted after luncheon, and I think I
am not exaggerating in saying that there were tears in her eyes. She
succeeded at all events in giving me the impression that her future
happiness depended very largely on me. I determined, as I had
determined several times before, to be true to the most charming lady
of my acquaintance.
Moyne took the chair at our meeting. Next him sat Babberly. Cahoon,
McNeice and Malcolmson sat together at the bottom of the table. I was
given a chair on Moyne's other side. Conroy would not sit at the table
at all. He had two chairs in a corner of the room. He sat on one of
them and put his legs on the other. He also smoked a cigar, which I
think everybody regarded as bad form. But nobody liked to protest,
because nobody, except me and McNeice, knew which side Conroy was
going to take in the controversy before us. Babberly, I feel sure,
would have objected to the cigar if he had thought that Conroy
favoured extreme defiance of the Government. Malcolmson, like many
military men, is a great stickler for etiquette. He would have snubbed
the cigar if he thought Conroy was inclined to moderation. As things
were, we all warmly invited Conroy to desert his private encampment
and join us round the table.
"I guess I'm here as an onlooker," said Conroy. "You gentlemen can
settle things nicely without me, till it comes to writing cheques.
Then I chip in."
Moyne murmured a compliment about Conroy's extreme generosity in the
past, and Babberly said that further calls on our purses were, for the
present, unnecessary. Then we all forgot about Conroy. The Dean sat
half way down the table on my side. There was also present a Member of
Parliament, a man who had sat by Babberly's side in the House of
Commons all through the dreary months of June, July and August,
supporting consistently every move he made towards wrecking the Home
Rule Bill. There ought to have been several others of the moderate
party at the meeting. Their letters of apology were read to us. They
all had urgent business either in England or Scotland, which prevented
their being in Belfast. I do not think their absence made much
difference in the result of our deliberations. We had got beyond the
stage at which votes matter much.
Moyne was pitifully nervous. He stated our position very fairly. It
was, he said, a hateful thing to have to give in to the Government. He
did not like doing it. On the other hand he did not like to take the
responsibility of urging the people of Belfast to commit a breach of
the peace. Lives, he said, would certainly be lost if we attempted to
hold our meeting in the face of the force of armed men which the
Government had collected in our streets. He would feel himself guilty
of something little short of murder if he did not advise the
acceptance of the compromise offered by Clithering. It was, after all,
a fair, more than a fair compromise. Nothing would be lost by
postponing the meeting for a week.
It was rather a feeble speech. Nobody offered any interruption, but
nobody expressed any approval of what he said. When he sat down
Babberly rose at once.
Now Babberly is no fool. He knows that florid orations are out of
place at committee meetings. He did not treat us to any oratory. He
gave us tersely and forcibly several excellent reasons for postponing
our demonstration.
"The Government," he said, "is weakening. Its offer of a compromise
shows that it is beginning at last to feel the full force of the
Ulster objection to Home Rule."
Here McNeice interrupted him.
"If that's so," he said, "we must make our objection more unmistakably
obvious than before."
"Quite so," said Babberly; "but how? Is it--"
"By fighting them," said McNeice.
"If by fighting them," said Babberly, "you mean asking the unarmed
citizens of Belfast to stand up against rifles--"
"Unarmed?" The word came from Conroy in his corner. Every one was
startled. We had not expected Conroy to take any part in the
discussion.
"Undrilled, undisciplined," said Babberly. "What can be the result of
such a conflict as you suggest? Our people, the men who have trusted
us, will be mowed down. We shall place ourselves hopelessly in the
wrong. We shall alienate the sympathies of our friends in England."
A large crowd had gathered in the street outside the windows of the
room in which we were sitting. I suppose that the men found waiting a
tiresome business. By way of passing the time they began to sing "O
God, our help in ages past."
"It is of the utmost importance to us," said Babberly, "to retain the
sympathies of the English constituencies. Any illegal violence on our
part--"
"You should have thought of that before you told the English people
that we meant to fight," said McNeice.
"If you follow my advice to-day," said Babberly, "there will be no
necessity for fighting."
The hymn outside gathered volume. It seemed to me that thousands of
voices were joining in the singing of it. It became exceedingly
difficult to hear what Babberly was saying. I leaned forward and
caught his next few sentences.
"By keeping within the limits of constitutional action at this crisis
we shall demonstrate that we are, what we have always boasted
ourselves, the party of law and order. We shall win a bloodless
victory. We shall convince the Government that we possess self-control
as well as determination."
Then the noise of the singing outside became so great that it was
impossible to hear Babberly at all. McNeice tilted his chair back and
began to hum the tune. Malcolmson beat time to the singing with his
forefingers. Their action seemed to me to be intentionally insulting
to Babberly. The crowd outside reached the end of a verse and there
was a pause.
"Damn that hymn!" said Babberly.
This roused the Dean. It would have roused any dean with a particle of
spirit in him. After all, a high ecclesiastic cannot sit still and
listen to profane condemnation of one of the Psalms of David, even if
it has undergone versification at the hands of Dr. Watts. The conduct
of McNeice and Malcolmson was offensive and provocative. The noise
made by the crowd was maddening. There is every excuse for Babberly's
sudden loss of temper. But the Dean's anger was more than excusable.
It was justified. He sprang to his feet, and I knew at once that he
was very angry indeed. I could see a broad white rim all round the
irises of his eyes, and a pulse in his temples was throbbing visibly.
I recognized the symptoms. I had seen them once before at a vestry
meeting when some ill-conditioned parishioner said that the Dean's
curate was converting to his own uses the profits of the parish
magazine. The periodical, as appeared later on, was actually run at a
loss, and the curate had been seven-and-ninepence out of pocket the
previous year.
The Dean said something to Babberly, but the crowd had begun the
fourth verse of the hymn, and we could not hear what he said. I got up
and shut both windows. The atmosphere of our committee-room was hot,
and likely to become hotter; but it is better to do business in a
Turkish bath than not to do it at all. There was plainly no use our
talking to each other unless we were able to hear. My action gave
Babberly time to regain his temper.
"I apologize," he said. "I apologize to all of you, and especially to
you, Mr. Dean, for an intemperate and uncalled-for exclamation."
The Dean sat down. The pulse in his forehead was still throbbing, but
the irises of his eyes ceased to look like bulls' eyes in the middle
of targets.
"I have been a consistent supporter of the Union," said Babberly, "for
twenty years. In season and out of season I have upheld the cause we
have at heart on English platforms and in the House of Commons. I
know better than you do, gentlemen, what the temper of the English
people is. I know that we shall sacrifice their friendship and
alienate their sympathy if we resort to the argument of lawlessness
and violence."
"It's the only argument they ever listen to," said McNeice. "Look at
the Nationalists. What arguments did they use?"
"Gentlemen," said Babberly, "are you going to ask Ulstermen to fire on
the King's troops?"
"I reckon," said Conroy, "that we mean to use our guns now we've got
them."
Babberly made a curious gesture with his hands. He flung them out from
him with the palms upwards and then sat down. McNeice rose next.
"For the last two years," he said, "we've been boasting that we meant
to resist Home Rule with force if necessary. That's so, isn't it?"
Malcolmson growled an assent.
"English politicians and Irish rebels said we were bluffing. Our own
people--the men outside there in the street--thought we were in
earnest. The English went on with their Bill. Our people drilled and
got rifles. Which of the two was right about us? Were we bluffing or
were we in earnest? We've got to answer that question to-morrow, and
we'll never get another chance. If we don't fight now, we'll never
fight, for there won't be a man left in Ulster that will believe in us
again. I don't know that there's any more to be said. I propose that
Lord Moyne puts the question to the meeting and takes a vote."
Then Cahoon rose to his feet.
"Before you do that, my lord," he said, "I'd like to say a word. I'm a
business man. I've as much at stake as any one in this room. My
fortune, gentlemen, is in bricks and mortar, in machinery and plant
not ten miles from this city. I've thought this matter out, and I came
to a conclusion years ago. Home Rule won't do for Belfast, and Belfast
isn't going to have it. If I saw any way of stopping it but the one
I'd take it. There are thousands, yes, gentlemen, thousands of men,
women, and children depending on my business for their living. Home
Rule means ruining it and starving them. I don't like fighting, but,
by God, I'll fight before I submit to Home Rule."
Lord Moyne looked slowly round the room. His face was quite pale. It
seemed to me that his eyes had grown larger. They had a look of terror
in them. His hands trembled among the papers in front of him. He saw
at once what the result of a vote would be. He looked at me. I shook
my head. It was quite plain that nothing I could say would influence
the meeting in the least.
"Gentlemen," said Moyne, "are we to attempt to hold our meeting
to-morrow? Those who are in favour of doing so say 'Aye.'"
Cahoon, McNeice, Malcolmson, the Dean and Conroy voted "aye."
"The 'ayes' have it," said Moyne.
"Before we part," said Babberly, "I wish to say that I leave Belfast
to-night--"
Malcolmson muttered something. Babberly held up his hand.
"No," he said. "You are wrong. I'm not afraid. I'm not taking care of
my own skin. But I have lived a loyal man and I mean to die a loyal
man. I decline to take part in the rebellion."
I have heard Babberly speak on various occasions and admired his
eloquence. This time I recognized his sincerity. He was speaking the
truth.
"I shall go back to England," he said, "and, of this you may rest
assured, that I shall do what can be done in Parliament and elsewhere
to save you and the men whom I must call your victims from the
consequences of to-day's madness and to-morrow's crime."
He left the room. The five men who had voted "Aye" were gathered in a
knot talking eagerly. I took Moyne's arm and we went out together.
"Her ladyship must be got away," he said. "And your daughter, Kilmore.
She's here, isn't she? This town will be no place for women to-morrow.
Luckily I have the car. You'll take them, won't you? Castle Affey will
be the best place for the present."
"What are you going to do yourself?" I asked.
We passed through the door and down the flight of steps to the street.
The crowd outside caught sight of us at once. Some one shouted aloud.
"More traitors!"
The news of the result of the meeting and the part we took in it had
somehow reached the people already. An angry roar went up from the
crowd. Those who were nearest to us cursed us. A police-officer with
eight men forced a way through the crowd. At a word from their officer
the men drew their batons and stood in front of us.
"I think, my lord," said the officer to Moyne, "that you'd better go
back. We had the greatest difficulty in getting Mr. Babberly through,
and the crowd is angrier now."
"I'm going on," said Moyne.
"I cannot be responsible," said the officer. "I haven't enough men to
control this crowd. If you go on--"
Moyne pushed his way through the cordon of police. I followed him. At
first the people drew back a little and let us pass into the middle of
the crowd. Then one man after another began to hustle us. Moyne linked
his arm in mine and helped me along. A man struck him in the face with
the flat of his hand. It was a sharp slap rather than an actual blow.
Moyne flushed deeply, but he neither spoke nor struck back. Then
suddenly the people seemed to forget all about us. A wild cheer burst
from them. Hats were flung into the air. Sticks were waved. Some one
began firing shots from a revolver in rapid succession. It was a
fusillade of joy, a kind of salute to McNeice who appeared at the
window of the committee-room. Moyne and I pushed our way on. When we
were clear of the crowd Moyne spoke to me again.
"You'd better take them at once," he said. "It's impossible to know
what'll happen here to-night."
"But you?" I said.
"Oh, I shall stay."
"Don't be a fool, Moyne," I said. "You're the one of all others who
ought not to stay. Don't you see that whatever way things go you're in
for it? The mob thinks you're a traitor. I wouldn't trust those
fellows we've just left not to kill you. And when the soldiers have
shot them down and the subsequent investigation begins, the Government
is bound to fix on you as a ringleader. There'll be panic to-morrow
and savage vindictiveness the next day. McNeice and Malcolmson will
frighten the Government and the Government will have you hanged or
beheaded afterwards for causing the trouble. The English people will
clamour for a victim, and you're exactly the sort of victim they'll
like. Your one chance is to get out of this. Go to Castle Affey
to-night, and telegraph to _The Times_ to-morrow to say that you
dissociate yourself--"
Moyne stopped me.
"Look here, Kilmore," he said. "I've heard all you have to say, and I
agree with it, more or less. I don't suppose I'll be either murdered
by the mob or shot by the military, but--"
"You will," I said, "if you stay here."
"Even if I am," he said, "I'll have to stay."
"In the name of goodness, why?"
"You know the way we've been talking for the last two years--our side,
I mean."
I knew the way Babberly had been talking. I knew the way Lady Moyne
had goaded him and others to talk, but poor Moyne hardly ever talked
at all. All he ever wanted was to be left alone.
"Well, I can't exactly go back on them now when they're doing what we
said they ought to do. I've got to see the thing through. After all
it's my fault that those poor fellows are in this horrible mess."
He glanced back as he spoke. He was thinking of the angry crowd we had
left behind us.
"So you'll take care of the ladies," he said. "Run them down to Castle
Affey and make yourself as comfortable as you can. They won't be
expecting you, but they'll manage some sort of dinner."
"I'm not going," I said. "I'm staying on in Belfast."
"But why should you? You've no responsibility. You've never taken any
part in our--It's very good of you to think of staying. It really is.
And I appreciate the spirit in which--But--"
"For goodness' sake, Moyne," I said, "don't give me credit for any
kind of heroism. That _noblesse oblige_ attitude of yours doesn't suit
me a bit. It isn't in my line."
"But hang it all, Kilmore, you can't be staying here for the fun of
it."
"I've often told you," I said, "that I'm writing a history of the
Irish Rebellions. I naturally want to see one, and there isn't likely
to be another in my time. That's my only reason for staying in
Belfast."
We found Lady Moyne waiting for us when we reached the hotel. She was
wearing a long cloak, and had a motor-veil tied over her head. She was
evidently prepared to start at once.
"I've ordered the car," she said. "It ought to be round now. Marion's
coming with me, Lord Kilmore. I think she'd be better out of Belfast
for the next few days."
The news of the decision of our committee seemed to have spread with
quite unexampled rapidity. We came straight from the meeting, and we
found that Lady Moyne had already recognized the necessity for flight.
"I'm glad you're going," said Moyne, "and I'm glad you're taking
Marion with you. But how did you know? Who told you what--?"
"That young man who's Mr. Conroy's secretary," said Lady Moyne. "I
forget his name."
"Bob Power," I said.
"He came in to see Marion, and he told us."
Bob must have known beforehand what the committee's decision was to
be. I realized that Conroy must have had the whole plan cut and dried;
that the meeting at which Moyne presided was simply a farce. However,
there was nothing to be gained by discussing that.
"I think," I said, "that Moyne ought to go with you. I don't think
Belfast is particularly safe for him just now; and--"
"Moyne must stay, of course," said Lady Moyne.
"There'll be trouble afterwards," I said. "He ought not to be mixed up
in it. If he clears out at once--"
Lady Moyne looked at me with an expression of wonder on her face. Her
eyes opened very wide.
"Surely," she said, "you don't expect him to run away."
"Of course not," said Moyne; "of course not. And there's really no
risk. I'll--"
"That's not the kind of people we are," said Lady Moyne.
"I'll join you at Castle Affey in a couple of days," said Moyne.
"Castle Affey," said Lady Moyne. "I'm not going to Castle Affey. I'm
going to London."
"What for?" I said. "And how are you going to get there? There are no
steamers on Sunday night."
"I'm taking possession of Mr. Conroy's yacht," said Lady Moyne. "She's
lying off Bangor, and that young man, Mr. Power, said we could have
her. We'll get across to Stranraer this evening, and I'll have a
special train and be in London to-morrow morning."
"London!" said Moyne. "But why London? Surely Castle Affey--"
"I must see the Prime Minister early to-morrow. He must be
persuaded--he must be forced if necessary--to telegraph orders to
Belfast. Don't you realize? I don't blame you, I don't blame either of
you for the failure of your meeting this afternoon. I'm sure you did
your best. But--but what will happen here to-morrow? We can't leave
the people to be shot down like dogs. After all, they're _our_
people."
"But what can you do?" said Moyne. "The Prime Minister won't see you."
"If necessary I shall force him," said Lady Moyne. "He shall see me."
Lady Moyne is, as I have always said, a remarkable woman. Many members
of her sex have been trying for years to force their way into the
presence of the Prime Minister. They have hitherto failed.
"I am afraid," I said, "that Marion won't be much use to you if you're
going to come into collision with the police in any way."
Lady Moyne smiled.
"I hope I shan't be reduced to those methods," she said; "but if I am
I shall leave Marion at home."
I had not the slightest doubt that Lady Moyne would succeed in seeing
the Prime Minister. He has probably sense enough to know that though
he may resist other women successfully, he cannot possibly make head
against her.
"If there is no rioting here to-night," said Lady Moyne, "I shall be
in time. That young man, Mr. Power, seemed to think that everything
would be quiet until to-morrow. I hope he's right."
"He's sure to be," I said. "Conroy is running the revolution and
settles exactly what is to happen."
"He was very confident," said Lady Moyne. "Ah! here's Marion. Now we
can start. Good-bye, Lord Kilmore. Do your best here. I'll make the
best arrangement I can with the Prime Minister."