Captain Quinn made himself very agreeable to Mary O’Dwyer during the
short journey back to Dublin. At Westland Row he saw her into a cab,
which he paid for. His last words were a reminder that he would expect
to have her war-song, music and all, sent after him to Paris. Then he
turned to Hyacinth.
‘That’s all right. We’ve done with her. It was better to pay the cab for
her, else she might have scrupled about taking one, and we should have
been obliged to go home with her in a beastly tram. Come along. I’m
staying at the Gresham. It’s always as well to go to a decent place
if you have any money. You come with me, and we’ll have a drink and a
talk.’
There were two priests and a Bishop in earnest conference round the
fire in the hall of the hotel when they entered. When he discovered that
their talk was of the iniquities of the National Board of Education, and
therefore likely to last beyond midnight, Captain Quinn led the way into
the smoking-room, which was unoccupied. A sufficient supply of whisky
and a syphon of soda-water were set before them. The Captain stretched
himself in a comfortable chair, and lit his pipe.
‘A fine woman, Miss Goold,’ he said meditatively. Hyacinth murmured an
assent.
‘A very fine woman, and apparently pretty comfortably off. I wonder why
on earth she does it.’
He looked at Hyacinth as if he expected some sort of explanation to be
forthcoming.
‘Does what?’ asked Hyacinth at length.
‘Oh, all this revolutionary business: the _Croppy_, seditious speeches,
and now this rot about helping the Boers. What does she stand to gain by
it? I don’t suppose there’s any money in the business, and a woman
like that might get all the notoriety she wants in her own proper set,
without stumping the country and talking rot.’
This way of looking at Augusta Goold’s patriotism was new to Hyacinth,
and he resented it.
‘I suppose she believes in the principles she professes,’ he said.
The Captain looked at him curiously, and then took a drink of his
whisky-and-soda.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s suppose she does. After all, her motives are
nothing to us, and she’s a damned fine woman, whatever she does it for.’
He drank again.
‘It would have been very pleasant, now, if she would have spent the next
few weeks with me in Paris. You won’t mind my saying that I’d rather
have had her than you, Conneally, as a companion in a little burst.
However, I saw at once that it wouldn’t do. Anyone with an eye in his
head could tell at a glance that she wasn’t that sort.’
He sighed. Hyacinth was not quite sure that he understood. The
suggestion was so calmly made and reasoned on that it seemed impossible
that it could be as iniquitous as it appeared.
‘There’s no one such an utter fool about women,’ went on the Captain,
‘as your respectable married man, who never does anything wrong himself.
I’d heard of Miss Goold, as everybody has, and listened to discussions
about her character. You know just as well as I do the sort of things
they say about her.’
Hyacinth did know very well, and flared up in defence of his patroness.
‘They are vile lies.’
‘That’s just what I’m saying. Those respectable people who tell the lies
are such fools. They think that every woman who doesn’t mew about
at afternoon parties must be a bad one. Now, anyone with a little
experience would know at once that Miss Goold--what’s this the other
one called her? Oh yes, Finola--that Finola may be a fool, but she’s not
_that_.’
He pulled himself together as he spoke. Evidently he plumed himself, on
his experience and the faculty for judging it had brought him.
‘Now, I’d just as soon have asked my sister-in-law to come to Paris with
me for a fortnight as Finola. You don’t know Mrs. James Quinn, I think.
That’s a pity. She’s the most domesticated and virtuous _haus-frau_ in
the world.’
He paused, and then asked Hyacinth, ‘Why are you doing it?’
Again Hyacinth was reduced by sheer surprise to a futility.
‘Doing what?’
‘Oh, going out to fight for the Boers. Now, don’t, like a good fellow,
say you’re acting on principle. It’s all well enough to give Finola
credit for that kind of thing. She is, as we agreed, a splendid woman.
But you mustn’t ask me to believe in the whole corps in the same way.’
Hyacinth meditated a reply. It was clearly impossible to assert that
he wanted to fight for liberty, to give his life to the cause of an
oppressed nationality. It would be utterly absurd to tell the story of
his father’s vision, and say that he looked on the South African War
as a skirmish preliminary to the Armageddon. Sitting opposite to this
cynical man of the world and listening to his talk, Hyacinth came
himself to disbelieve in principle. He felt that there must be some
baser motive at the bottom of his desire to fight, only, for the life of
him, he could not remember what it was. He could not even imagine a good
reason--good in the estimation of his companion--why anyone should do so
foolish a thing as go out to the Transvaal. The Captain was not at all
impatient. He sat smoking quietly, until there seemed no prospect of
Hyacinth answering; then he said:
‘Well, if you don’t want to tell me, I don’t mind. Only I think you’re
foolish. You see, little accidents happen in these affairs. There are
such things as bullets, and one of them might hit you somewhere that
would matter. Then it would be my duty to send home your last words to
your sorrowing relatives, and it would be easier to do that if I knew
exactly what you had done. The death-bed repentance of the prodigal
is always most consoling to the elder brother--much more consoling, in
fact, than the prodigal’s return. Now, how the deuce am I to make up a
plausible repentance for you, if I don’t know what you’ve done?’
‘But I’ve not done anything,’ said Hyacinth ineffectively.
The Captain ignored him.
‘Come, now, it can’t be anything very bad at your age. Have you got
into a mess with a girl? Or’--he brightened up at the guess--‘are
you hopelessly enamoured of the beautiful Finola? That would be most
suitable. The bold, bad woman sends the minstrel boy to his death,
with his wild harp slung behind him. I could draw tears from the
stoniest-hearted elder brother over that.’
If he could have thought of a crime at the moment, Hyacinth would
probably have confessed it; but he was bewildered, and could hit on
nothing better than:
‘I have no elder brother--in fact, no relation of any sort.’
‘Lucky man! Now, I have a perfect specimen of a brother--James Quinn,
Esquire, of Ballymoy. He’s a churchwarden. Think of that! If it should
be your melancholy duty to send the message home to him--in case that
bullet hits me, I mean--tell him------ Oh, there’s no false pride about
me. Fill your glass again. I don’t in the least mind your knowing that I
wouldn’t go a step to fight for Boer or Briton either if it wasn’t for a
little affair connected with some horses and a cheque. You see, the War
Office people sent down a perfect idiot to buy remounts for the cavalry
in Galway and Mayo. He was the sort of idiot that would tempt an
Archbishop to swindle him. I rather overdid it, I’m afraid, and now the
matter is likely to come out.’
For all his boasted powers of observation, Captain Quinn failed to
notice the disgust and alarm on Hyacinth’s face.
‘I stuck the fool,’ he went on, ‘with every old screw in the country. I
got broken-winded mares from the ploughs. I collected a regular hospital
of spavined, knock-kneed beasts, and he took them from me without a word
at thirty pounds apiece. It would have been all right if I had gone no
further. But, hang it all! I got to the end of my tether. I declare to
you I don’t believe there was another screw left in the whole county of
Mayo, and unless I took to selling him the asses I couldn’t go on. Then
I heard of this plan of your friend Finola’s, and I determined to make
a little coup and clear. I altered a cheque. The idiot was on his way to
an out-of-the-way corner of Connemara looking for mounted infantry cobs.
I knew he wouldn’t see his bank-book for at least a week, so I chanced
it. That’s the reason why I am so uncommonly anxious to get clear at
once. If I once get off, it will be next door to impossible to get me
back again. General Joubert will hardly give me up. I’m not the least
afraid of those ridiculous policemen who walk about after Finola. But
I am very much afraid of being tapped on the shoulder for reasons
quite non-political. I can tell you I’ve been on the jump ever since
yesterday, when I cashed the cheque, and I shan’t feel easy till I’ve
left France behind me. I fancy I’m safe for the present. The idiot is
sure to try fifty ways of getting his accounts straight before he lights
on my little cheque; and when he does, I’ve covered my tracks pretty
well. My dear brother hasn’t the slightest notion what’s become of me.
I dare say he’ll stop making inquiries as soon as the police begin. Poor
old chap! He’ll feel it about the family name, and so on.’
He smiled at his own reflection in the mirror over the chimneypiece. He
was evidently well satisfied with the performance he had narrated. Then
at last Hyacinth found himself able to speak. Again, as when he had
defeated Dr. Spenser in the college lecture-room, his own coolness
surprised him.
‘You’re an infernal blackguard!’ he said.
Captain Quinn looked at him with a surprise that was perfectly genuine.
He doubted if he could have heard correctly.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said,’ repeated Hyacinth, ‘you are an infernal blackguard!’
‘Did you really suppose that I would be going on this fool of an
expedition if I wasn’t?’
‘I shall tell Miss Goold the story you have just told me. I shall tell
her to-morrow morning before the boat sails.’
‘Very well,’ said the Captain; ‘but don’t suppose for a moment that
you’ll shock Finola. She doesn’t know this particular story about me,
but I expect she knows another every bit as bad, and I dare say she will
regard the whole thing as a justifiable spoiling of the Egyptians. By
the way ‘--there was a note of anxiety in his voice--‘I hope you won’t
find it necessary to repeat anything I’ve said about the lady herself.
_That_ might irritate her.’
‘Is it likely,’ said Hyacinth, ‘that I would repeat that kind of talk to
any woman?’
‘Quite so. I admire your attitude. Such things are entirely unfit for
repetition. But seriously, now, what on earth do you expect to happen
when you tell her? I’m perfectly certain that every single volunteer
she’s got is just as great a blackguard--your word, my dear fellow--as I
am, and Finola knows it perfectly well.’
Hyacinth hesitated. The phrase in Miss Goold’s letter in which she had
originally described her men as blackguards recurred to his mind. He
remembered the story of Doherty. His anger began to give way to a sick
feeling of disgust.
‘Think, now,’ said the Captain: ‘is it likely that you could enlist a
corps of Sunday-school teachers for this kind of work? I’ll give you
credit for the highest motives, though I’m blest if I understand them;
but how can you suppose that there is anyone else in the whole world
that feels the way you feel or wants to act as you are doing?’
‘I dare say you are right,’ said Hyacinth feebly.
‘Of course I’m right--perfectly right.’
Hyacinth tried to lift his glass of whisky-and-water to his lips, but
his hand trembled, and he was obliged to put it down. Captain Quinn
watched him wipe the spilt liquid off his hand, and then settle down in
his chair with his head bowed and his eyes half shut.
‘Sit up, man,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. You’ve done nothing to be
ashamed of, at all events. But look here, you ought not to come with us
at all. It’s no job for a man like you. You back out of it. Don’t turn up
to-morrow morning. I’ll explain to Finola if she’s there, and if not
I’ll write her a letter that will set you straight with her. I’m really
sorry for you, Conneally.’
Hyacinth looked up at him.
‘I’m sorry I called you a blackguard,’ he said. ‘You’re not any worse
than everyone else in the world.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Captain Quinn. ‘Don’t take it like that. From your
point of view you were quite right to call me a blackguard. And, mind
you, there are plenty of people in the world who aren’t blackguards.
There’s my brother, for instance. He’s a bit of a prig--in fact, he’s
as priggish as he well can be--but he’s never done anything but run
straight. I don’t suppose he could go crooked if he tried.’
Hyacinth got up.
‘Good-night,’ he said, ‘and good-bye. I shan’t go with you.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Captain Quinn. ‘I think I’ve done you one good
turn to-night in stopping you going to South Africa. Now I’ll do you
another, and one at the same time to that brother of mine. I left him
in a hurry. I told you that, but I don’t think I mentioned that I was in
his employment. He runs a woollen factory down in Mayo. I owned a
share in the business once, but that went long ago, and the whole thing
belongs to James now. I was a sort of clerk and general agent. I wasn’t
really the least use, for I never did any work. James was for ever
complaining, but I’m bound to say he stuck to me. I’ll give you a letter
to him, and I dare say you may get the job that I’ve chucked. It’s not
much of a thing, but it may suit you for a while. Sit down till I write
my letter.’
Hyacinth obeyed. Since his anger evaporated a sort of numbness had crept
over his mind. He scarcely understood what was said to him. He had a
vague feeling of gratitude towards Captain Quinn, and at the same time
a great desire to get away and be alone. He felt that he required to
adjust his mind to the new thoughts which had been crowded into it. When
he received the letter he put it into his pocket, and rose again to go.
The Captain saw him to the door.
‘Good-bye.’ Hyacinth heard him, but his voice seemed far off, and his
words meaningless. ‘Take my advice and run down to Ballymoy at once.
Don’t hang about Finola any more. She’s a splendid woman, but she’s not
for you. If you married her you’d be perfectly miserable. Not that I
think she’d ever marry you. Still, she might. Women do such odd things.
If by any chance she does, you’ll have to be very careful. Give her her
head, and take her easy up to the jumps. Don’t try to hustle her, and
for God’s sake don’t begin sawing at her mouth. I’d very much like to be
here to see you in the character of Mr. Augusta Goold.’ He sighed.
‘But, of course, I can’t. The British Isles will be too hot for me for
a while. However, who can tell what might happen if I win a good medal
from old Kruger, and capture a few British Generals? I might act best
man for you yet, if you’ll wait a year or two.’
When Hyacinth got home to his lodgings the first object that met his eye
was Grealy’s ancient rifle. He tied a label round its barrel addressed
to the owner. Then he packed his few belongings carefully and strapped
his bag. So far he was sure of himself. He had no doubt whatever that he
must leave Dublin at once. He felt that he could not endure an interview
with Augusta Goold. She might blame him or might pity him. Either would
be intolerable. She might even justify herself to him, might beat him
into submission by sheer force of her beauty and her passion, as she had
done once before. He would run no such risk. He felt that he could not
sacrifice his sense of right and wrong, could not allow himself to be
dragged into the moral chaos in which, it seemed to him now, Miss Goold
lived. He was unconscious of any Divine leading, or even of any direct
reliance on the obligations of honour. He could not himself have told
why he clung with such desperate terror to his plan of escaping from his
surroundings. Simply he could not do certain things or associate as a
friend with people who did them. To get away from Dublin was the first
necessity. For a moment it occurred to him that he might go to Dr.
Henry, tell him the whole story, and ask for advice and help. But that
was impossible. How could he confess the degradation of his ideal?
How could he resist the inevitable reminder that he had been warned
beforehand? Besides, not even now, after all that he had seen, could he
accept Dr. Henry’s point of view. He still believed in Ireland, still
hoped to serve her, still looked for the coming of his father’s captain
to lead the saints to the final victory. Miss Goold had failed him, but
he was not yet ready to enrol himself a citizen of England.
No, he must leave Dublin. But where to go? His lamp burnt dim and
expired as he sat thinking. His fire had long ago gone out. He shivered
with cold and misery, while the faint light of the dawn stole into his
room. He heard the first twitter of the birds in the convent garden
behind his lodging. Then came the noise of the earliest traffic, the
unnaturally loud rattle of the dust-carts on their rounds. A steamer
hooted far away down the river, and an early bell rang the neighbouring
nuns to prayer. Hyacinth grew desperate. Could he go home, back to the
fishing-boats and simple people of Carrowkeel? A great desire for the
old scenes seized upon him. He fought against it with all his might. He
had rejected the offer of the home life once. Now, no doubt, it would be
closed against him. The boat that might have been his was sold long ago.
He would not go back to confess himself a fool and a failure.
Gradually his mind worked back over the conversation in the hotel with
Captain Quinn. The recollection of the latter part of it, which had
meant nothing at the time, grew clear. He felt for the letter in his
pocket, and drew it out. After all, why should he not offer himself to
James Quinn? Ballymoy was remote enough to be a hiding-place. It was in
County Mayo, the Captain had said. He had never heard of the place, and
it seemed likely that no one else, except its inhabitants, knew of it
either. At least, there was no reason that he could see why he should
not go there. His brain refused to work any longer, either at planning
or remembering. His lips formed the word Ballymoy. He repeated it again
and again. He seemed to go on repeating it in the troubled sleep which
came to him.