Patsy Devlin strolled into the Imperial Hotel at noon. He found Jimmy
O’Loughlin, the proprietor, behind the bar, and was served at once with
a pint of porter.
“It’s fine weather for the hay, thanks be to God,” he observed.
In Connacht the hay harvest is gathered during the month of August, and
Patsy’s comment on the weather was seasonable.
“I’ve seen worse,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin. “But what’s on you at all,
Patsy, that you haven’t been next or nigh the place this two months or
more?”
“Be damn! but after the way you behaved over the election of the
inspector of sheep dipping, the wonder is that I’d ever enter your door
again. What would hinder you giving me the job as soon as another?”
Jimmy O’Loughlin did not wish to discuss the subject. He was, as a
trader ought to be, a peaceful individual, anxious to live on good
terms with all possible customers. He realized that the election was a
subject on which Patsy was likely to feel bitterly. He filled another
glass with porter from the tap and handed it silently across the
counter. Patsy tendered a coin in payment.
“I’ll not take it from you,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin heartily. “It would
be a queer thing if I wouldn’t give you a sup at my own expense now
that you are here after all this length of time. How’s herself?”
Patsy Devlin took a pull at the second pint of porter.
“She’s only middling. She was complaining these two days of an
impression on the chest, and a sort of rumbling within in herself that
wouldn’t let her rest easy in her bed.”
“Do you tell me that? And did you fetch the doctor to her?”
“I did not then.”
“And why not?”
Patsy Devlin finished the porter and winked across the bar at Jimmy
O’Loughlin. Jimmy failed to catch the meaning of the wink.
“If it was a red ticket you wanted,” he said, “you know very well that
you’ve nothing to do but ask me for it. But Dr. O’Grady, the poor man,
would go to you without that.”
“If I did be wanting a red ticket,” said Patsy, “it wouldn’t be you I’d
ask for it. There’s them would give it to me and maybe something along
with it, and what’s more, did give it to me no later than this morning.”
“Well,” said Jimmy, who guessed at the identity of the unnamed
benefactor, “and if so be that his lordship is after giving you the
ticket, why didn’t you go and fetch the doctor to herself?”
“I went for him right enough.”
“And do you mean to tell me that he refused to attend the call and you
with the red ticket in your hand? For if he did----”
“He wasn’t within when I went for him.”
The explanation was perfectly simple and natural; but Jimmy O’Loughlin,
noting the manner in which it was given, realized there was something
behind it.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Patsy Devlin winked again. Jimmy, vaguely anxious, but not knowing what
to fear, handed his visitor a third pint of porter.
“I’m thinking,” said Patsy, “that it’s about time for us to be making a
move in the matter of collecting funds for the horse races and athletic
sports. The season’s going on and if we don’t have them before the end
of the month the days will be getting short on us. I suppose now I may
put you down for a pound the same as last year?”
“You may,” said Jimmy. “But what was it you were after telling me about
Dr. O’Grady?”
“Does he owe you any money?”
“He does, a power.”
“Then you’ll not see it. Devil the penny of it ever you’ll handle, no
matter how you try.”
Patsy chuckled. He had nourished a grudge against Jimmy O’Loughlin ever
since the election of the inspector of sheep dipping.
“And why will I not?”
“Because the doctor’s gone, that’s why. He’s off to America, and every
stick of furniture he owns is gone along with him.”
“He is not,” said Jimmy. “He couldn’t. It was only last night he passed
this door, looking the same as usual. I was speaking to him myself, and
him on his way home after being out beyond in the bog.”
“It was last night he went.”
“He couldn’t. Sure you know as well as I do there’s no train.”
“There’s the goods that passes at one o’clock. What would hinder him
getting into one of them cattle trucks? Who’d see him? Anyway, whether
it was that way he went or another, he’s gone. And you may be looking
for your money from New York. Be damn! but I’d take half a crown for
all of it you’ll ever get.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Jimmy; but it was evident that he was
fighting desperately against conviction.
“Go round to the house then yourself and you’ll see. He’s not in it,
and what’s more he didn’t leave it this morning, for old Biddy Halloran
was watching out for him along the road the way he’d renew the bottle
he gave her for the rheumatism, and if he’d gone out she’d have seen
him.”
“It might be,” said Jimmy, “that he was called out in the night and
didn’t get back yet.”
“It might; but it wasn’t. I’m after spending the morning since ten
o’clock making inquiries here and there, and devil the one there is in
the parish sick enough to be fetching the doctor out in the middle of
the night. If there was I’d have heard of it. And Father Moroney would
have heard of it, but he didn’t, for I asked him this minute.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said very much what I’m saying myself, that the doctor’s gone.
‘And small blame to him,’ says Father Moroney, ‘with the way that old
reprobate of a Jimmy O’Loughlin, who’s no better than a gombeen man,
has him persecuted for the trifle of money he owes.’ It’s the truth I’m
telling you.”
It was not the truth, but it could scarcely be called a lie, for the
essence of a lie is the desire to deceive, and Patsy Devlin invented
the speech he put into the priest’s mouth without the least hope of
its being believed. The best he expected was to exasperate Jimmy
O’Loughlin. Even in this he failed.
“If so be he’s gone,” said Jimmy, “and I wouldn’t say but he might,
I’d as soon he got clear off out of this as not. I’ll lose upwards
of thirty pounds by him, but I’d sooner lose it than see the doctor
tormented by that bloodsucker of a fellow from Dublin that has a bill
of his. I’ve a great liking for the doctor, and always had. He was an
innocent poor man that wouldn’t harm a child, besides being pleasant
and agreeable as e’er a one you’d meet.”
Patsy Devlin felt aggrieved. He had sprung his mine on Jimmy
O’Loughlin, and the wretched thing had somehow failed to explode. He
had looked forward to enjoying a torrent of oaths and bitter speeches
directed against the absconding debtor. He had hoped to see Jimmy
writhe in impotent rage at the loss of his money.
“Be damn!” he said helplessly.
“And anyway,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, “there’s the furniture of the
house left, and it’ll be a queer thing if I don’t get a hold of the
best of it before ever the Dublin man--Vavasour or some such they call
him--hears that the doctor’s gone.”
There was no more spirit left in Patsy Devlin. He did not even repeat
the obviously incredible statement that the doctor had secretly carried
his furniture away with him in the middle of the night.
“The train’s in,” he said, changing the subject abruptly, “for I hear
the cars coming down from the station. If so be now that there should
be a traveller in belonging to one of them drapery firms, or Campbell’s
traveller with the flour, you might give me the word so as I can get a
subscription out of him for the sports. The most use those fellows are
is to subscribe to one thing or another where subscriptions is needed.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin nodded. He realized the importance of the commercial
traveller as a contributor to local funds of every kind. He left the
door and reached the bar of the hotel just as his bus, a ramshackle,
dilapidated vehicle drawn by a sickly horse, drew up. It contained a
lady. Jimmy O’Loughlin appraised her at a glance as she stepped out of
the bus. She was dressed in a grey tweed coat and skirt of good cut and
expensive appearance. She wore gloves which looked almost new, and she
had an umbrella with a silver handle. She was tall and carried herself
with the air of one who was accustomed to command service from those
around her. Her way of walking reminded Jimmy O’Loughlin of Lady Flavia
Canning, Lord Manton’s daughter; but this lady was a great deal younger
and better looking than Lady Flavia. Jimmy O’Loughlin allowed his eyes
to leave her for an instant and seek the roof of the bus. On it was a
large travelling trunk, a handsome bag, and a bundle of rugs and golf
clubs. Jimmy’s decision was made in an instant. He addressed his guest
as “my lady.”
She made no protest against the title.
“Can I get a room in this hotel?” she asked.
“Certainly, my lady. Why not? Thomas, will you bring the lady’s luggage
in at once and take it up to number two, that’s the front room on the
first floor. Your ladyship will be wanting a private sitting-room?”
“If I do,” she said, “I shall ask for it.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin was snubbed, but he bore no malice. A lady of title
has a right to snub hotel-keepers. He stole a glance at the label
on her luggage as Thomas, the driver of the bus, passed him with the
trunk on his shoulders. He discovered that she was not a lady of title.
“Miss A. M. Blow,” he read. “Passenger to Clonmore.” The name struck
him as being familiar, but for a moment he could not recollect where he
had heard it. Then he remembered. Miss Blow passed upstairs guided by
Bridgy, the maid. Patsy Devlin emerged from the bar.
“It’s the doctor’s young lady,” whispered Jimmy O’Loughlin.
“Is it, be damn? How do you know that?”
“Didn’t he often tell me,” said Jimmy, “that he was to be married to
a young lady out of Leeds or one of them towns beyond in England, and
that her name was Miss Blow? And didn’t I see it on her trunk, ‘Miss A.
M. Blow’? Would there be two in the world of the name?”
“And what would bring her down to Clonmore?”
“How would I know? Unless maybe she’s heard of the misfortunes that has
the doctor pretty near bet. She might have seen his name in the paper
when the judgment was gave against him.”
“She might; but if she did wouldn’t she keep away from him as far as
ever she could?”
“She would not,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin. “That’s not the sort she is. I
seen her and you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Well, and if you did you might have known that she’d be the sort that
would come down after him the minute she got word of the trouble that
was on him. Believe you me, Patsy Devlin, that’s a fine girl.”
“She’s a good-looking one anyway,” said Patsy, “but mighty proud, I’d
say.”
“You may say that. I’d sooner she married the doctor than me, and
that’s the truth.”
“What’ll she do now,” said Patsy, “when she finds that the doctor’s
gone and left her?”
“It’ll be best,” said Jimmy, “if we keep it from her.”
“How can you keep it from her when the man’s gone? Won’t she be asking
to see him?”
“There’s ways of doing things. What would you say now if I was to tell
her that the doctor had gone off on a holiday for six weeks with the
permission of the Board of Guardians and that there’d have to be a
substitute appointed in his place? Would she be contented with that, do
you think?”
“She might,” said Patsy, “but she might not. She’d be wanting his
address anyway.”
“If she wanted it, it would be mighty hard to keep it from the like of
that one.”
“You haven’t got it to give, and so you can’t give it,” said Patsy.
Miss Blow came downstairs as he spoke and walked up to Jimmy O’Loughlin.
“Will you kindly have some luncheon ready for me,” she said, “at two
o’clock?”
“Certainly, miss, why not? Is there any particular thing that your
ladyship would fancy, such as a chop or the like?”
He reverted to the “ladyship” again, although he knew her name and
degree. The girl’s manner seemed to force him to. She deserved
something better than a mere “miss.”
“In the meanwhile will you be so good as to tell me where Dr. O’Grady
lives?”
“Is it Dr. O’Grady? Well, now, never a nicer gentleman there is about
the place, nor one that’s more thought of, or better liked than Dr.
O’Grady. It’s him that does be taking his dinner up at the Castle with
the old lord and attending to his duties to the poor the same as if he
was one of themselves. Many’s the time I’ve said to him: ‘Dr O’Grady,’
says I, ‘if anything was to take you away out of Clonmore, and I don’t
deny but what you ought to be in a less backward place, but if ever----
’”
“Will you be so good as to tell me where he lives?” said Miss Blow.
Patsy Devlin interposed at this point of the conversation with an air
of contempt for Jimmy O’Loughlin.
“Can’t you stop your talking,” he said, “and tell the lady where the
doctor lives?”
Jimmy cast a venomous glance at him.
“I will tell your ladyship to be sure. Why not? But it will be of no
use for you to go to call on him to-day. Patsy Devlin here is after
telling me this minute that he’s not at home.”
Miss Blow turned to Patsy.
“Do you know,” she asked, “when he’s likely to be back?”
“I do not, my lady. But I’d say it wouldn’t be for a couple of days
anyway.”
“A couple of days! Where has he gone to?”
“It’s what Mr. O’Loughlin there was just after telling me, your
ladyship, and he’s the Chairman of the Board of Guardians, that the
doctor did ask for leave to go on a holiday. But I wouldn’t say that
he’d be away for very long.”
“When did he ask for a holiday?” said Miss Blow to Jimmy O’Loughlin.
“It was Patsy Devlin told me,” said Jimmy; “and six weeks was the time
that he mentioned.”
Miss Blow turned again to Patsy Devlin; but he had vanished. Having
committed Jimmy O’Loughlin, as Chairman of the Board of Guardians, to
the fact of the doctor’s holiday, he slipped quietly into the bar.
“I don’t believe,” said Miss Blow, “that you’re telling me the truth.”
“He was not,” said Jimmy, sacrificing his friend with the utmost
promptitude. “It’s seldom he does that same. Devil the bigger liar,
begging your ladyship’s pardon for the word, devil the bigger liar
there is in Connacht than that same Patsy Devlin, and it’s what every
one that knows him would tell you.”
“I don’t,” said Miss Blow severely, “see very much to choose between
you and him.”
In England people have a great regard for the truth so long as it
does not interfere with business. Miss Blow expressed her scorn for
the two men who had tried to deceive her quite plainly both by her
words and the tone in which she spoke them. In Connacht truth is less
respected. Good manners and consideration for other people’s feelings
are looked upon as virtues superior to blunt accuracy of statement.
Jimmy O’Loughlin lied feebly, but he lied with the best intentions. He
wanted to spare Miss Blow the knowledge that her lover had deserted
her. In return she insulted him; but even under the sting of her words
he recollected that courtesy is due to every lady, especially to one as
good-looking as Miss Blow. It was not until she had turned her back on
him and left the hotel that he murmured under his breath--
“May the Lord help the poor doctor if it ever comes to his being
married by the like of her!”