These are a few things better managed in Ireland than in England, and
one of them is the starting of important railway trains. The
departure, for instance, of the morning mail from the Dublin terminus
of the Midland and Great Western Railway is carried through, day after
day, with dignity. The hour is an early one, 7 a.m.; but all the chief
officiate of the company are present, tastefully dressed. There is no
fuss. Passengers know that it is their duty to be at the station not
later than a quarter to seven. If they have any luggage they arrive
still earlier, for the porters must not be hustled. At ten minutes to
seven the proper officials conduct the passengers to their carriages
and pen them in. Lest any one of independent and rebellious spirit
should escape, and insist on loitering about the platform, the doors of
the compartments are all locked. No Irishman resents this treatment.
Members of a conquered race, they are meek, and have long ago given up
the hope of being able to resist the mandates of official people.
Strangers, Englishmen on tour, are easily recognised by their
self-assertive demeanour and ill-bred offences against the solemn
etiquette of the railway company. Since it is impossible to teach
these people manners or meekness, the guards and porters treat them, as
far as possible, with patient forbearance. They must, of course, be
got into the train, but the doors of their compartments are not locked.
It has been found by experience that English travellers object to being
imprisoned without trial, and quote regulations of the Board of Trade
forbidding the locking of both doors of a railway carriage. There is
nothing to be gained by a public wrangle with an angry Englishman. He
cannot be got to understand that laws, those of the Board of Trade or
any other, are not binding on Irish officials. There is only one way
of treating him without loss of dignity, and that is to give in to him
at once, with a shrug of the shoulders.
Thus, Miss King, entering upon the final stage of her journey to
Ballymoy, reaped the benefit of belonging to a conquering and imperial
race. She was, indeed, put into her compartment, a first-class one,
ten minutes before the train started; but her door, alone of all the
doors, was left unlocked. The last solemn minutes before the departure
of the train passed slowly. Grave men in uniform paraded the platform,
glancing occasionally at their watches. The engine-driver watched from
his cabin for the waving of the green flag which would authorise him to
push over his levers and start the train. The great moment had almost
arrived. The guard held his whistle to his lips, and had the green
flag ready to be unfurled, in his left hand. Then a totally
unexpected, almost an unprecedented, thing occurred. A passenger
walked into the station and approached the train with the evident
intention of getting into it. He was a clergyman, shabbily dressed,
imperfectly shaved, red-haired, and wearing a red moustache. He
carried a battered Gladstone bag in one hand. The guard glanced at him
and then distended his cheeks with air, meaning to blow his whistle.
"Hold on a minute," said the clergyman. "I'm thinking of travelling by
this train."
The audacity of this statement shook the self-possession of the guard.
"Can't wait," he said. "Time's up. You ought to have been here
sooner."
To say this he was obliged to take the whistle from his lips; and the
engine-driver, who had a strict sense of duty, was unable to start.
"As a matter of fact," said the clergyman, "I'm not only here soon
enough, I'm an hour and a half too soon. The train I intended to catch
is the next one."
The guard put his whistle to his lips again.
"If you blow that thing," said the clergyman, "before I'm in the train,
I'll take an action against the company for assault and battery."
The guard hesitated. He did not see how such an action could be
sustained in court; but he felt the necessity of thinking over his
position carefully before running any risks. The law, especially in
Ireland, is a curious thing, and no wise man entangles himself with it
if he can help it. Railway guards are all wise men, otherwise they
would not have risen to their high positions.
"Now that I am here," said the clergyman, "I may as well go by this
train. Excuse me one moment; I want to get a few newspapers."
This was gross impertinence, and the guard was in no mood to stand it.
He blew his whistle. The engine shrieked excitedly, and the train
started with a violent jerk.
The clergyman seized a handful of newspapers from the bookstall.
Clinging to them and his bag he ran across the platform. He tried the
doors of two third-class compartments as they passed him, and found
them locked. He happened next upon that which was occupied by Miss
King, opened the door, and tumbled in.
"I've only got a third-class ticket," he said cheerfully; "but I shall
travel first class the whole way now, and I shan't pay a penny of
excess fare."
"Won't they make you?" said Miss King.
She realised that she had found an unexpectedly early opportunity of
studying the peculiarities of the Irish character, and determined to
make the most of it.
"Certainly not," said the clergyman. "The position is this. I have a
through ticket--I bought it yesterday--which entitles me to travel on
this railway to Donard. If the doors of all the third-class carriages
are locked when I arrive at the station, I take it that the company
means me to travel first class. Their own action is a clear indication
of their intention. There isn't a jury in Ireland would give it
against me, even if the case came into court, which, of course, it
won't."
"I'm going to Donard, too," said Miss King.
"Are you? It's a wretched hole of a place. I don't advise you to stop
there long."
"I'm not staying there at all. I'm driving straight on to Ballymoy."
"If you're at all familiar with Ballymoy, I expect you've heard of me.
My name's Meldon, the Reverend J. J. Meldon, B.A. I was curate of
Ballymoy once, and everybody who was there in my time will be talking
about me still. I'm going back there now for a holiday."
"But I'm quite a stranger," said Miss King. "I've never been in
Ballymoy."
Meldon glanced at the bag which lay on the seat before her. There was
no label on it, but it bore the initials M. K. in gold letters on its
side.
"I suppose," he said, "that you're not by any chance a sister or a
niece of Major Kent's?"
"No. I'm not. I don't even know Major Kent. My name is King.
Millicent King."
A clergyman is, necessarily, more or less educated. Mr. Meldon had
proclaimed himself a bachelor of arts. It was natural to suppose that
he would have known the name, even the real name, of a famous living
novelist. Apparently he did not. Miss King felt a little disappointed.
"I daresay," said Meldon, without showing any signs of being impressed,
"that you're going to stop with the Resident Magistrate."
"No," said Miss King decisively.
"You don't look like the sort of person who'd be going on a visit to
the rectory."
Miss King was handsomely dressed. She appeared to be a lady of high
fashion; not at all likely to be an inmate of the shabby little rectory
at Ballymoy. She shook her head. Then, because she did not like being
cross-questioned, she put an end to the conversation by opening her bag
and taking out a bundle of typewritten papers. She was quite prepared
to study Mr. Meldon as a type, but she saw no reason why Mr. Meldon
should study her. He appeared to be filled with an ill-bred curiosity
which she determined not to satisfy.
Meldon did not seem to resent her silence in the least. He leaned back
in his seat and unfolded one of the papers he had snatched from the
bookstall. It was a London evening paper of the day before, and
contained a full account of the last scene of a sensational trial which
had occupied the attention of the public for some time. A Mrs. Lorimer
was charged with the murder of her husband. Her methods, if she had
done the deed, were cold-blooded and abominable; but she was a young
and good-looking woman, and the public was very anxious that she should
be acquitted. The judge, Sir Gilbert Hawkesby, summed up very strongly
against her; but the jury, after a prolonged absence from court, found
her "not guilty." The paper published a portrait of Mrs. Lorimer, at
which Meldon glanced. Suddenly his face assumed an expression of great
interest. He studied the portrait carefully, and then looked at Miss
King. She sat at the other end of the carriage, and he saw her face in
profile as she bent over her papers. Mrs. Lorimer's side face was
represented in the picture; and she, too, was bending over something.
Meldon laid down the paper and took up another, this time an Irish
morning paper. It contained an interview with Mrs. Lorimer, secured by
an enterprising reporter after the trial. Meldon read this, and then
turned to the magazine page and studied the picture of the lady which
appeared there. In it Mrs. Lorimer wore a hat, and it was again her
side face which was represented. Meldon looked from it to Miss King.
The likeness was quite unmistakable. He took up a third paper, a
profusely illustrated penny daily. He found, as he expected, a picture
of Mrs. Lorimer. This was a full-length portrait, but the face came
out clearly. Meldon took up the Irish paper again, and re-read very
carefully the interview with the reporter on the evening of the trial.
Then he folded up all three papers and leaned over towards Miss King.
"You must excuse me," he said, "if I didn't recognise you just now.
You put me out by giving your name as Miss King. I'm much more
familiar with your other name. Everybody is, you know."
Miss King was mollified by the apology. She looked up from her papers
and smiled.
"How did you find me out?" she asked.
"By your picture in the papers," he said. "If you'll allow me to say
so, it's a particularly good likeness and well reproduced. Of course,
in your case, they'd take particular care not to print the usual kind
of smudge."
Miss King was strongly inclined to ask for the papers. Her portrait
had, she knew, appeared in the _Illustrated London News_ and in two
literary journals. She did not know that it had been reproduced in the
daily press. The news excited and pleased her greatly. She had a
short struggle with herself, in which self-respect triumphed. She did
not ask for the papers, but assumed an air of bored indifference.
"They're always publishing my photograph," she said. "I can't imagine
why they do it."
"I quite understand now," said Meldon, "why you're going down to
Ballymoy. You couldn't go to a better place for privacy and quiet;
complete quiet. I'm sure you want it."
"Yes," said Miss King. "I feel that I do. Now that you know who I am,
you will understand. I chose Ballymoy because it seemed so very remote
from everywhere."
She did not think it necessary to mention that she wanted to study the
Irish character. Now that Meldon was talking in an interesting way she
felt inclined to encourage him to reveal himself.
"Quite right. It is. I don't know a remoter place. Nobody will know
you there, and if anybody guesses, I'll make it my business to put them
off the scent at once. But there'll be no necessity for that. There
isn't a man in the place will connect Miss King with the other lady.
All the same, I don't think I'd stop too long at Doyle's hotel if I
were you. Doyle is frightfully curious about people."
"I'm not stopping there," said Miss King. "I have taken a house."
"What house? I know Ballymoy pretty well, and there isn't a house in
it you could take furnished, except the place that belonged to old Sir
Giles Buckley."
"I've taken that for two months," said Miss King.
Meldon whistled softly. He was surprised. Ballymoy House, even if let
at a low rent, is an expensive place to live in.
"My servants went down there yesterday," said Miss King. She opened
her bag and groped among the contents as she spoke.
"Would you be very much shocked if I smoked a cigarette?" she asked.
"Not in the least," said Meldon. "I smoke myself."
"I was afraid--being a clergyman--you are a clergyman, aren't you?
Some people are so prejudiced against ladies smoking."
"I'm not," said Meldon. "I'm remarkably free from prejudices of any
kind. I pride myself on being open-minded. My wife doesn't smoke, but
that's merely because she doesn't like it. If she did, I shouldn't
make the slightest objection. All the same, you oughtn't to go puffing
cigarettes about the streets of Ballymoy. The Major's a bit
old-fashioned in some ways, and I don't expect Doyle is accustomed to
see ladies smoking. You'll have to be very careful. If you start
people talking they may find out who you are, and then there will
certainly be unpleasantness."
"Would they disapprove of me?"
"Almost sure to. We Irish have the name of being a wild lot, I know;
but--well, if you don't mind my saying so, most of us would be rather
shy of you. I don't mind you myself in the least, of course. I'm not
that kind of man. Still, your reputation! You've been a good deal in
the papers, haven't you?"
Miss King, curiously enough, seemed pleased at this account of her
reputation. It is gratifying to a novelist to be famous, and even
notoriety is pleasant. She felt that, having braved the censure of
Lady Hawkesby, she could afford to despise the morality of the people
of Ballymoy.
"The Major?" she said. "You've mentioned him once or twice. What sort
of man is he? Does my work shock him?"
"I expect it does," said Meldon. "I haven't seen him for some time,
and so we haven't discussed you. But from what I know of him I should
say that your work, as you call it, will shock him frightfully. You
can't altogether blame him. He's a bachelor, and has very strict ideas
about a wife's duty to her husband."
Miss King was moved by a desire to startle Meldon. She was really
engaged on quite an innocent novel, but she chose to pretend that she
was going on in her old way.
"What will he say," she said, "when he finds out that I'm going on with
my work under his very eyes, so to speak, in Ballymoy?"
Meldon sat up suddenly.
"You don't mean that? Surely you can't intend--"
"Now you're shocked," said Miss King, "and you said you wouldn't be."
"I am a little. I didn't think I could be. But I am. I never
imagined--"
"But that's exactly what I'm going to Ballymoy for. I want complete
quiet in a lonely place where I shan't be disturbed."
"Of course, it's no business of mine," said Meldon. "But don't you
think that perhaps you've done enough?"
"No. I have a great deal to do yet. If it were simply a question of
earning money--"
Meldon looked at her. She was very well dressed. The bag which lay
open at her side was fitted with silver-topped bottles. Her cigarette
case appeared to be of gold. She was travelling first class. She had
taken Ballymoy House for two months. He was quite ready to believe
that she did not want money.
"Do you mean to say that you're doing it simply for amusement?" he
asked.
"No. Not amusement." Her voice dropped to a kind of solemn whisper.
"For the love of my art."
Miss King took herself very seriously indeed, and was accustomed to
talk a good deal about her art. Literary people who might have known
better, and critics who certainly did know better, encouraged her.
They also talked about her art.
"Of course, if you look at it that way," said Meldon, "there's no more
to be said; but you mustn't expect me to help you."
"You!"
"No. As a clergyman I can't possibly do it. Nor will the Major,
unless he's greatly changed. I don't expect Doyle will either. He's
president of the local branch of the League, but I'm sure he draws the
line at--"
"But I don't want any of you to help me. Why should I?"
"I'm glad to hear that, at all events," said Meldon. "For, unless
under very exceptional circumstances, I couldn't conscientiously assist
you in any way."
"You said just now," said Miss King, "that you had no prejudices, and
that nothing shocked you."
"Very few things do," said Meldon. "In fact I can't recollect ever
having been shocked before; but this idea is a little new to me. I
candidly confess that I never--hullo! We're slowing down into a
station. Now I expect there'll be trouble about my ticket."
There was--considerable trouble. But Meldon emerged from it
victoriously. He flatly refused to move from the carriage in which he
sat. The guard, the station-master, a ticket-collector, and four
porters gathered round the door and argued with him. Meldon argued
fluently with them. In the end they took his name and address,
threatening him with prosecution. Then, because the train was a mail
train and obliged to go on, the guard blew his whistle and Meldon was
left in peace.
"It's a nuisance," he said to Miss King, "being worried by those men.
I wanted to send a telegram, but I couldn't. If I'd ventured out of
the carriage they'd never have let me back again. The Major won't be
expecting me till the next train. I only caught this one by accident."
"By accident?"
"Yes. The fact is I was up early this morning, wakened by my little
daughter, a baby not quite two years old yet. I told you I was
married, didn't I? The poor child was upset by the journey from
England, and didn't sleep properly. When she had me wakened I thought
I might as well get up. I intended to stroll up towards the station
quietly. I walked rather faster than I meant to, and when I got within
about three hundred yards of the station I discovered that I might just
catch this train by running; so, of course, I ran. I'm very glad I did
now. If I hadn't I shouldn't have met you."
"What did you do with the baby?"
"I didn't drop her on the way, if that's what you're thinking of. I'm
not that kind of man at all, and I am particularly fond of the child.
I scarcely ever complain when she keeps me awake at night, though many
men I know would want to smother her. She and my wife are stopping
with my mother-in-law in Rathmines. I'm going down for a fortnight's
yachting with the Major. I might persuade him to give you a day's
sailing, perhaps, if he doesn't find out who you are, and we succeed in
keeping it dark about your going on with your work. I daresay it would
cheer you up to go out on the bay. I expect you find your work pretty
trying."
"It is very trying. I often feel completely exhausted at the end of
the day."
"Nerve strain," said Meldon. "I don't wonder. It's a marvel how you
stand it."
"Then I can't sleep," said Miss King. "Often I can't sleep for two or
three nights together."
"It surprises me to hear that you ever sleep at all. Don't they haunt
you? I've always heard--"
"My people?"
"Yes, your people, if that's what you call them. I'd have thought
they'd never have let you alone."
"Some of them do haunt me. I often cry when I think of them. It's
very foolish, of course; but in spite of myself I cry."
"Then why on earth do you go on with it?"
"It's my art," said Miss King.
"I'm not an artist myself," said Meldon, "in any sense of the word, so
I can't exactly enter into your feelings; but I should say, speaking as
a complete outsider, that the proper thing for you would be to drop the
whole thing, take to smoking a pipe instead of those horrid scented
cigarettes, drink a bottle of porter before you go to bed, and then
sleep sound."
Miss King sighed. There was something in the ideal which Meldon set
before her which was very attractive. The details she ignored.
Bottled porter was not a drink she cared for, and no woman, however
emancipated, likes a pipe. In spite of the satisfaction she found in
her literary success, there was in her a desire for quiet and restful
ways of life. There was no doubt that she would sleep sounder at night
if she lived simply, somewhere in the country, and forgot the
excitements of the novelist's art. Meldon, indeed, did not seem to
enjoy absolutely unbroken rest at night; but Miss King's imagination,
although she wrote improper novels, did not insist on representing a
baby as an inevitable part of domesticated life. She got no further
than the dream of a peaceful house, with the figure of an inoffensive
husband somewhere in the background.