Sir Gilbert Hawkesby had the reputation of being a just and able judge,
a man of fine intellect, great vigour, and immense determination of
character. On the bench he looked the part which popular imagination
had given him to play. His eyes were described as "steely" by a lady
journalist, who had occasion to watch him during the sensational trial
of Mrs. Lorimer. His chin she described later on in her article as
"characteristic of a strong fighter." His manner in court was
exceedingly severe. In private life, especially during his summer
holiday, he tried not to look like a judge, and was always pleased when
strangers mistook him for a country gentleman, the owner of a landed
property. He had a broad figure, and emphasised its breadth by wearing
on his holiday loose jackets of rough tweed. He had strong, stout legs
which looked well in knickerbockers and shooting stockings. A casual
observer, not knowing the man, would have set him down as an ardent
sportsman, and would have been perfectly right. The judge loved
fishing, and was prepared to go long distances in the hope of catching
salmon. He liked yachting, and owned a small cutter which was one of
the crack boats of her class. Men who met him for the first time on
the banks of a Norwegian river, or at a regatta at Cowes, were more
impressed by his physical than his intellectual strength. They would
perhaps have suspected him of obstinacy, the obstinacy of the
inveterate prejudice of the country gentleman. They would not, unless
they knew him, have given him credit for being a man of wide reading,
and a judgment in literary matters as sound as his decisions in court.
Sir Gilbert had spent nearly a week in the Bournemouth villa which he
had taken for Lady Hawkesby. The place wearied him, and nothing but a
chivalrous sense of the duty he owed to his wife kept him there so
long. Lady Hawkesby was a little exacting in some ways; and though she
recognised that the judge had a right to go fishing, she disliked his
running away without spending a few days with her after the busy season
was over, and she was able to leave London. The day of the judge's
departure had arrived, and he sat with Lady Hawkesby after luncheon,
waiting for the carriage which was to take him to the station.
"You'll see Millicent, of course," said Lady Hawkesby. "Be sure to
keep her out of mischief if you can."
"I don't suppose," said Sir Gilbert, "that Millicent can get into any
mischief in Ballymoy."
Lady Hawkesby sighed. She distrusted her niece, regarding her as a
highly dangerous person who might at any moment create a sensation
which would amount to a public scandal.
"I understand," she said, "that the place is twenty miles away from the
nearest railway station."
She sighed again. She was a little uncertain as to whether she ought
to find comfort or fresh cause of anxiety in the remoteness of Ballymoy
from civilisation. On the one hand, scandals of a literary kind--and
Lady Hawkesby did not suspect Miss King of giving occasion for anything
worse--are unlikely in the wilds of Connacht. On the other hand, her
distance from all friends and advisers would give Miss King a freedom
which was very perilous.
"I can't think," she said, "what takes either of you to such a place."
"I'm going to catch salmon," said Sir Gilbert. "Millicent tells me
that she wants rest and quiet. I daresay she does."
"I wish very much," said Lady Hawkesby, "that she was safely married to
some quiet sensible man."
There was a good deal of sound common sense and knowledge of human
nature in her "safely." Lady Hawkesby was not a brilliant woman. She
was in many ways a foolish woman. But she had certain beliefs founded
on the experience of many generations of people like herself, and
therefore entitled to respect. She believed that a woman is much less
likely to wander from the beaten paths of life when her hands are held
by a husband, if possible "a quiet sensible man," and her petticoats
grasped by several clinging children.
"I'm afraid," said Sir Gilbert, "that she's not likely to meet with any
suitable person in Ballymoy, but if she does I'll give her your
blessing as well as my own."
The fact that Miss King was not likely to meet an eligible man in
Ballymoy set Lady Hawkesby's thoughts working in a fresh direction.
"I am sure," she said, "that Millicent will be very glad to see you.
In a place like that where there can't be anybody to talk to--"
"Even I might be welcome. I'll look her up every Sunday. I'll dine
with her if she asks me on week-days; but I'm not going to stay with
her in the house she has taken. I like to be a free bird of the wild
when I'm on my holidays. The local inn, which is called the Imperial
Hotel, and owned by a man named Doyle, is the place for me. I've taken
rooms in it."
"I'm sure they'll cook abominably. You'll be half-starved."
"Potato cake and bottled porter," said Sir Gilbert. "That's what I
always live on when I go to Ireland. In Scotland I have oatcake and
whisky. Last summer, in Norway, I throve on smoked salmon."
"I hear the carriage. I hope all your things are properly packed, and
that nothing is forgotten."
"As long as I have my rods and my fly book," said Sir Gilbert, "I shall
be able to get along. Good-bye, my dear. I shall dine at the club,
and catch the night mail from Euston."
"Do write to me, Gilbert."
"I'll write on Sunday, not sooner, unless I find that Milly has got
into a scrape."
Sir Gilbert travelled comfortably, and enjoyed his journey. At Euston
he got into the carriage with an Irish Member of Parliament, a
Unionist, who was returning to his native Dublin after making himself
as brilliantly objectionable as possible for six months to a Liberal
Chief Secretary. He mistook the judge for an Irish country gentleman,
and gave expression to political opinions which Sir Gilbert found
extremely amusing. On the steamer he fell in with another Member of
Parliament, this time a Nationalist, who had travelled third class in
the train, and only emerged into good society at Holyhead. He, getting
nearer to the truth than his enemy, thought the judge was an English
tourist, and explained the good intentions of the Congested Districts
Board at some length. The judge found him amusing too, and sat up
talking to him in the smoking-room. In the morning he introduced his
two acquaintances to each other at five o'clock, just as the steamer
reached Kingstown pier. He was delighted with the result. They both
looked round them cautiously, and satisfied themselves that there was
no one on the pier who knew them. Then they fell into an animated
conversation, and found each other so agreeable that they travelled
together in a second-class carriage to Dublin, the Nationalist paying
ninepence extra for the privilege, the Unionist sacrificing the
advantages conferred by his first-class ticket. The judge, who was
going in a different train, put his head into the window of their
compartment and urged them to settle their political differences by a
similar compromise. He made a habit of being festive and jocular when
he was on holiday, and he particularly enjoyed poking fun at the
inhabitants of foreign countries.
In the breakfast car of the train which carried him westwards he came
into contact with a Local Government Board inspector. This gentleman
was extremely reticent for a long time, and was only persuaded to talk
in the end when the judge assured him that he was a complete stranger
in Ireland, and was not a newspaper correspondent. Then the inspector
talked. He told a series of amusing tales which were all of them true,
but which Sir Gilbert regarded as inventions. He had to change his
carriage at Athlone, and parted from the inspector with great regret.
For the rest of his journey he was alone. It was his first visit to
the part of Ireland he was travelling through, and he looked with keen
interest at the bogs, the scattered cottages, the lean cattle, scanty
pasture lands, potato fields, patches of oats, and squalid towns.
At Donard Station, which is the terminus of this branch of the railway,
and the nearest station to Ballymoy, he got out. He had telegraphed to
the hotel for luncheon, and given orders that a car should be ready to
drive him over to Ballymoy, He was accosted on the platform by two
strangers. He eyed them with some surprise. The one was a shabby,
red-haired clergyman, with a bristling moustache and a strikingly
battered hat. He looked about thirty years of age. The other was a
slightly older man, dressed in a seedy grey suit and a pair of
surprisingly bright yellow gaiters.
"Sir Gilbert Hawkesby, I presume?" said Meldon.
"Yes," said the judge; "I am Sir Gilbert Hawkesby."
"This," said Meldon, "is my friend Dr. O'Donoghue, medical officer of
health for the Poor Law Union of Ballymoy, a man greatly respected in
the neighbourhood for his scientific attainments and the uncompromising
honesty of his character. I need scarcely remind you, Sir Gilbert,
that the two things don't always go together."
Dr. O'Donoghue bowed and took off his cap.
"And you?" said the judge. "May I ask who you are?"
"It doesn't really matter who I am," said Meldon. "The important fact
for you to grasp is that O'Donoghue is the officer of health of the
Union of Ballymoy. That's what you are, isn't it, O'Donoghue?"
"It is," said O'Donoghue.
"I'll make a note of it at once," said the judge.
"A mental note will do," said Meldon. "You needn't bother writing it
down. If you happen to forget it in the course of our conversation,
you've only got to mention that you have and I'll tell it to you again."
"Thanks," said the judge. "I'm so glad that we are to have a
conversation. When shall we begin?"
Sir Gilbert was enjoying Meldon very much so far. He'd never before
come across any one exactly like this clergyman, and he wanted to see
more of him.
"Perhaps," said Meldon, "as what we have to say is of a strictly
private kind, and may turn out to be actually libellous, we'd better go
down to the hotel."
"Certainly," said the judge. "I've ordered luncheon there. If you and
the medical officer of health will join me I shall be delighted. After
luncheon I shall have to leave you, I'm afraid. I have a long drive
before me. I'm on my way to Ballymoy."
"When you've heard what we have to say," said Meldon, "you won't go to
Ballymoy."
"I expect I shall," said the judge. "But of course I don't know yet
what form your libel is going to take. Still, I can hardly imagine
that the defamation of any one's character will keep me out of
Ballymoy. I have a car waiting for me outside the station, but I'm
afraid I cannot offer to drive you down to the hotel. I have a good
deal of luggage."
"As far as the luggage is concerned," said Meldon, "you may just as
well leave it here. There's no point in dragging a lot of trunks and
fishing-rods down to the hotel when you'll simply have to drag them all
back again. When you've heard what we have to say you'll take the next
train home."
"I don't expect I shall. In fact, I feel tolerably certain I shall go
on. I'll take the luggage with me any how, in case I do."
"You mustn't think," said Meldon, "that I'm suggesting your leaving the
luggage behind simply in order to get a seat on your car."
"I assure you," said the judge, "that such a suspicion never crossed my
mind."
"O'Donoghue and I both have bicycles, so we don't want to drive. He
has his own, a capital machine, and I borrowed Doyle's this morning,
which is quite sound except for the left pedal. It's a bit groggy, and
came off twice on the way here."
"That makes me all the more sorry I can't drive you down," said the
judge, "but you see what a lot of things I have. I needn't say
good-bye: we shall meet again at the hotel."
Luncheon--chops and boiled potatoes--was served in the commercial room
of the hotel. When the maid had gone away after supplying the three
men with whisky and soda, Meldon laid down his knife and fork.
"I may introduce my subject," he said, "by saying that I have a high
respect for you. So has O'Donoghue. Haven't you, O'Donoghue?"
"I have," said O'Donoghue.
"Thanks," said the judge. "It's kind of you both to say that."
"Not at all; it's the simple truth. I look up to you a good deal in
your capacity of judge. Judge of the King's Bench, I think?"
The judge nodded.
"In order to make my position quite plain," said Meldon, "and to
prevent any possibility of your thinking that I'm meddling with your
affairs in an unwarrantable manner, I may add that I recognise in you
one of the pillars of society, a bulwark of our civil and religious
liberty, a mainstay of law and order. So does O'Donoghue."
"I'm a Nationalist myself," said the doctor, who felt that he was being
committed to sentiments which he could not entirely approve.
"I'm speaking of Sir Gilbert as an English judge," said Meldon, "and
the law and order I refer to are, so far as Sir Gilbert is concerned,
purely English. Nothing that I am saying now compromises you in the
slightest either with regard to the land question or Home Rule."
"I didn't understand that at the time you spoke," said the doctor; "but
if you don't mean any more than that I'm with you heart and soul."
"You hear what he says," said Meldon to the judge.
"I need scarcely say," replied Sir Gilbert, "that all this is immensely
gratifying to me."
"It won't surprise you now," said Meldon, "to hear that we look upon
your life as a most valuable one--too valuable to be risked
unnecessarily."
"I should appreciate this entirely unsolicited testimonial," said the
judge, "even more than I do already, if I knew exactly who was giving
it to me."
"I don't suppose that you'd be much the wiser if I tell you that my
name is Meldon--J. J. Meldon. I was at one time curate of Ballymoy."
"Thanks," said the judge. "Won't you go on with your luncheon? I'm
afraid your chop will be cold."
"I have," said Meldon, "a duty to perform. I don't mind in the least
if my chop does get cold. I wish to warn you that your life, your
valuable life--and I never realised how valuable your life was until I
read your summing-up in the case of Mrs. Lorimer. That was, if I may
say so, masterly. Milton himself couldn't have done it better."
"Milton?" said the judge.
"I mentioned Milton," said Meldon, "because he was the most violent
misogynist I ever heard of. Read what he says about Delilah in 'Samson
Agonistes' and you'll see why I compare your remarks about Mrs. Lorimer
to the sort of way he wrote."
"I've read it," said the judge, "and I think I recollect the passages
you allude to. I don't quite see myself what connection there is
between his views and the case of Mrs. Lorimer. Still, I'm greatly
obliged to you for what you say about my summing-up. But you were
speaking of my life just before you mentioned Milton."
"The connection is obvious enough," said Meldon; "and if you've really
read the poem--"
"I have," said the judge.
"Then you ought to recognise that the strong anti-feminist bias which
Milton displays is exactly similar to the spirit in which you
attributed the worst possible motives to Mrs. Lorimer. I'm not now
entering on a discussion of the question of whether you and Milton are
right or wrong in your view of women. That would take too long, and,
besides, it hasn't anything to do with the business on hand."
"That," said the judge, "as well as I recollect, is the danger of my
losing my life."
"Your life," said Meldon, "will not be safe in Ballymoy. We met you at
the station to-day in order to warn you to go straight home again."
"Really!" said the judge. "I travelled down from London with a Member
of Parliament last night, and he gave me a description of the state of
the country which bears out what you say. He mentioned anarchy and
conspiracy as being rampant--or else rife; I forget for the moment
which word he used. He said that the west of Ireland lay at the mercy
of an organised system of terrorism, and that--"
"That must have been a Unionist," said Meldon.
"Damned lies," said O'Donoghue.
"He was a Unionist," said the judge. "But I met another man in the
steamer, also an M.P., who said that, owing to the beneficent action of
the Congested Districts Board, Connacht was rapidly becoming a happy
and contented part of the empire; that the sympathy with Irish ideas
displayed by the present Government was winning the hearts and
affections of the people, and--"
"That," said Meldon, "must have been a Nationalist."
"More damned lies," said Dr. O'Donoghue.
"And now," said the judge, "I meet you two gentlemen, one of you a
Nationalist and the other a Unionist--"
"Don't call me that," said Meldon; "I'm non-political. Nothing on
earth would induce me to mix myself up with any party."
"And you," the judge went on, "after comparing me in the most
flattering manner to the poet Milton, tell me that my life won't be
safe in Ballymoy. I'm inclined to think that the best thing I can do
is to go and find out the truth for myself."
"If it was simply a question of murder," said Meldon, "I should
strongly advise you to go on and see the thing through; but what we
have in mind is something infinitely worse. Isn't it, O'Donoghue?"
"It is," said the doctor; "far worse."
"Is it," said the judge, "high treason? That's the only crime I know
which the law regards as more malignant than murder. The penalties are
a little obsolete at present, for nobody has ventured to commit the
crime for a great many years; but if you like I'll look the subject up
when I go home and let you know."
"We're not talking about crime," said Meldon, "but drains. Doyle's
drains."
"I beg your pardon," said the judge. "Did you say drains?"
"Yes," said Meldon distinctly. "Drains--Doyle's drains. The drains of
the house you mean to stop in. I needn't tell you what drains mean.
Blood-poisoning, typhoid, septic throats, breakings out in various
parts of your body, and a very painful kind of death. For although
O'Donoghue will do his best for you in the way of mitigating your
sufferings he can't undertake to save your life."
"I'm pretty tough," said the judge, "and I'm paying a good price for my
fishing. I think I'll face the drains."
"I don't expect that you quite realise how bad those drains are. Does
he, O'Donoghue?"
"He does not," said the doctor.
"Then you tell him," said Meldon. "As a medical man you'll put it much
more convincingly than I can."
O'Donoghue cleared his throat.
"I've no doubt," said the judge, "that you can make out a pretty bad
case against those drains; but I'm going on to Ballymoy to catch salmon
if they're twice as rotten as they are."
"It was only last winter," said Meldon, "that Mr. Simpkins wanted to
prosecute Doyle on account of the condition of his drains. You
probably don't know Simpkins; but if you did, you'd understand that
he's not the kind of man to take drastic action unless the drains were
pretty bad."
"And they're worse since," said O'Donoghue.
"It's extremely kind of you," said the judge, "to have come all this
way to warn me, and of course if I knew Simpkins I might, as you say,
act differently. But I think, on the whole, I'll go on and risk it.
If I do get a septic throat or anything of the kind I shall send at
once for Dr. O'Donoghue; and I shall ask you, Mr. Meldon, to write an
obituary notice for the papers in case I succumb. I am sure you'd do
it well, and you could put in all you said about Delilah and Mrs.
Lorimer. I shan't mind once I'm buried."
"You won't be able to say afterwards," said Meldon, "that you were not
fairly warned. We've done our duty whatever happens."
"You've done it in the most thorough way," said the judge, "and I hope
I shall see a great deal of you while I'm in Ballymoy."
"I'll just finish this chop," said Meldon, "and then O'Donoghue and I
must be off. We have a long ride before us. I'll tell Doyle to
sprinkle some chloride of lime in your bedroom, and to damp the sheets
with Condy's Fluid. I don't suppose it will be much use, but it's the
best we can do if your mind is made up."