"You may as well drive me into Ballymoy, Doyle," said Meldon, as they
walked up together from the shore. "You've your trap with you, I
suppose?"
"I have, and I'll drive you of course, but I'll be expecting that
you'll do something when we get there the way the judge won't be
leaving the hotel altogether."
"You may put that out of your head at once," said Meldon, "for I'll do
nothing of the sort. I've already explained to you at some length that
my chief object at present is to chase away the judge, not only from
your hotel but from Ballymoy."
Doyle relapsed into a sulky silence. He did not speak again until he
and Meldon were half way into Ballymoy. Then he broke out suddenly.
"Any way," he said, "Sabina Gallagher won't spend another night under
my roof. She'll be off back to her mother as soon as ever she can get
her clothes packed. I'll give her a lesson that will cure her of
playing off tricks on the gentlemen that stops in my hotel."
"If you take that kind of revenge on Sabina," said Meldon, "you will be
doing an act of gross injustice for which you will be sorry up to the
day of your death."
"I will not, but I'll be serving her out the way she deserves."
"She has been acting all through," said Meldon, "in your interests,
though you can't see it; and you'll make a kind of dog Gelert of her if
you sack her now. You know all about the dog Gelert, I suppose, Doyle?"
"I do not," said Doyle, "and what's more I don't care if there was
fifty dogs in it. Sabina'll go. Dogs! What has dogs got to do with
Sabina and myself? It's not dogs I'm thinking of now."
"You evidently don't know anything about the dog I'm speaking of," said
Meldon. "He belonged to a Welsh king whose name at this moment I
forget. The king also happened to have a baby which slept, as many
babies do, in a cradle. You're listening to me, I suppose, Doyle?"
"I am not," said Doyle. "It's little good I, or any other body, would
get by listening to you. Sabina Gallagher listened to you, and look at
the way she is now. It's my belief that the less anybody listens to
you the better off he'll be."
"All the same, I expect you are listening," said Meldon. "In any case,
as I'm speaking distinctly, and you can't get away, you're bound to
hear, so I'll go on with the story. One day the king came in and found
the dog close to the cradle with his mouth all covered with blood. He
leaped to the conclusion that he'd eaten the baby."
"He was a damned fool if he thought that," said Doyle. "Who ever heard
of a dog eating a baby?"
"You are listening to me," said Meldon. "I thought you would when the
story began to get interesting. And you're perfectly right. The king
was a fool. He was such a fool that he killed the dog. Afterwards it
turned out that the dog had really been behaving in the most noble way
possible--had, in fact, been fighting a wolf which wanted to eat the
baby. Then the king was sorry, frightfully sorry, because he saw that
through his own hasty and ill-considered action he had killed his best
friend, a friend who all along had been acting in his interests. You
see the point of that story, don't you? You'll be exactly in the
position of the king, and you'll suffer endless remorse just as he did
if you go and sack Sabina."
Doyle meditated on the story. It produced a certain effect on his
mind, for he said,--
"If so be it wasn't Sabina that put the paraffin oil into the judge's
dinner, but some other one coming in unbeknown to her, and Sabina maybe
doing her best to stop it, then of course there wouldn't be another
word said about it; though as soon as ever I found out who it was--"
"You mustn't push the parable to those extremes," said Meldon. "No
parable would stand it. Sabina did pour in the paraffin oil. I'm not
pretending that a wolf or any animal of that sort came in and meddled
with the judge's food. I'm merely trying to explain to you that later
on, when you understand all the circumstances, you'll find yourself
tearing out your hair, and rubbing sack-cloth and ashes into your skin,
just as the king did when he realised what he had done in the case of
the dog Gelert. As well as I recollect the poor man never got over it."
"Dogs or no dogs," said Doyle, "Sabina Gallagher will have the wages
due to her paid, and then off with her out of my house. For conduct
the like of hers is what I won't stand, and what nobody in a hotel
would stand."
"Very well," said Meldon; "I've told you what the consequences of your
action will be. If you choose to face them you can. I've done my best
to save you. But you are evidently bent on going your own way. I
daresay you may be quite right in supposing that you won't suffer much,
even when you find out that you have committed a gross injustice.
After all, it requires a man to have some sort of a conscience to
suffer in that sort of way, and you apparently have none. But there's
another consideration altogether that I'd like to bring under your
notice. I've had some talk with Sabina during the last few days, and
I've come to the conclusion that she's a young woman with a talent for
cooking of a very rare and high kind. There's nothing that girl
couldn't do if she got a little encouragement. Give her the smallest
hint and she acts on it at once."
"I wish to God then," said Doyle, "that you'd held off from giving her
hints, as you call it. Only for you I don't believe she'd ever have
thought--"
"I'm not speaking now of the paraffin oil business. You mustn't allow
that to become an obsession with you, Doyle. There are other things in
the world besides that judge's meals. As it happens, I was giving
Sabina a short lecture on the art of cookery some days before I heard
of the judge's arrival. I was speaking to her about the advisability
of knocking together an occasional omelette for you, or a nice little
savoury made of olives and hard-boiled eggs. I found her unusually
receptive, and quite prepared to follow up the ideas I put before her.
There was just one thing stood in her way--"
"Who'd eat the like of them things?" said Doyle.
"You would," said Meldon, "if you got them. But you won't, not from
Sabina Gallagher, because you're determined to sack her. And not from
any other cook as long as you pay the perfectly miserable wages you do
at present. You can't expect first-rate results when you sweat your
employees. That's a well-known maxim in every business, and the sooner
you get it into your head the better. You set yourself up here in
Ballymoy as a sort of pioneer of every kind of progress. You're the
president of as many leagues and things as would sink a large boat.
There isn't hardly a week in the year but you make a speech of some
sort. Ah! here we are at the hotel. Remind me some time again to
finish what I was saying to you. I must find out now what has happened
to the judge."
He leaped out of the trap and walked straight through the hotel to the
kitchen. He found Sabina there.
"Good morning, Sabina Gallagher," he said. "I hear you did exactly as
I told you. You're a good girl, Mr. Doyle is angry just at present,
and you'd better keep out of his way."
"He'll hunt me," said Sabina.
"He will not," said Meldon. "If you have the sense to keep out of his
way until he has cooled down a bit, and cook him decent dinners in the
meanwhile. I've spoken to him very strongly about you, and I don't
think he'll dare to push matters to extremities, although he may
grumble a bit. If he catches you, and you find his temper particularly
bad, just mention the dog Gelert to him. I told him the story this
morning and it produced a great impression on his mind."
"He'll hunt me," said Sabina tearfully. "Whatever dog I might talk to
him about he'll hunt me."
"If he does," said Meldon, "I'll engage you myself. We'll be wanting a
girl as soon as ever we go home, to look after the baby a bit and do
the cooking and washing, and keep the whole place clean generally.
You'd like to come and live in the house with me, wouldn't you, Sabina?"
"I'm not sure would I."
"You would. There's no doubt about it. But we need not discuss that
yet, for I don't expect Mr. Doyle will sack you. What I really want to
talk to you about is that judge. Where is the judge?"
"He's gone," said Sabina.
"I know that," said Meldon. "But he'll come back all right. He must
come back for his luggage."
"He will not then. It's not an hour ago since Patsy Flaherty, the same
that does be driving the car, came in and said he had orders to take
all the luggage there was and the fishing-rods, and the rest of
whatever there might be in the place belonging to the gentleman."
"He was not taking them to the train, I suppose?"
"He was not then, but up to Ballymoy House."
"Nonsense! He couldn't possibly have been taking them up to Ballymoy
House."
"It's what he said any way, for I asked him. And he told me that the
gentleman had it made up with the young lady that does be stopping
there beyond, the way he'd go and live with her."
"This," said Meldon, "is perfectly monstrous. I must go and see about
it at once. He has evidently been bullying that unfortunate Miss King,
coercing her with threats until she has agreed to board and lodge him.
I can't have that sort of thing going on under my very eyes. You'll
excuse me, Sabina, if I run away from you. It's absolutely necessary
that I should go up to Ballymoy House at once. I'll borrow Mr. Doyle's
bicycle again."
He went out through the back door into the yard, and found Doyle
stabling his pony.
"I suppose," he said, "that I can have your bicycle again. Affairs
have taken a turn which I'm bound to say I did not foresee. I have to
get at that judge as soon as possible. He seems to have been
ill-treating Miss King. I expected that he'd go for her over that
paraffin oil affair, but--"
"Amn't I telling you," said Doyle, "that she'd neither act nor part--"
"I know that; but the judge thinks she had, and he's-- You'd hardly
believe it, Doyle, but he's had the unparalleled insolence to go and
quarter himself on her in Ballymoy House."
"It's what I said he'd do," said Doyle, "and I'm not surprised."
"If you understood the peculiar and delicate relations which exist
between that judge and Miss King--but of course you don't, and I,
unfortunately, can't explain them to you. If you did, you'd see at
once that the judge must simply have forced himself on Miss King,
using, I have no doubt, the most unchivalrous and despicable threats to
achieve his end. Considering that he's getting his board and lodging
out of her he might very well be prosecuted for blackmail. Just
conceive to yourself, Doyle-- But I can't talk about it. Where's the
bicycle?"
"You took it out with you to Portsmouth Lodge last night," said Doyle,
"and so far as I know you didn't bring it back again. But there's an
old one in the stable belonging to Patsy Flaherty, and you can take
that if you like."
"It can't be worse than yours," said Meldon, "with that loose pedal.
Just you wheel it round to the door for me, and pump up the tyres if
they want it. There's something I forgot to ask Sabina. I'll go
through the kitchen, and meet you by the time you have the machine
ready."
He darted into the kitchen, leaving Doyle to tie up his pony and pump
the bicycle.
"Is that you back?" said Sabina. "I thought you were gone. Didn't you
tell me there was a hurry on you?"
"I'm just going," said Meldon; "but before I start I want to ask you
how you managed the boiled egg. I suppose the judge had a boiled egg
for breakfast. Did you put paraffin into it?"
"I did."
"How? I'm most anxious to know how it was done."
"It's what the gentleman asked me himself," said Sabina, "and I told
him the truth."
"Then tell it to me."
"I'm not sure will I. The gentleman was terrible upset when he heard
it, worse than you'd think; for he had the egg ate."
"There can't have been much paraffin in it, then."
"There was not; but there was some."
"And how did you get it there?"
"It was with a hairpin I did it."
"Do you mean to say that you took a hairpin out of your head, and--"
"I did, of course. Where else would I get one?"
"And dipped it in paraffin, and then stuck it through the egg. I
declare I could find it in my heart to be sorry for that judge. Only
that he deserves all that he's got on account of the way he has behaved
to Miss King, I'd go and apologise to him. You're a smart girl,
Sabina. I always said you were, and now you've proved that I was
perfectly right in my estimate of your abilities. Good-bye again.
This time I really must be off."
He seized Sabina's hand, and greatly to her surprise shook it heartily.
Then he left the kitchen and slammed the door behind him. Doyle was
waiting for him with Patsy Flaherty's bicycle. Meldon jumped on it and
rode off, ringing his bell as he went along the street. Doyle watched
him disappear, and then turned and walked into the kitchen. Sabina,
forgetful of his wrath and her own threatened fate, broke out when she
saw him.
"Well now, did any one ever see the like? Many's the queer one I've
come across since I entered this house, but never the equal of him for
goings on. Anybody would think he was--"
"It's not drink," said Doyle. "Nobody ever saw the sign of it on him."
He was angry, angry with Sabina Gallagher, and perhaps more angry with
Meldon; but he had a sense of justice, and was loyal to the man who had
once been his friend. He thought that Sabina was going to make an
accusation which might be natural enough, but was certainly false. As
a matter of fact, she had not meant to say anything of the sort, and
disclaimed the suggestion hotly.
"I wasn't saying it was drink. I know well it couldn't be, for he's a
simple, innocent kind of gentleman that wouldn't do the like. But I'd
say he was one that liked a bit of sport, and didn't care what
foolishness he might be after so long as he got it."
She smiled amiably at Doyle, as she spoke; but he was not a man to be
diverted from his purpose by smiles, or lulled into forgetfulness by
the charm of general conversation.
"You'll go upstairs this minute, Sabina Gallagher," he said, "and
you'll pack up whatever clothes you have--and that's not many--and as
soon as you have that done you'll go off home, for I'll not have you in
this house another night."
"I was thinking," said Sabina, "that you'd likely be saying that."
"I'd say more," said Doyle, "only if I did I might say what I'd be
sorry for after."
"You might surely."
"Though I wouldn't say more than you deserve whatever I said. What in
the name of all that's holy did you mean by poisoning the gentleman
that came here to stop in the hotel, and would have paid me three
pounds a week and maybe more?
"It was Mr. Meldon told me," said Sabina, "and how was I to know but
you sent a message to me by him, the way I'd be doing what it was you
wanted done?"
"Is it likely I'd send him to you on a message? Oughtn't you to have
more sense than to think I'd trust that one with a message? And
wouldn't anybody that wasn't a born fool know that I didn't want the
lamp upset over the dinner?"
"It was you told me to put the stuff the doctor was after giving you on
the sheets of the gentleman's bed, and after the like of that was done
on him, it wouldn't make much matter what other devilment he'd have to
put up with. Sure there's nothing in the world worse on a man than a
damp bed, and me after airing them sheets at the kitchen fire for the
best part of the morning, so as no one would have it to say that they
wasn't dry. If you didn't want him hunted out of the house, why did
you bid me do that?"
Doyle felt the force of the argument; felt it more acutely than Sabina
could guess. He himself, at the bidding of Meldon, had done much to
make an honoured and profitable guest uncomfortable. Could he fairly
blame Sabina for acting in a similar way with precisely the same
excuse? He felt the necessity for speaking very sternly.
"Will you get out of this?" he said, "for I'm in dread but I might
raise my hand to you if you stand there talking to me any more. You'd
provoke the patience of a saint; but I wouldn't like to have it cast up
to me after that ever I struck you."
"I'm going. You needn't think I'm wanting to stay. There's plenty
will be glad to get me, and pay me more wages than ever you done."
Doyle recognised the truth of this. He had got Sabina cheap--cheap
even by the standard of wages which prevails in Connacht. He felt half
inclined to reconsider his determination. The judge was gone. The
dismissal of Sabina, though a pleasant and satisfying form of
vengeance, would not bring the lost three pounds back again; while
there might be a good deal of trouble in getting another cook.
"Before I go," said Sabina, who did not want to go, and was watching
Doyle's face for signs of relenting, "before I go I've a message to
give you from Mr. Meldon."
"I seen him myself this morning," said Doyle, "and I don't know what
there could be in the way of a message for me that he wouldn't have
told me himself."
"What he bid me tell you was this--" Sabina paused. "Well now," she
said, "if I haven't gone and forgot the name of the dog!"
"Was it a dog that a king killed one time," said Doyle, "on account of
his thinking it had his baby ate?"
"It might," said Sabina. "It was a queer name he had on it, and I
disremember what it was."
"I disremember it myself," said Doyle, "but it was likely the same dog
as he was telling me about when I was driving him in. He always did
have a liking for dogs, that same Meldon."
"It might be that one or it might be another. Any way, he thought a
deal of it, for he said to me no later than this minute that if I
mentioned the name of it to you, you wouldn't hunt me."
"Listen to me now, Sabina Gallagher. I'll let you stay on here, though
it's a deal more than you deserve--I'll let you stay on and do the
cooking the same as you used to, on account of the respect I have for
your mother, who is a decent woman, and your father that's dead--I'll
let you stay on if you'll tell me this: What had the dog to do one way
or the other with the paraffin oil you put on the judge's dinner?"
"I never seen the dog; and I don't know that I ever heard tell of any
dog doing the like."
"Then what are you talking to me about the dog for if it didn't do
something, be the same less or more, in the way of helping you to
destroy the judge's dinner?"
"It was Mr. Meldon told me to mention the name of the dog to you. And
I would, I'd do it this minute, only I disremember it."
"Will you ask him the next time he's here, and tell me after, what it
was the dog had to do with the matter?"
"I will, of course, if it's pleasing to you."
"Then you may stay on a bit yet, Sabina. You may stay on till you
learn enough about cooking to be able to better yourself; and it's what
you should be able to do soon with the opportunities that you have in
this house. But I'd like if you could find out about the dog, for Mr.
Meldon was saying a lot about him this morning, and I'd be thankful if
I knew what sort of a dog he was."