1
Gilbert summoned Roger and Henry and Ninian to a solemn council. "Look
here," he said, "I've made up my mind about myself!"
"Oh!" they exclaimed.
"Yes. I'm going to be a dramatist and write plays!"
"Why?" Ninian asked.
"I dunno! I went to see a play in the hols, and I thought I'd like to
write one, too. It seems easy enough. You just make up a lot of talk,
and then you get some actors to say it...."
"I see," said Ninian.
"And when I was a kid," Gilbert continued, "I used to make up plays for
parties. Jolly good, they were ... at least I thought so!"
Gilbert, having settled what his own career was to be, was eager that
his friends should settle what their careers were to be. "Roger, of
course," he said, "has made up his mind to be a barrister, so that's
him, but what about you, Ninian, and what about Quinny?"
Ninian said that he did not know what he should do. Mrs. Graham was
anxious that he should become a member of parliament and lead the life
of a country gentleman who takes an intelligent interest in his estate
and his country. His Uncle George, the Dean of Exebury, oscillated
between two opinions: one that Ninian should become a parson....
Gilbert suddenly proposed a resolution, sternly forbidding their young
friend, Ninian Graham, to become a parson on any conditions whatever.
The resolution was seconded by Henry Quinn, and passed unanimously.
... and the other that he should enter the Diplomatic Service. The Dean
had talked largely to Ninian on the subject of his career. On the whole
he had inclined towards the Diplomatic Service. He had stood in front of
the fire, his hands thrust through the belt of his apron and talked
magnificently of the glories of diplomacy. "How splendid it would be,
Ninian," he said in that rich, flowing voice which caused ladies to
admire his sermons so much, "if you were to become an ambassador!"
Ninian, feeling that he ought to say something, had murmured that he
supposed it would be rather jolly. "An ambassador!" the Dean continued.
"His Britannic Majesty's Ambassador to the Imperial Court of ... of
Vienna!" He liked the sound of the title so much that he repeated it:
"His Britannic Majesty's Ambassador!..."
But Ninian had interrupted him. "I don't think I'd like that job very
much, Uncle George!" he said. "You're supposed to have an awful lot of
tact if you're an ambassador, and I'm rather an ass at tact!"
"Well, then, the Church!" the Dean suggested. "After all, the Church is
still the profession of a gentleman!..."
But Ninian had as little desire to be a priest as he had to be an
ambassador. He wished to be an engineer!
"A what?" the Dean had exclaimed in horror.
"An engineer, uncle!"
The Dean could not rid himself of the notion that Ninian was a small
boy, and so he imagined that when Ninian said an "engineer" he meant a
man who drives a railway engine.... The Dean was not insensible to the
value of engineers to the community ... in fact, whenever he travelled
by train, he invariably handed any newspapers he might have with him to
the engine-driver at the end of the journey, "because," he said, "I wish
to show my appreciation of the fact that without his care and skill I
might--er--have been--well involved in a collision or something of the
sort!" But, while the occupation of an engine-driver was a very
admirable one ... very admirable one, indeed ... for a member of the
working-class, it could hardly be described as a suitable occupation for
a gentleman. "I think," he said, "that engine-drivers get thirty-eight
shillings per week, or some such amount!" He adjusted his glasses and
beamed pleasantly at Ninian. "My dear boy," he said, "thirty-eight
shillings per week is hardly ... hardly an adequate income for a
Graham!"
Ninian did not like to ask his uncle George to "chuck it," nor did he
care to tell him that he was making a frightful ass of himself, and so
he did not answer, and the beaming old gentleman felt that he had
impressed the lad.... It was Mrs. Graham who reminded him of the larger
functions of an engineer.
"I think," she said, "that Ninian wishes to build bridges and railways
and ... and things like that!"
"Oh!" said the Dean, and his countenance altered swiftly. "Oh, yes, yes,
yes! I was forgetting about bridges. Dear me, yes! I remember meeting
Sir John Aird once. Remarkable man! Very remarkable man! He built the
Assouan Dam, of course. Well, that would be a very nice occupation,
Ninian. Rather different, of course, from the Diplomatic Service ... or
the Church ... but still, very nice, _very_ nice! And profitable, I'm
told!..."
2
"Anyhow," said Ninian, when he had related the story of his uncle's
views, "I'm going to be an engineer, no matter what Uncle George says,
and I'm not going to be a parson and I'm not going to be a blooming
ambassador, and I'm not going into parliament to make an ass of
myself!..."
Ninian's chief horror was of "making an ass" of himself. It seemed that
there was less likelihood of him doing this at engineering than at
anything else.
"And a very good engineer you'll be," Gilbert said encouragingly.
"You're always messing about with the insides of things, and I can't see
what good that habit would be to an ambassador, or a parson, and anyhow
you can't speak French for toffee, and that's the principal thing an
ambassador has to do! Well, Quinny," he continued, turning to Henry,
"what about you?"
"I used to think I'd like to be a clergyman," Henry answered.
"Oh, did you?..."
"And then," he went on rapidly, "I thought I'd like to be an actor!..."
They rose at him simultaneously. "A what?" they shouted.
"An actor," he repeated.
They gaped at him for a few moments without speaking. Then Ninian
expressed their views. "You're balmy!" he said.
"Clean off your chump!" Gilbert added.
"It seems an odd choice," Roger said, quietly.
Henry blushed. "Of course," he hurried to say, "I've given up the idea.
It was just a notion that came into my head!"
He went on to say that as Gilbert had resolved to be a writer, he did
not see any reason why he should not become one too. "I've read an awful
lot of books," he said, "so I daresay I could write one. I used to write
things when I was a youngster, just like you, Gilbert!"
They gazed dubiously at Henry. A fellow who could make such choices of
profession ... a parson or an actor ... was a rum bird, in their
opinion, and they told him so. Gilbert said that the conjunction of
_actor_ with _parson_ showed that all Henry cared about was the chance
to show off. "All you want is to get yourself up," he said. "If you were
a parson, you could get yourself up in a surplice!..."
"He'd turn High Churchman," Roger interrupted, "and trot about in
chasubles and copes!..."
"And if he were an actor, he could get himself up in terrific style!..."
Gilbert continued.
Henry got up and walked away from them. "It isn't fair," he said, as he
went, "to chip me like that. I'm not going to be a parson and I'm not
going to be an actor!..."
Gilbert followed him and brought him back to the council.
"All right, Quinny," he said, "we won't chip you any more. Only, don't
talk like a soppy ass again, will you? Sit down and listen to me!..."
He forced Henry to sit beside him and then he proceeded to plan their
lives for them.
"We'll all go to Cambridge," he said. "That's settled. I arranged that
before, didn't I? Well, we all go to the same college, and we all
promise to swot hard. We've got to Do Well, d'ye hear?" He said "do
well" as if each word had a capital letter. "We've got to be the Pride
of our College, d'ye hear, and work so that the dons will shed tears of
joy when they hear our names mentioned. I draw the particular attention
of Ninian Graham to what I am saying, and I warn him that if he goes on
whittling a stick while I'm talking, I shall clout his fat head for him.
I also trust that our young friend, Quinny, will make up his mind to
work hard. He's Irish, of course, and we must make allowances for
him!..."
There was almost a row when Gilbert said that, and it was not completely
averted until Gilbert had admitted that the English had their faults.
"I need not say anything on the subject of hard work to our young
friend, Roger," Gilbert continued, when the peace was restored, "beyond
warning him of the danger of getting brain-fever. That's all I have to
say about that. We're friends, we four, and we've got to do each other
credit. Now, when we come down from Cambridge, my proposal is that we
all live together in London. We can take a house and get some old girl
to look after us. I know one who'll do. She lives in Cornwall, and she
can cook ... like anything. Is that agreed?"
"Carried unanimous," said Ninian.
"Good egg!" Gilbert said.
3
But the plan was not carried out as Gilbert had made it. He and Ninian
and Roger Carey went to Cambridge, but Henry did not go with them. It
was Mr. Quinn who upset the plan. He suddenly gave notice to Rumpell's
that Henry would not return to the school.
_You're getting to be too English in your ways, Henry,_ he wrote to his
son, _and I want you at home for a while. There's a young fellow called
Marsh who can tutor you until you go to the University. I met him in
Dublin a while since, and I like him. He's a bit cranky, but he's clever
and he'll teach you a lot about Ireland. He's up to his neck in Irish
things, and speaks Gaelic and wears an Irish kilt. At least he used to
wear one, but he's left it off now, partly because he gets cold in his
knees and partly because he's not sure now that the ancient Irish ever
wore kilts. I think you'll like him!..._
"My God," said Gilbert when Henry read this letter to him, "fancy being
tutored by a chap who wears petticoats!"
"You ought to talk pretty plainly to your guv'nor, Quinny!" Ninian said.
"I don't think you ought to let him do that sort of thing. Here we've
settled that we're all going to Cambridge together, and your guv'nor
simply lumps in and upsets everything!"
Henry declared that he would talk to his father and compel him to be
sensible, but his attempt at compulsion was ineffective. Mr. Quinn had
made up his mind that Henry was to spend several months at home, under
the tutelage of John Marsh, and then proceed to Trinity College,
Dublin.
"Trinity College, Dublin!" Henry exclaimed. "But I want to go to
Cambridge!..."
"Well, you can't go then. You'll go to T.C.D. or you'll go nowhere. I'm
a T.C.D. man, an' your gran'da was a T.C.D. man, an' so was his da
before him, an' a damned good college it is, too!" Mr. Quinn had always
called his father his "da" when Mrs. Quinn was alive because she
disliked the word and tried to insist on "papa"; and now he used the
word as a matter of habit. "What do you want to go to an English college
for?" he demanded. "You might as well want to go to that Presbyterian
hole in Belfast!"
"I want to go to Cambridge," Henry replied a little angrily and
therefore a little precisely, "because all my friends are going there.
They're going up next year, and I want to go with them. They're my best
friends!..."
"Make friends in Ireland, then!" Mr. Quinn interrupted. "You don't make
friends with Englishmen ... you make money out of them. That's all
they're fit for!"
He began to laugh when he said that, but Henry still scowled. "I hate to
hear you talking like that, father!" he said. "I know you don't mean
it...."
"Don't I, begod?..."
"No, you don't, but even in fun, I hate to hear you saying it. I like
English people. I'm very fond of Gilbert Farlow!..."
"A nice fellow!" Mr. Quinn murmured, remembering how he had liked
Gilbert when he had visited Rumpell's once to see Henry.
"And Ninian Graham and Roger Carey, I like them, too, and so do you. You
liked them, didn't you?"
"Very nice fellows, both of them, very nice ... for all they're
English!"
Henry wanted to go on ... to talk of Mrs. Graham and of Mary ... but
shyness held his tongue for him.
"It's a habit I've got into," Mr. Quinn said, talking of his
denunciation of the English, "but don't mind me, Henry. Sure, I'm like
all the Ulstermen: my tongue's more bitter nor my behaviour. All the
same, my son, you're goin' to T.C.D., an' that's an end of it. T.C.D.'ll
make a man of you, but Oxford 'ud only make a snivellin' High Church
curate of you ... crawlin' on your belly to an imitation altar an'
lettin' on to be a Catholic!..."
"But I don't want to go to Oxford, father. I want to go to Cambridge!"
"It's all the same, Henry. Oxford'll make a snivellin' parson out of
you, an' Cambridge'll turn you into a snivellin' atheist. I know them
places well, Henry. I'm acquainted with people from both of them. All
the Belfast mill-owners send their sons there, so's they can be made
into imitation Englishmen. An' I tell you there's no differs between
Cambridge an' Oxford. You crawl on your belly to the reredos at Oxford,
an' you crawl on your belly to Darwin an' John Stuart Mill at Cambridge.
They can't do without a priest of some sort at them places, an' I'm a
Protestant, Henry, an' I want no priest at all. Now, at Trinity you'll
crawl on your belly to no one but your God, an' you'll do damn little of
that if you're any sort of man at all!"
Henry had reminded his father of the history and tradition of T.C.D., an
ungracious institution which had taught men to despise Ireland.
"Well, you needn't pay any heed to the Provost, need you," Mr. Quinn
retorted. "Is a man to run away from his country because a fool of a
schoolmaster hasn't the guts to be proud of it? Talk sense, son! We want
education in Ireland, don't we, far more nor any other people want it,
an' how are we goin' to get it if all the young lads go off to Englan'
an' let the schoolmasters starve in Ireland!"
Henry still maintained his position. "But, father," he said, "you
yourself have often told me that Dr. Daniell is an imitation
Englishman...." Dr. Daniell was the Provost of Trinity.
"He is, and so is his whole family. I know them well ... lick-spittles,
the lot of them, an' the lad that's comin' after him, oul' Beattie, is
no better ... a half-baked snob ... I'll tell you a story about him in a
minute ... but all the same, it's not them that matter ... it's the
place and the tradition an' the feel of it all ... do you make me out?"
"Yes, father, I know what you mean!"
"You'd be like a foreigner at Cambridge ... like one of them fellows
that come from India or Germany or places like that ... but at Trinity
you'd be at home, in your own country, Henry, where people with brains
are badly needed!"
He went on like that until he wore down Henry's desire to go to
Cambridge. "I'd rather you didn't go to a university at all," he said,
"than not have you go to T.C.D."
"Very well, father!" said Henry, consenting.
"That's right, my son," the old man said, patting his son on the back.
"An' now I'll tell you that yarn about Beattie. It'll make you split
your sides!"
It appeared that Mr. Quinn had dined at a house in Dublin where Dr.
Beattie was also a guest, and the don was telling tales as was his
custom, of his acquaintances in high places. The poor old clergyman had
a weakness for the company of kings and queens, and liked to tell people
of what he had said to an emperor or of what a prince had said to him.
"I was talking to my friend, the Queen of Spain, a short time ago," Dr.
Beattie had said, "and I made a joke which pleased her majesty. It was
about my friend, the Kaiser, who was present at the time. The Kaiser
heard us laughing, her majesty and me, and he came over to ask us why we
were laughing so heartily, the Queen and me. The Queen was very
embarrassed because, of course, I had been making fun of the Kaiser, but
I did not lose my self-possession. I turned to the Emperor and said,
'Sir, the Queen and I have known each other for a few moments only, but
already we have a secret between us!'" The Kaiser was very tickled by
my retort ... very tickled ... and the Queen told me afterwards that it
was very adroit of me to get out of it like that. She said it was my
Irish wit!...
It was at this point that Mr. Quinn had interrupted. "An' what did your
friend God say?" he had demanded innocently.
Mr. Quinn sat back in his chair, when he had finished telling the story,
and roared loudly with laughter. "You ought to have seen the oul' snob
turnin' red, white an' blue with rage," he shouted at Henry. "Such a
take-down! My God, what a take-down! There he was, the oul' wind-bag,
bletherin' about his friend, the Queen of Spain, an' his friend, the
Emperor of Germany, an' there was me, just waitin' for him, just
waitin', Henry, an' the minute he shut his gob, I jumped in, an' says I
to him, 'An' what did your friend God say?' By the Holy O, that was a
good one! I never enjoyed myself so much as I did that night, an'
everybody else that was there was nearin' burstin' with tryin' not to
laugh. Do you mind Lady Galduff?"
"Yes, father!"
"You mind her rightly, don't you? Well, when you go up to Dublin, you're
to call on her, do you hear? Never mind about her manners. Ask her to
tell you about me an' Dr. Beattie ... the way I asked him about his
friend God. Oh, Holy O!..."
He could proceed no further, for his sides were shaking with laughter
and the tears were streaming down his cheeks and his cheeks were the
colour of beetroot.
"You'll hurt yourself, father," said Henry, "if you laugh like that!"
4
"Of course," said Mr. Quinn, after a while, "the man's a great scholar,
an' I mebbe did wrong to take him down like that. But I couldn't help
it, Henry. You see, he's always makin' little of Irish things, an' I
have no use for a man like that. Not but what some people think too much
of Ireland an' too little of other places. Many's a time I get ragin'
mad when I hear some of the Nationalists bleatin' about Ireland as if a
bit of bog in the Atlantic were worth the rest of the world put
together. Do you know what, I'm goin' to say somethin' that'll surprise
you. I don't believe Irishmen'll think properly about Ireland 'til they
stop thinkin' about it altogether. We're too self-conscious. We haven't
enough pride an' we've too much conceit. That's the truth. You daren't
say a word of criticism about Ireland for fear you'd have the people
jumpin' down your throat--an' that's a sign of weakness, Henry. Do you
know why the English are as strong as they are? It's because they'll let
you criticise them as much as you like, an' never lose their temper with
you. The only time I ever knew them to be flabby and spineless was when
the Boer War was on ... an' they'd scream in your face if you didn't say
they were actin' like angels. They were only like that _then_, but we're
like it _all_ the time. The fools don't know that the best patriot is
the man that has the courage to own up when his country's in the
wrong!..."
Mr. Quinn suddenly sat up stiffly in his seat and gaped at his son for a
few moments.
"Begod, Henry," he said, "I'm preachin' to you!"
"Yes, father, you are," Henry replied. "But I don't mind. It's rather
interesting!"
But the force had gone out of Mr. Quinn. The thought that he had been
preaching a sermon, delivering a speech, filled him with self-reproach.
"I never meant to start off like that," he said. "I only meant to tell
you what was in my mind. You see, Henry, I love Ireland an' I want to
see her as fine as ever she was ... but she'll never be fine again 'til
she gets back her pride an' her self-respect. The English people have
stolen that from us ... yes, they have, Henry! I knew Arthur Balfour
when he was a young man ... I liked him too ... but I'll never forget
that it was him that turned us into a nation of cadgers. I'm not much of
a thinker, Henry, but the bit of brain I have'll be used for Ireland,
whatever happens. You've got more brains than I have, an' I'd like you
to use them for Ireland, too."
5
"This is the way I look at things," Mr. Quinn said later on. "The
British people are the best people in the world, an' the Irish people
are the best people in the British Empire, an' the Ulster people are the
best people in Ireland!" He glanced about him for a few moments as if he
were cogitating, and then he gave a chuckle and winked at his son. "An'
begod," he said, "I sometimes think I'm the best man in Ulster!" He
burst out laughing when he had finished. "Ah," he said, half to himself,
as he stroked his fine beard, "I'm the quare oul' cod, so I am!"
"All the same," he went on, speaking soberly, "I'm not coddin' entirely.
The Irish have plenty of brains, but they haven't any discipline, an'
brains are no good unless you can control them. We need knowledge and
experience, Henry, more nor anything else, an' the more knowledge we
bring into the country, the better it'll be for us all. Too much
imagination an' not enough knowledge ... that's what's the matter with
us. The English have knowledge, but they've small imagination!... I
declare to my goodness, the best thing that could happen to the two of
us, the English and the Irish, would be for some one to pass a law
compellin' every Irishwoman to marry an Englishman, an' every
Englishwoman to marry an Irishman. We'd get some stability into Ireland
then ... an' mebbe we'd get some intelligence into England."
6
Henry acquiesced in his father's wishes, but he did so reluctantly.
Gilbert's plan for their future had attracted him greatly. He saw
himself passing pleasant years at Cambridge in learning and in argument.
There was to be scholarship and company and curiosity and enquiry. They
were to furnish their minds with knowledge and then they were to seek
adventures in the world: a new order of Musketeers: Athos, Porthos,
Aramis and D'Artagnan.... He let the names of the Musketeers slide
through his mind in order, wondering which of them was his prototype ...
but he could not find a resemblance to himself in any of them. He felt
that he would shrink from the deeds which they sought.... His mind went
back again to thoughts of Cambridge. At all events, in the tourneys of
the mind his part would be valiant. He would never shrink from combat
with an intellect.... He supposed it would be possible to do at T.C.D.
some of what he had proposed to do at Cambridge, but somehow T.C.D. did
not interest him. It mattered as little to him as a Welsh University. It
had no hold whatever on his mind. He knew that it was on the level of
Oxford and Cambridge, but that knowledge did not console him. "It
doesn't matter in the way that they do," he said to himself, and then he
remembered something that Gilbert Farlow had said. "T.C.D. isn't Irish
in the way that Oxford and Cambridge are English. It's _in_ Ireland, but
it isn't _of_ Ireland!" Gilbert could always get at the centre of a
thing. "Oxford and Cambridge have lots of faults," Gilbert had said,
"but they're English faults. T.C.D. has lots of faults, but they're not
Irish faults. Do you see what I mean, Quinny? It's ... it's like a
garrison in an unfriendly country ... like ... what d'ye call it? ...
that thing in Irish history ... the Pale! That's it! It's the Pale still
going on being a Pale long after the need for it had ceased. I don't
think that kind of place is much good to Irishmen. You'd better come to
Cambridge!..."
"I can't, Gilbert. My father's set his heart on my going to Trinity, and
I must go. I'd give the world to go with you and Ninian and Roger, but
I'll have to do what he wants. Anyhow, I can join you in London when you
come down, and we can spend our holidays together. I'll get my father to
ask you all to Ireland the first vac. after you've gone up, and perhaps
Mrs. Graham'll ask us all to Boveyhayne...."
7
Remembering what he had said to Gilbert about Boveyhayne, he remembered
Mary Graham. He had not seen her since he had been to Boveyhayne at
Easter, but he had written several times to her, lengthy letters, and
had received short, shy replies from her; and sometimes he had tried to
induce Ninian to talk about her. But "She isn't a bad little flapper!"
was all that Ninian would say of his sister, and there was little
comfort to be derived from that speech. Now, standing here in this
window-corner, looking over the fields that stretched away to the Antrim
mountains, Henry felt that Mary was slipping swiftly out of his life. It
might be a very long time before he saw her again. ... How beautiful she
had looked that day when she stood on Whitcombe platform and waved her
hand to him as the train steamed out of the station! He _must_ marry
her. Mrs. Graham _must_ ask him to spend the next summer at Boveyhayne
so that he could meet Mary again. Anyhow he would write to her. He would
tell her all he was doing. He would describe his life at Trinity to her.
He would remind her continually of himself, and perhaps she would not
forget him. Girls, of course, were very odd and they changed their minds
an awful lot. Ninian might invite some chap from Cambridge to
Boveyhayne.... That would be like Ninian, to go and spoil everything
without thinking for a moment of what he was doing.... If only Mary and
he were a few years older, they could become formally engaged, and then
everything would be all right, but Mary was so young ...