Major Kent passed through the narrow hall of the hotel, went up a flight
of stairs and entered the commercial room. Mary Ellen was on her hands
and knees under the table which stood in the middle of the room. She
was collecting the corks which had offended Doyle’s eye. There were more
than three of them. She had four in her left hand, and was stretching
out to grasp two more when the Major entered the room. As soon as
she saw him she abandoned the pursuit of the corks, crept out from
underneath the table, and stood looking at the Major. She expected
him to order a drink of some sort. Most people who entered Doyle’s
commercial room ordered drinks. The Major was slightly embarrassed. Mary
Ellen evidently expected him to say something to her, and he did not
know what to say. He did not want a drink, and he could not think of any
subject of conversation likely to interest a tousled girl who had just
been crawling about the floor on her hands and knees. At last he said
“Good morning.” Mary Ellen gaped at him and then smiled. The Major,
recollecting that it was half-past one o’clock, and therefore no longer
morning, said that it was a fine evening. Mary Ellen’s smile broadened.
The Major expressed a polite hope that she was quite well. He thought of
shaking hands with her, and wished that he had brought a pair of gloves
with him, Mary Ellen’s hands were certainly dirty and they looked hot.
But he was not obliged to shake hands. Mary Ellen realised that he was a
kind of man new to her, one who did not want a drink. She left the room,
came back again almost at once for the broom which she had forgotten,
and then left decisively, slamming the door.
The Major crossed the room and looked out of the window. He saw Doyle
and Gallagher go into Kerrigan’s shop, and wondered vaguely what they
wanted there. He saw Constable Moriarty telling a story, evidently of
a humorous kind, to Sergeant Colgan, at the door of the police barrack.
The story—he judged from Moriarty’s gestures—had something to do with
Doyle and Gallagher. He wondered, without much real interest, what the
story was. There was nothing else of an exciting kind to be seen from
the window. The Major turned and walked to the opposite corner of the
room. He stood in front of a small square mahogany table. On it was
a stuffed fox in a glass case. The Major looked at it carefully from
several points of view. It was a very ordinary fox, and appeared to
have been stuffed a long time. Moths had eaten the fur off its back in
several places, and one of its eyes, which were made of bright brown
beads, was hanging from the socket by a thread. The glass of the case
was exceedingly dusty. The Major, finding the fox dull and rather
disgusting, left it and went over to the fireplace. Over the chimney
piece hung a portrait of a very self-satisfied priest who looked as if
he had just dined well. A gold Latin cross, attached to a black ribbon
watch guard, rested gracefully on the large stomach of the man. The
stomach struck the Major as one which was usually distended to its
utmost capacity. The portrait was remarkable for that fuzziness of
outline which seems to be inevitable in enlarged photographs. The frame
was a very handsome one, elaborately carved and gilt.
Next the picture of the priest, unframed and attached to the wall with
tacks, was a large coloured supplement, taken from an American paper.
It presented a famous boxer stripped to the waist in the act of shaking
hands with a dejected-looking opponent. Underneath his large picture was
a list of the boxer’s most famous conflicts, with date and a note of
the number of rounds which each victim had survived. Round the central
picture were twelve small ones, in which the hero appeared in the act of
felling other fighters, not so heroic or less muscular. The Major, who
had done some boxing in his day, looked at the picture with critical
interest. Then Father McCormack entered the room.
“I’m in good time after all,” he said. “I was afraid, maybe, the meeting
might be over when I saw Doyle and Thady Gallagher going into the office
of the Connacht Eagle after leaving Kerrigan’s shop.”
“You’re time enough,” said the Major. “If you’re not more than
half-an-hour late it’s time enough for any meeting that’s held in this
town.”
“That’s true too,” said Father McCormack. “As a general rule that’s true
enough. But I’ve known meetings that was over and done with before the
time when they ought to be beginning. That would be when there might be
something to be done at them that some of the members would be objecting
to if they were there. I’ve known that happen, and I shouldn’t wonder if
you’d been caught that way yourself before now.”
“So far as I know,” said the Major, “nothing of the sort has happened
this time. There’s no reason why it should. When anything as silly as
this statue business is on hand everybody is sure to be unanimously in
favour of it.”
“That’s true enough. But where’s the rest of the committee?”
“Nobody has turned up so far, except myself,” said the Major.
“Well,” said Father McCormack, “I’m as well pleased. To tell you the
truth, Major, I’m glad of the chance of a few minutes quiet talk with
you while we have the place to ourselves. I thought it my duty, and
you’ll understand me that I’m not casting reflections on you nor yet
on the doctor, and I’d be sorry to say a word against Doyle, or for the
matter of that against Thady Gallagher, though it would be better if he
had more sense. But anyway, I thought it my duty to acquaint the bishop
with what was going on.”
“The statue idea?” said the Major. “Well, what did he say? I don’t
know your bishop personally, but I suppose a man could hardly be in his
position if he was altogether a fool.”
“Believe me or not as you like,” said Father Mc-Cormack, “but when I
got the bishop’s answer to my letter, it turned out that he knew no more
than myself about General John Regan.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least. I don’t believe any one knows
who he was.”
“What the bishop said was that it might look queer if I was to take no
part in the proceedings when the Lord-Lieutenant was coming to unveil
the statue.”
“That puts you in a safe position anyhow,” said the Major. “If it turns
out afterwards that there is anything fishy about the General, the
bishop and the Lord-Lieutenant will have to share the blame between
them.”
“What I want to know from you,” said Father Mc-Cormack, “is this: Is the
Lord-Lieutenant coming or is he not?”
“I’ve only got the doctor’s word for it. He says he is.”
“The doctor’s a fine man, and there’s not many things he’d set his
hand to but he’d carry them through at the latter end. But the
Lord-Lieutenant! The Lord-Lieutenant is—well now, do you think it likely
that the Lord-Lieutenant is coming down here?”
“It’s not the least likely,” said the Major, “but there’s nothing about
this whole business that is. It isn’t likely in my opinion that there
was such a person as General John Regan. It wasn’t likely beforehand
that we’d subscribe to put up a statue to him. I don’t see that the
Lord-Lieutenant is any more unlikely than lots of other things that have
happened.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Father McCormack.
He and Major Kent were standing together at the window while they
talked. Neither of them noticed that Mary Ellen had come into the room.
She stood for some time near the door, hoping that either the Major or
Father McCormack would look round. Neither of them did, so she sidled
slowly into the room and stood beside the stuffed fox. She was a very
well mannered girl, and most unwilling to interrupt an earnest, possibly
an important conversation. When Father McCormack made his last remark
she felt that her chance had come. It was evident from the tone in which
he spoke, that he and the Major had reached a more or less satisfactory
conclusion of their business, She coughed, and then tapped lightly with
her knuckles on the glass case of the stuffed fox. Both Father McCormack
and the Major looked round.
“There’s a lady below,” said Mary Ellen.
“A lady!” said Major Kent. “Surely to goodness we’re not going to have
women on this committee. Things are bad enough without that.”
“Who is she?” said Father Mctormack.
“It’s Mrs. Gregg,” said Mary Ellen, “and it’s the doctor she’s asking
for.”
“The doctor’s not here,” said Father McCormack. “Can’t you see that for
yourself?”
“If it’s Mrs. Gregg,” said the Major, “you’d better show her up. You
can’t leave her standing by herself in the hall till the doctor chooses
to come. I wish to goodness he would come. I can’t think why he isn’t
here. This is his show entirely.”
Mrs. Gregg came into the room while the Major was speaking. She looked
agitated and, in spite of the fact that she had been waiting downstairs
for nearly ten minutes, was almost breathless.
“Oh, Major Kent,” she said, “where’s Dr. O’Grady? Such a dreadful thing
has happened. I don’t know what to do. Just fancy—Mrs. Ford has written
to me——”
“There’s no use appealing to me,” said the Major. “I can’t do anything
with Mrs. Ford. She and I are hardly on speaking terms. It’s not my
fault—at least I don’t think it is—but you must see Mrs. Gregg, that I
can’t interfere about any letter she may have written to you.”
Mrs. Gregg shook hands with Father McCormack, but her head was turned
away from him as she did so. She had little hope that he could interfere
effectually to settle the difficulty created by Mrs. Ford.
“Dr. O’Grady said that I——”
The Major interrupted her.
“You’d far better wait till the doctor comes,” he said. “He’ll be here
in a minute.”
“But I can’t wait. Mrs. Ford is down at the dress-maker’s now. It’ll be
too late if I wait. What am I to do? It will spoil the whole thing if
Mrs. Ford insists——”
Dr. O’Grady came in. He was whistling cheerfully, not “Rule, Britannia,”
but a harmless Irish jig.
“Hullo!” he said. “You here, Major. Good. And Father McCormack. There’s
nothing like punctuality. And Mrs. Gregg. How do you do, Mrs. Gregg?
Everything going on all right about Mary Ellen’s costume?”
“Oh, no, it isn’t. But I’m so glad you’ve come. Mrs. Ford——”
“Excuse me one moment, Mrs. Gregg,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I just want to
ask Father McCormack one question. Listen now, Father McCormack. Do you
know this tune?”
He began to whistle “Rule, Britannia.” When he was about half way
through Mrs. Gregg interrupted him.
“I can’t wait,” said Mrs. Gregg. “I really can’t. Mrs. Ford is at the
dressmaker’s and——”
“I’ll attend to that in one minute, Mrs. Gregg. But I must get Father
McCormack’s opinion on this tune first. Doyle and Gallagher may arrive
at any moment, and then I shan’t be able to go into the question. Now
Father McCormack, do you recognise the tune I whistled you?”
“I’ve heard it,” said Father McCormack, “and to the best of my belief it
was at a military tournament up in Dublin last year.”
“It’s ‘Rule, Britannia,’” said the Major. “And if it’s played in this
town there’ll be a row.”
“There might be,” said Father McCormack, “if Thady Gallagher knows what
tune it is.”
“He won’t,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You didn’t know yourself, Father
McCormack, and if you didn’t I’m quite satisfied that Thady Gallagher
won’t. We can count on your keeping your mouth shut, Major, I suppose.
Now, Mrs. Gregg, what has Mrs. Ford been doing?”
“She says,” said Mrs. Gregg, “that Mary Ellen is to wear a plain dark
grey tweed dress, and I had it all planned out——”
“White muslin,” said Dr. O’Grady, “with a silk slip. I remember.”
“It’d look perfectly sweet,” said Mrs. Gregg, “and I took her to the
dressmaker yesterday evening just as you told me. I had the whole thing
arranged. She was to have a blue sash.”
“I was,” said Mary Ellen, who was still standing beside the stuffed fox.
“And Mrs. Ford agreed at the time,” said Mrs. Gregg, “and now I’ve just
got a note from her saying that a dark grey tweed would be much more
suitable because it would be useful afterwards.”
“It seems to me,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that you haven’t managed this
business quite as tactfully as I expected you would.”
“Mrs. Ford said she was going straight to the dress-maker to order the
grey tweed. She’s there now, most likely.”
Mrs. Gregg’s voice had a break in it. It seemed to Dr. O’Grady that she
was on the verge of tears. He turned to Mary Ellen.
“Which would you rather have, Mary Ellen, a white muslin frock, or a
grey tweed, one that would be useful to you afterwards? Don’t be in a
hurry to decide. Think it well over.”
Mary Ellen seemed very well inclined to take this advice. She stood
quite silent with one of her fingers pressed against the corner of her
mouth. She was thinking deeply.
“I can’t bear to have everything I settled upset by that woman,” said
Mrs. Gregg. “I wish you’d never made me ask her to help. I wish I’d
never——”
“We had to keep her in a good temper,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“You’ll not be able to do that,” said the Major, “nobody could.”
“It’s nothing but spite makes her do it,” said Mrs. Gregg. “It’s just
because I’m presenting a bouquet and she’s not.”
“Hang it all!” said Dr. O’Grady. “It can’t be that. I told her
distinctly that she’d be allowed to hand over the illuminated address.
What more can she want?”
“It’s all spite and jealousy,” said Mrs. Gregg, “and Mary Ellen will
look perfectly hideous.”
“Mary Ellen,” said Dr. O’Grady, “have you made up your mind yet which of
those two dresses you’d like?”
“I have,” said Mary Ellen.
“She’d like the white muslin, of course,” said Mrs. Gregg. “No girl
would choose——”
“I’d like the both of them,” said Mary Ellen.
“You shall have them,” said Dr. O’Grady. “That’s the best way I see
out of the difficulty. Mrs. Gregg, you get the dress you want for her,
privately, without saying a word about it. Agree with everything Mrs.
Ford says, and let her order a red flannel petticoat if she likes.”
“But which will she wear?” said Mrs. Gregg, “for if she’s to be dressed
in a ridiculous stuffy grey tweed——”
“She’ll wear your one, of course,” said Dr. O’Grady. “She’ll put it
on and stand in the middle of the square just underneath the statue.
There’ll be a large crowd of people, and it will be too late for Mrs.
Ford to do anything. She can’t change the girl’s clothes in the street.”
“Don’t count on any delicacy of feeling in Mrs. Ford,” said the Major.
“And will I have the both of the dresses after?” said Mary Ellen.
“You will,” said Dr. O’Grady, “unless Mrs. Ford manages to drag the grey
tweed one away from you.”
“She’ll be furious,” said Mrs. Gregg.
“She may be as furious as she likes then,” said Dr. O’Grady. “She won’t
be able to show it while the Lord-Lieutenant’s wife is shaking hands
with her out of the motor-car, and it won’t matter to us what she does
afterwards. The only thing we have to be careful about is to keep her in
a good temper——”
“You can’t do that,” said the Major.
“In as good a temper as possible between this and then. And now, Mrs.
Gregg, if you’ll excuse my saying so, I think you and Mary Ellen had
better trot off to the dressmaker. If any further difficulty arises
refer to me at once. But I don’t see how anything can. All you’ve got to
do is to let Mrs. Ford have her own way, and give your orders when she’s
gone home.”
Mrs. Gregg did not seem entirely satisfied with this settlement of her
difficulty, but she and Mary Ellen went off together to meet Mrs. Ford
at the dressmaker’s.
“Women,” said Dr. O’Grady, “are the devil.”
He was not much better satisfied than Mrs. Gregg was with his new plan.
He foresaw very serious difficulties in carrying it out.
“You’ve no one but yourself to thank for all this bother!” said the
Major. “There wasn’t the slightest necessity to have Mary Ellen in the
affair at all, dressed or undressed.”
Dr. O’Grady was not listening to a word the Major said. He was thinking
deeply. His face lightened suddenly and he rushed across the room to the
door.
“Mrs. Gregg!” he shouted. “Mrs. Gregg! Just one moment. I’ve got a
capital suggestion to make, one to which there can be no possible
objection from any point of view.”
He ran downstairs. Father McCormack went to the door and looked after
him. Then he turned and addressed the Major.
“You might go a long journey,” he said, “before you’d meet the equal of
the doctor.”
The Major received this remark in silence. He was of opinion that a man
who went a long journey in order to discover a second Dr. O’Grady would
be a fool.
“Tell me this,” said Father McCormack. “What relation is Mary Ellen to
the General?”
“I’ve never been able to make that out for certain. Sometimes I’m told
she’s his niece, and sometimes his grand-niece.”
Father McCormack looked round him cautiously and sank his voice to a
whisper.
“Is she any relation at all?” he said slowly.
“No more than you are to the Sultan of Turkey.”
“I was thinking as much myself,” said Father McCormack.
Dr. O’Grady, having finished his talk with Mrs. Gregg, entered the room
again.
“I’ve settled that matter satisfactorily anyhow,” he said. “It occurred
to me just after Mrs. Gregg had left the room, that some sort of fancy
dress for the girl would be likely to please the Lord-Lieutenant, and
would be a compromise which both ladies could accept without loss of
dignity. Mary Ellen is to be rigged out as a traditional Irish colleen,
the sort you see on the picture postcards they sell to tourists in
Dublin. Mrs. Gregg is delighted, and Mrs. Ford can’t possibly say that
a crimson flannel skirt won’t be useful to her afterwards. She’ll look
uncommonly well, and the Lord-Lieutenant will be all the more inclined
to believe that the General was an Irishman when he sees his niece——”
“Tell me this,” said Father McCormack, “is she a niece of the General or
is she not?”
“The grand-niece,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“She’s neither the one nor the other,” said the Major.
Dr. O’Grady glanced at Father McCormack. He saw by the look on the
priest’s face that there was no use trying to prove Mary Ellen’s
relationship. He laughed good-naturedly, and at once offered a
satisfactory explanation of the position.
“Mr. Billing,” he said, “insisted on our producing some sort of relative
for the dead General. He wouldn’t have given that £100 if we hadn’t. Now
what I say is this——”
“You’d say anything,” said the Major.
“I’m not talking to you now, Major. I’m talking to Father McCormack,
who’s a man of sense, with some knowledge of the world. The way I’m
putting it to him is this: Supposing there was a job going a begging,
a nice comfortable job under the Government, with no particular
duties attached to it, except just to look pleasant and be generally
agreeable—there are such jobs.”
“Plenty, plenty,” said Father McCormack.
“And they’re well paid,” said the Major.
“And supposing that you were asked to nominate a man for the post——” Dr.
O’Grady still addressed himself only to Father McCormack. “You might
be, you know. In fact you, and other people in your position often are,
though there’s always supposed to be a competitive examination.”
“Nobody believes in examinations,” said the Major.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Now what would you
do in a case of the kind? As a matter of fact what do you do? What did
you do when they were appointing a secretary to the Old-Age Pension
Committee?”
“I’d look out for some decent poor fellow,” said Father McCormack. “One
that might be wanting something of the kind, a man that nobody would
have anything particular to say against.”
“You wouldn’t spend a lot of time arguing about whether there ought to
be such a secretary or not?”
“I would not, of course,” said Father McCormack. “What would be the use?
If the job’s there and a man’s wanted I’d have no business talking about
the rights or wrongs of it beyond saying that the salary ought to be a
bit larger.”
“Exactly,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Now that’s just what’s happened in this
case. It isn’t exactly a job, under the Government, not under our
Government, though it may lead on to something in Bolivia. Here’s a dead
General that has to be fitted out with a niece——”
“You said a grand-niece a minute ago,” said the Major.
“The principle’s the same,” said Dr. O’Grady. “What I’m trying to get
you to see is that Mary Ellen may just as well step into the position as
anyone else.”
“When you put it that way,” said Father McCor-mack, “there’s no more to
be said. The girl’s a decent girl, and I wouldn’t stand in the way of
her bettering herself.”
“She’ll be the better by a new dress, anyway!” said the Major. “I don’t
know that she’ll benefit in any other way. But that’s something.”
“I rather think,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that I hear Doyle downstairs. We’ll
be able to get on with the business of the committee now, whether he has
Thady with him or not. We’ve wasted time enough.”
“We’ll waste a lot more before we’ve done,” said the Major. “The whole
thing’s waste of time. There’ll never be a statue in Ballymoy either to
General John Regan or to anyone else.”
Dr. O’Grady had drawn a bundle of papers from his pocket and laid them
on the table before him.
“Our first business, gentlemen,” he said, “is to settle about the
illuminated address which Mrs. Ford has kindly consented to present to
the Lord-Lieutenant.”
Thady Gallagher glared at Dr. O’Grady savagely. He did not like being
interrupted in the middle of a speech.
“Order, gentlemen, order,” said Father McCor-mack, nervously tapping the
table with his pencil.
“With regard to the illuminated address,” said Doyle, “I’m of opinion
that the carrying out of it should be given into the hands of a Dublin
firm. It’s our duty to support Irish manufacture. There’s too much money
sent over to England that might be far better kept at home. You’ll agree
with me there, Thady.”
“What are you going to say in the address?” said the Major.
“Oh, the usual things,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I don’t think we need go into
that in detail. All addresses are pretty much the same.”
“I won’t sign my name to anything political,” said the Major.
“I’m with you there,” said Father McCormack. “It’s one of the curses of
this country the way politics are dragged into business.”
“Nobody wants politics,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The address will contain
nothing but nice little compliments to the Lord-Lieutenant with a word
or two about the value of piers put in at the end.”
“If the matter’s left in the hands of the firm I have in mind,” said
Doyle, “it’ll be done right. They’ve illuminated three-quarters of the
addresses that have been presented in the country, and whether it’s a
bank manager or a priest going on a new mission, or a Lord-Lieutenant
that the address is for, the firm I mean will know what to put into it.
They’ve had the experience, and experience is what is wanted.”
“We’ll give him names and dates,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and tell him that
this is a seaport town with no proper pier. With that information any
fool could draw up the text of an illuminated address. I propose that
the matter be left in the hands of a subcommittee consisting of Mr.
Doyle.”
“Are you all agreed on that, gentlemen?” said Father McCormack.
Thady Gallagher rose slowly to his feet.
“With regard to what Mr. Doyle has just laid before the meeting,” he
said, “and speaking of the duty of supporting Irish manufacture, I’m of
opinion that his words do him credit. I’m an out and out supporter of
the Industrial Revival, and when I look round about me on the ruined
mills that once were hives of industry, and the stream of emigration
which is flowing from our shores year after year———”
“I don’t think we need spend much time discussing the bouquet,” said Dr.
O’Grady. “It’ll have to be ordered from Dublin too.”
“There’s no flowers here to make a bouquet of,” said Doyle, “unless,
maybe, the Major——”
“I’ve a few Sweet-Williams,” said the Major, “and a bed of mixed stocks.
If you think they’d be any use to you you’re welcome to them.”
“We might do worse,” said Father McCormack.
“We’ll have to do better,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You can’t offer a lady in
the position of a Lord-Lieutenant’s wife a bundle of ordinary stocks!
What we have to get is lilies and roses.”
“It’s only right that we should,” said Father McCormack, “but I think
the thanks of the meeting ought to be given to Major Kent for his
generous offer.”
“I second that,” said Doyle. “The Major was always a good friend to
anything that might be for the benefit of the town or the locality.”
“The ordering of the bouquet,” said Dr. O’Grady, “to be left to the same
sub-committee which has charge of the address.”
“And it to be sent to the hotel here,” said Father McCormack, “on the
morning of the ceremony, so as it will be fresh. Are you all agreed on
that, gentlemen? What’s the next business, doctor?”
“The next business is the statue.”
“What’s the date of the Lord-Lieutenant’s visit?” said the Major.
“Thursday week,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“That’s ten days from to-day,” said the Major. “We may just as well go
home at once as sit here talking to each other. There’s no time to get a
statue.”
“We’ll do our business before we stir,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“What’s the use of saying things like that?” said the Major. “You
know jolly well, O’Grady, that you can’t get a statue in ten days. The
thing’s impossible. It takes a year at least to make a statue of any
size. You can’t go into a shop and buy a statue, as if it were a hat or
an umbrella.”
“There’s a good deal in what the Major says,” said Father McCormack.
“I’m inclined to agree with him. I remember well when they were putting
up the monument to Parnell in Dublin it took them years before they had
it finished.”
“It’s a good job for everybody concerned,” said the Major, “that we’re
brought up short. We’d simply have made ourselves publicly ridiculous if
we’d gone on with this business.”
The Major, Dr. O’Grady, and Doyle, spoke when they did speak, in an easy
conversational tone without rising from their chairs. But this was not
Gallagher’s idea of the proper way of conducting public business. He
believed that important discussions ought to be carried on with dignity.
When he spoke he stood up and addressed the committee as if he were
taking part in a political demonstration, using appropriate gestures to
emphasize his words. The difficulty about the statue gave him a great
opportunity.
“I stand here to-day,” he said, “as the representative of the people of
this locality, and what I’m going to say now I’d say if the police spies
of Dublin Castle was standing round me taking down the words I utter.”
Young Kerrigan had been obliged to stop practising “Rule, Britannia”
on the cornet in order to eat his dinner. When he had satisfied his
appetite and soothed his nerves with a pipe of tobacco he set to work at
the tune again. The hour’s rest had not helped him in any way. He made
exactly the same mistake as he had been making all the morning. It
happened that he took up his cornet again shortly before Gallagher began
his speech in which he declared himself a representative of the people
of the locality. The noise of the music floated through the open
window of the committee room. It had a slightly exasperating effect on
Gallagher, but he went on speaking.
“What I say is this,” he said, “and it’s what I always will say. If it
is the unanimous wish of the people of this locality to erect a statue
to the memory of the great patriot, who is gone, then a statue ought to
be erected. If the Major is right—and he may be right—in saying that it
takes a year to make a statue, then we’ll take a year. We’ll take ten
years if necessary. Please God the most of us has years enough before us
yet to spare that many for a good work.”
Young Kerrigan continued to break down at the “never, never, never,”
part of the tune. Dr. O’Grady began to fidget nervously in his chair.
“Sit down, Thady,” said Doyle. “Don’t you know that if we postpone the
statue we’ll never get the Lord-Lieutenant to open it? Didn’t he say in
his letter that Thursday week was the only day he could come?”
“As for the so-called Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland,” said Gallagher,
waving his arm in the air, “we’ve done without him and the likes of him
up to this, and we’re well able to do without him for the future.”
He brought his fist down with tremendous force as he spoke, striking the
table with the pad of flesh underneath his little finger. Dr. O’Grady
jumped up.
“Excuse me one moment, gentlemen,” he said. “That young fool, Kerrigan,
is getting the tune wrong every time, and if I don’t stop him he’ll
never get it right at all.”
He walked across to the window as he spoke and looked out. Then he
turned round.
“Don’t let me interfere with your speech, Thady,” he said. “I’m
listening all right, and I’m sure Father McCormack and the rest of the
committee want to hear every word of it.”
But Gallagher, in spite of this encouragement, did not seem inclined to
go on. He sat down and scowled ferociously at Doyle. Dr. O’Grady put his
head out of the window and shouted.
“Moriarty,” he called, “Constable Moriarty, come over here for a minute
and stop grinning.”
Then he drew in his head and turned round.
“Major,” he said, “you’re a magistrate. I wish to goodness you’d give
orders that Moriarty isn’t to grin in that offensive way. It’s a danger
to the public peace.”
“I shan’t do anything of the sort,” said the Major. “In the first place
I can’t. I’ve no authority over the police. They are Gregg’s business.
In the second place——”
He stopped at this point because Dr. O’Grady was not listening to
him. He had stretched his head and shoulders out of the window and was
talking in a very loud tone to Moriarty.
“Run over,” he said, “and tell young Kerrigan to come here to me for a
minute. When you’ve done that go to bed or dig potatoes or do any other
mortal thing except stand at the door of the barrack grinning.”
“What tune’s that young Kerrigan’s after playing?” said Gallagher
solemnly.
Father McCormack looked anxiously at Major Kent. The Major fixed his
eyes on the stuffed fox in the glass case. It was Doyle who answered
Gallagher.
“It’s no tune at all the way he’s playing it,” he said. “Didn’t you hear
the doctor saying he had it wrong?”
“What tune would it be,” said Gallagher, “if so be he had it right?”
“I told you before,” said Doyle. “I told you till I’m tired telling
you that I don’t know the name of it. It’s not a tune that ever I heard
before.”
“I’ll find out what tune it is,” said Gallagher savagely. “I’ll drag it
out of you if I have to drag the black liver of you along with it.”
“Order, gentlemen, order,” said Father McCormack. “That’s no language to
be using here.”
“I was meaning no disrespect to you, Father,” said Gallagher. “I’d be
the last man in Ireland to raise my hand against the clergy.”
“It’s the doctor’s liver you’ll have to drag, Thady, if you drag any
liver at all,” said Doyle, “for he’s the only one that knows what the
tune is.”
Moriarty appeared to have conveyed the message to young Kerrigan.
Dr. O’Grady, still leaning out of the window, spoke again, this time
evidently to Kerrigan.
“Don’ts you know you’re getting it wrong every time?” he said.
Young Kerrigan’s voice, faint and apologetic, reached the members of the
committee through the window.
“Sure I know that well enough; but the devil’s in it that I can’t get it
right.”
“Listen to me now,” said Dr. O’Grady.
He whistled the tune shrilly, beating time with his hand.
“Now, Kerrigan,” he said, “try it after me.”
He whistled it again slowly. Kerrigan followed him note by note on the
cornet. After a very short hesitation he got over the difficult passage.
Dr. O’Grady drew in his head and returned to the table with a sigh of
relief.
“I think he has it now,” he said, “but it’s a tough job teaching that
fellow anything.”
“What tune is it?” said Gallagher.
“It’s not a tune that ever you heard before,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“I’m of opinion that I did hear it,” said Gallagher. “But let you speak
out now if you’re not ashamed of it, and tell me what tune it is.”
“It’s the ‘Battle March of King Malachi the Brave,’” said Dr. O’Grady,
“the same that he played when he was driving the English out of Ireland.
And you can’t possibly have heard it before because the manuscript of it
was only dug up the other day at Tara, and this is the first time it’s
ever been played publicly in the west of Ireland.”
“There now, Thady,” said Doyle, “didn’t I tell you all along that you’d
nothing to do only to ask the doctor?”
“I’m of opinion that I did hear it,” said Gallagher. “You may say what
you like about the Hill of Tara, but I’ve heard that tune.”
“It’s just possible,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that Mr. Billing may have
whistled it while he was here. I believe the people of Bolivia are fond
of it. They learned it, of course, from General John Regan. He may have
heard it from his grandmother. It’s wonderful how long music survives
among the people long after the regular professional musicians have
forgotten all about it. But I mustn’t interrupt you any more, Thady. You
were just making a speech about the Lord-Lieutenant. Perhaps you have
finished what you were saying. As well as I recollect we were just
settling about the statue.”
“Major Kent was after saying,” said Father McCor-mack, “that we couldn’t
get a statue in the time.”
“My friend Mr. Doyle,” said Dr. O’Grady, “has a proposal to lay before
the meeting. Where’s that card, Doyle, that you showed me last week?”
Doyle drew a bundle of grimy papers from his breast pocket and went
through them slowly. One, which appeared to be a letter written on
business paper, he laid on the table in front of him. At the bottom of
the bundle he came on a large card. He handed this to Father McCormack.
The printing on it was done in Curiously shaped letters, evidently
artistic in intention, with a tendency towards the ecclesiastical. Round
the outside of the card was a deep border of black, as if the owner of
it were in mourning for a near relative.
Father McCormack looked at it dubiously.
“Read it out,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I’d like the Major to hear exactly
what’s on it.”
“‘Mr. Aloysius Doyle,’” read Father McCormack.
“He’s a nephew of my own,” said Doyle.
“He would be,” said Gallagher. “If he wasn’t we’d hear nothing about
him.”
He was still feeling sore about the “Battle March of King Malachi the
Brave,” and was anxious to make himself disagreeable to someone. It
struck him that it would be easy to annoy Doyle by suggesting that he
was trying to do a good turn to his nephew at the expense of the statue
fund.
“I needn’t tell you, gentlemen,” said Doyle, with great dignity,
“that it’s not on account of his being a nephew of my own that I’m
recommending him to the notice of this committee. If he was fifty times
my nephew I wouldn’t mention his name without I was sure that he was as
good a man as any other for the job we have on hand.”
No one, of course, believed this, but no one wanted to argue with Doyle
about it. Father McCormack went on reading from the black-edged card
which he held in his hand.
“‘Mortuary Sculptor,’”
“Sculptor!” said Dr. O’Grady. “You hear that, Major, don’t you?
Sculptors are people who make statues.”
“Mortuary sculptors, I suppose,” said the Major viciously, “make statues
of dead men.”
“The General’s dead anyway,” said Doyle, “so that’s suitable enough.”
“‘Address—The Monumental Studio, Michael Angelo House, Great Brunswick.
Street, Dublin,’” read Father McCormack. “That’ll be where your nephew
lives, Mr. Doyle?”
“It’s where he has his works,” said Doyle. “He lives down near
Sandymount.”
“‘Celtic Crosses, Obelisks and every kind of Monument supplied at the
shortest notice,’” said Father McCormack, still reading from the
card. “‘Family Vaults decorated. Inscriptions Cut. Estimates Free. Low
Prices’.”
“I don’t see that we could possibly do better than that,” said Dr.
O’Grady.
“Even Doyle’s nephew can’t make a statue in ten days,” said the Major.
“He says ‘shortest notice’ on his card. You ought to believe the man,
Major, until you’ve some evidence that he’s a liar.”
“I don’t care what he says,” said the Major. “He can’t make a statue in
ten days.”
“We’ll get to that point in a minute,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The first
thing we have to decide is whether Mr. Aloysius Doyle is a suitable man
to be entrusted with the work.”
“There’s no other tenders before us,” said Father McCormack, “so I
suppose we may as well——”
“Excuse my interrupting you, Father,” said Doyle, “but before you take
the opinion of the meeting on this point, I’d like to say that I’m
offering no opinion one way or the other; and what’s more I won’t give a
vote either for or against. I wouldn’t like to do it in a case where my
own nephew is a candidate.”
“You needn’t tell us that, Mr. Doyle,” said Father McCormack. “We all
know that you’re not the kind of man who’d be using his public position
to further the interests of his relatives. What do you say now,
gentlemen? Is Mr. Aloysius Doyle to be given the contract for the statue
or not? What do you say, Major?”
“If he can make a full-sized statue of a General in ten days,” said the
Major, “he’s a man who deserves every encouragement we can give him.”
“Now, doctor,” said Father McCormack, “what’s your opinion?”
“I’m for giving him the job,” said the Doctor.
“Mr. Doyle won’t vote,” said Father McCormack.
“I will not,” said Doyle firmly.
“So we’d be glad of your opinion, Mr. Gallagher.”
“If his price is satisfactory,” said Gallagher, “we may as well give
him the preference. I’d be in favour of supporting local talent when
possible, and although Mr. Aloysius Doyle isn’t a resident among us at
present, his family belongs to Ballymoy.”
“Carried unanimously,” said Father McCormack. “And now about the price.
What will that nephew of yours do us a statue for, Doyle? And mind you,
it must be done well.”
“Before we go into that,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I’d like the committee to
hear a letter which Mr. Doyle has received from his nephew. I thought it
well, considering how short the time at our disposal is——”
“Ten days,” said the Major. “Ten days to make a statue——”
“The letter which we are just going to read,” said Dr. O’Grady, “will
meet the Major’s difficulty. I thought it well to get into communication
with Mr. Aloysius Doyle at once so as to have everything ready for the
committee.”
“I wonder you haven’t the statue ready,” said the Major.
“I wrote to him, or rather I got Doyle to write to him, the day before
yesterday, and the letter you are now going to hear is his reply. I
may say that we laid the circumstances full before him; especially the
shortness of the time. You’re not the only person who thought of that
difficulty, Major. Just read the letter, will you, Doyle?”
Doyle took up the letter which lay on the table in front of him and
unfolded it. He glanced at it and then put it down and began to fumble
in his pocket.
“Go ahead,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“I can’t,” said Doyle. “This isn’t that letter, but another one
altogether.”
He drew his packet of papers from his pocket again and began to go
through them rapidly. There was a light tap at the door.
“Who on earth’s that?” said Dr. O’Grady. “I said specially that this
meeting was not to be disturbed.”
“Possibly Doyle’s nephew,” said the Major, “with a sample statue. He
ought to submit samples to us.”
“Come in whoever you are,” said Dr. O’Grady.
Mary Ellen half opened the door and put her head into the room. Dr.
O’Grady realised the moment he saw her that something must have gone
wrong in the dressmaker’s shop. He assumed, without enquiry, that Mrs.
Ford had been making herself objectionable.
“What has Mrs. Ford done now?” said Dr. O’Grady. “I can’t go to her till
this meeting is over.”
“Mrs. Ford’s off home this half hour,” said Mary Ellen. “She said she
wouldn’t put up with the nonsense that was going on.”
This was a relief to Dr. O’Grady. If Mrs. Ford had gone home the
difficulty, whatever it was, must be capable of adjustment.
“Then what on earth do you want? Surely you and Mrs. Gregg haven’t been
quarrelling with each other.”
“Mrs. Gregg says——” said Mary Ellen.
Then she paused, looked at Dr. O’Grady, looked at Doyle, and finally
took courage after a glance at Father McCormack.
“She says, is there to be white stockings?”
“Certainly not,” said Dr. O’Grady. “White stockings would be entirely
out of place. If we’re dressing you as an Irish colleen, Mary Ellen,
we’ll do it properly. Go and tell Mrs. Gregg that your stockings are
to be green, bright green. Did you ever hear such a silly question?” he
added turning to the other members of the committee. “Who ever saw an
Irish colleen in white stockings?”
“While you’re at it, O’Grady,” said the Major, “you’d better settle the
colour of her garters.”
Mary Ellen, grinning broadly, withdrew her head and shut the door.
“What’s that about green stockings for Mary Ellen?” said Father
McCormack.
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The stockings will scarcely
show at all. Her dress will be right down to her ankles, longer by far
than the ones she usually wears. I needn’t tell you, Father McCormack,
that I wouldn’t consent to dressing the girl in any way that wasn’t
strictly proper. You mustn’t think——”
“I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort,” said Father McCormack.
“You very well might be,” said Dr. O’Grady, “Anyone would think we
intended her to appear in a ballet skirt after that remark of the
Major’s about her garters.”
“All I was thinking,” said Father McCormack, “was that if you dressed
the girl up in that style she’ll never be contented again with ordinary
clothes.”
“I’d be opposed, so I would,” said Gallagher, “to anything that wouldn’t
be respectable in the case of Mary Ellen. Her mother was a cousin of
my own, and I’ve a feeling for the girl. So if you or any other one,
Doctor, is planning contrivances——”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Thady,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“I tell you she’ll be all right. Now, Doyle, will you read us that
letter from your nephew? If we don’t get on with our business we’ll be
here all night.”