The Red Hand of Ulster/Chapter 13

CANNOT make out why everybody thinks I am a Liberal. Lady Moyne was the first who mentioned to me this slur on my character. Babberly evidently believed it. Then, shortly after the Belfast meeting, I had a letter, marked “Private and Confidential,” from Sir Samuel Clithering. Although Clithering is not a member of the Government, he is in close touch with several very important Ministers. Under ordinary circumstances I should not mention Clithering’s name in telling the story of his letter. I know him to be a conscientious, scrupulously honourable man, and I should hate to give him pain. Under ordinary circumstances, that is, if things had gone in Ulster in the way things usually do go, Clithering would have felt it necessary to assert publicly in the papers that he did not write the letter. This would have been very disagreeable for him because he does not like telling lies; and the unpleasantness would certainly be aggravated by the fact that nobody would believe him. So many important and exciting things, however, have happened in Ulster since I got the letter that I do not think Clithering will now want to deny that he wrote it. I have, therefore, no hesitation in mentioning his name.

This letter was written in the best politico-diplomatic style. I had to read it nine times before I could find out what it was about. When I did find out I made a translation of it into the English of ordinary life, so as to make quite sure of not acting beyond my instructions. I was first of all complimented on not being a party politician. This, coming from one of the Government wire-pullers, meant, of course, that I was in his opinion a strong Liberal. I have noticed for years that the only party politicians in these islands are the people who are active on the other side; and that party politics are the other side’s programme. My correspondent evidently agreed with Lady Moyne and Babberly that as I was not a Conservative, I must be a supporter of the Government.

Having made this quite unwarranted assumption, the letter went on to suggest that I should ask Conroy if he would like a peerage. The point was not made quite clear, but I gathered that Conroy could have any kind of title that he liked, up to an earldom. I know, of course, that peerages are given in exchange for subscriptions to party funds, by the party, whichever it may be, which receives the subscriptions. I did not know before that peerages were ever given with a view to inducing the happy recipient not to subscribe to the funds of the other party. But in Conroy’s case this must have been the motive which lay behind the offer. He had certainly given Lady Moyne a handsome cheque. He was financing McNeice’s little paper in the most liberal way. He had, I suspected, supplied Crossan with the motor car in which he went about the country tuning up the Orange Lodges. It seemed quite likely it was his money with which Rose’s young man bought the gold brooch which had attracted Marion’s attention. Conroy was undoubtedly subsidizing Ulster Unionism very generously. I suppose it must have been worth while to stop this flow of money. Hence the suggestion that Conroy might be given a peerage. This, at least, was the explanation of the letter which I adopted at the time. I have since had reason to suppose that the Government knew more than I did about the way Conroy was spending his money, and was nervous about something more important than Babberly’s occasional demonstrations.

My first impulse was to burn the letter and tell my correspondent that I was not a politician of any sort, and did not care for doing this kind of work. Then my curiosity got the better of my sense of honour. A man cannot, I think, be both an historian and a gentleman. It is an essential part of the character of a gentleman that he should dislike prying into other people’s secrets. The business of the historian, on the other hand, is to rake about if necessary through dust-bins, until he finds out the reasons, generally disreputable, why things are done. A gentleman displays a dignified superiority to the vice of curiosity. For the historian curiosity is a virtue. I am, I find, more of an historian than a gentleman. I wanted very much to find out how Conroy would take the offer of a peerage. I also wanted to understand thoroughly why the offer was made.

Some weeks were to pass before I learned the Government’s real reason for wanting to detach Conroy from the Unionist cause; but luck favoured me in the matter of sounding Conroy himself. I had a letter from him in which he said that he was coming to our neighbourhood for a few days. I immediately asked him to stay with me.

Then I tried, very foolishly, to make my nephew Godfrey feel uncomfortable.

“Conroy,” I said, “is coming here to stay with me next Tuesday.”

“How splendid!” said Godfrey. “I say, Excellency, you will ask me up to dinner every night he’s here, won’t you?”

“I thought,” I said, “that you wouldn’t like to meet Conroy.”

“Of course I’d like to meet him. He might give me a job of some kind or get me one. A man like that with millions of money must have plenty of jobs to give away.”

When Godfrey speaks of a job he means a salary. Nearly everybody does.

“If I can only get the chance of making myself agreeable to him,” said Godfrey, “I’m sure I’ll be able to get something out of him.”

“I’m surprised,” I said, “at your wanting to meet him at all. After the post-card he wrote you—”

“Oh, I don’t mind that in the least,” said Godfrey. “I never take offence.”

This is, indeed, one of Godfrey’s chief vices. He never does take offence. It was Talleyrand, I think, who said that no man need ever get angry about anything said by a woman or a bishop. Godfrey improves on this philosophy. He never gets angry with any one except those whom he regards as his inferiors.

“It would be a good opportunity,” said Godfrey, “for your second menagerie party. We’ve only had one this year. I expect it would amuse Conroy.”

“I’m nearly sure it wouldn’t.”

“We’ll have to do something in the way of entertaining while he’s here,” said Godfrey. “I suppose you’ll have the Moynes over to dinner?”

I knew that the Moynes were in London, so I told Godfrey that he could write and ask them if he liked. I tried to be firm in my opposition to the garden-party, but Godfrey wore me down. It was fixed for Wednesday, and invitations were sent out. I discovered afterwards that Godfrey told his particular friends that they were to have the honour of meeting a real millionaire. In the case of the Pringles he went so far as to hint that Conroy was very likely to give him a lucrative post. On the strength of this expectation, Pringle, who is an easy man to deceive, allowed Godfrey to cash a cheque for £10.

Conroy arrived on Sunday afternoon, travelling, as a millionaire should, in a motor car. Godfrey dined with us that night, and made himself as agreeable as he could. Conroy had, apparently, forgotten all about the post-card. I did not get a minute alone with my guest that night and so could do nothing about the peerage. I thought of approaching him on the subject next morning after breakfast, though that is not a good hour for delicate negotiations. But even if I had been willing to attack him then, I hardly had the chance. Godfrey was up with us at half-past ten. He wanted to take Conroy on a personally conducted tour round the objects of interest in the neighbourhood. Conroy said he wanted to go to the house of a man called Crossan who lived somewhere near us, and would be very glad if Godfrey would act as guide. It is a remarkable proof of Godfrey’s great respect for millionaires that he consented to show Conroy the way to Crossan’s house. They went off together, and I saw no more of Conroy till dinner-time.

He deliberately avoided my garden-party, although Godfrey had explained to him the night before that my guests would be “quite the funniest lot of bounders to be found anywhere.”

The Pringles must have been disappointed at not meeting Conroy. Miss Pringle, whose name I found out was Tottie, looked quite pretty in a pink dress, and smiled almost as nicely as she did when Bob Power took her to gather strawberries. Mrs. Pringle asked Godfrey to dine with them that night, and Tottie looked at him out of the corner of her eyes so as to show him that she would be pleased if he accepted the invitation. Pringle himself joined in pressing Godfrey. I suppose he must really have believed in the salary which Godfrey expected to get from Conroy.

Godfrey promised to dine with them. He explained his position to me afterwards.

“I needn’t tell you, Excellency,” he said, “that I don’t want to go there. I shall get a rotten bad dinner and Mrs. Pringle is a rank outsider.”

“Miss Pringle,” I said, “seems a pleasant girl. She’s certainly pretty.”

“Poor little Tottie!” said Godfrey. “That sort of girl isn’t bad fun sometimes; but I wouldn’t put up with boiled mutton just for the sake of a kiss or two from her. The fact is—”

“Your banking account,” I said.

“That’s it,” said Godfrey. “Pringle’s directors have been writing rather nasty letters lately. It’s perfectly all right, of course, and I told him so; but all the same it’s better to accept his invitation.”

Godfrey is the most unmitigated blackguard I’ve ever met.

“I hardly see Tottie Pringle as the next Lady Kilmore,” said Godfrey; “but, of course, that’s the game.”

I do not believe it. Tottie Pringle—I do not for a moment believe that she ever allowed Godfrey to kiss her—does not look the kind of girl who—

“You’ll make my excuses to Conroy, won’t you, Excellency? Tell him—”

“What is the exact amount of the over-draft?” I said; “he’ll probably want to know.”

“Better not say anything about that,” said Godfrey. “Tell him I had a business engagement.”

Godfrey’s necessity gave me my opportunity. I had Conroy all to myself after dinner, and I sounded him very cautiously about the title. The business turned out to be much more difficult than I expected. At first Conroy was singularly obtuse. He did not seem to understand what I was hinting at. There was really no excuse for him. Our surroundings were very well suited for delicate negotiations. I had given him a bottle of champagne at dinner. I had some excellent port on the table afterwards. My dining-room is a handsome apartment, a kind of large hall with a vaulted roof. The light of the candles on the table mingled in a pleasantly mysterious way with the twilight of the summer evening. The long windows lay wide open and a heavy scent of lilies crept into the room. The lamp on the sideboard behind me lit up the impressive portrait of my great grandfather in the uniform of a captain of volunteers, the Irish volunteers of 1780. Any one, I should have supposed, would have walked delicately among hints and suggestions in such an atmosphere, among such surroundings. But Conroy would not. I was forced at last to speak rather more plainly than I had intended to. Then Conroy turned on me.

“What does your Government think I should want the darned thing for?” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose the usual reasons.”

“What are they?” said Conroy, “for I’m damned if I know.”

“Well,” I said, “when you put it that way I don’t know that I can exactly explain. But most people like it. I like it myself, although I’m pretty well used to it. I imagine it would be much nicer when you came to it quite fresh. If you happen to be going over to London, you know, it’s rather pleasant to have the fellow who runs the sleeping-car bustling the other people out of the way and calling you ‘my lord.’”

Conroy sat in grim silence.

“There’s more than that in it,” I said. “That’s only an example, quite a small example of the kind of thing I mean. But those little things count, you know. And, of course, the extra tip that the fellow expects in the morning wouldn’t matter to you.”

Conroy still declined to make any answer. I began to feel hot and flurried.

“There are other points, too,” I went on. “For instance a quite pretty girl called Tottie Pringle wants to marry my nephew Godfrey—at least he says she does—simply because he’ll be Lord Kilmore when I’m dead. You’ve met my nephew Godfrey, so you’ll realize that she can’t possibly have any other motive.”

“What,” said Conroy, “does your Government expect me to do in return for making me attractive to Tottie Pringle?”

“It’s not my Government,” I said. “I’m not mixed up with it or responsible for it in any way.”

“I always understood,” said Conroy, “that you are a Liberal.”

“Everybody understands that,” I said, “and it’s no use my contradicting it. As for what the Government wants you to do, I haven’t been actually told; but I fancy you’d be expected to stop giving subscriptions to Lady Moyne.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all I can think of. But, of course, there may be other things.”

“I reckon,” said Conroy, “that your Government can’t be quite fool enough to mind much about what Lady Moyne does with my money. The pennies she drops into the slot so as to make Babberly talk won’t hurt them any.”

This was very much my own opinion. If I were a member of the government—I rather think I actually was, a few weeks later—Babberly would merely stimulate me.

“You can tell your Government from me—” said Conroy.

“It’s not my Government.”

“Well tell that Government from me, that when I want a title I’ll put down the full market price. At present I’m not taking any.”

Next day Conroy went off with Crossan in his motor car. He did not come back. I got a telegram from him later in the afternoon asking me to forward his luggage to Belfast. I forget the excuse he made for treating me in this very free and easy way; but there was an excuse, I know, probably quite a long one, for the telegram filled three sheets of the paper which the post-office uses for these messages.

Conroy’s sudden departure was a bitter sorrow and disappointment to Godfrey. He came up to dinner that night with three new pearl studs in the front of his shirt.

“What I can’t understand,” he said, “is why a man like Conroy should spend his time with your upper servants; people like Crossan, whom I shouldn’t dream of shaking hands with.”

“I’m afraid,” I said, “that he’s not going to give you that job you hoped for.”

“He may,” said Godfrey. “I think he liked me right enough. If only he could be got to believe that Power is robbing him right and left.”

“But is he?”

“He’s doing what practically comes to the same thing. Once Conroy finds out—and he will some day—I should think I’d have a middling good chance of getting his secretaryship. He must have a gentleman for that job, otherwise he’d never be able to get along at all. I don’t suppose he knows how to do things a bit. He evidently doesn’t know how to behave. Look at the way he’s gone on with Crossan since he’s been here. Now if I were his secretary—”

Godfrey mumbled on. He evidently has hopes of ousting Bob Power. He may possibly succeed in doing so. Godfrey has all the cunning characteristic of the criminal lunatic.

Three days later he got his chance of dealing with Bob Power. The Finola anchored in our bay again and Bob Power was in command of her.