The Red Hand of Ulster/Chapter 9

HAD no sooner settled down quietly at home and got to work again on my history than I was assailed by Godfrey. I wish very much that he was Conroy’s nephew and not mine. Conroy goes driving in a motor in the middle of the night, so he must like disturbances. I hate them.

“I’m sorry, Excellency, but I am afraid I shall have to interrupt you.”

Godfrey, besides being objectionable in other ways, is a liar. He is not sorry, he is very glad, when he gets the chance of interrupting me. I should resent the disturbance less if he acknowledged frankly that he enjoyed annoying me.

“It can’t be time,” I said, “for another garden-party yet; but, if it is, I’d rather you made out the invitation list yourself. I’m busy. Besides making out lists is one of the things you’re good at. I should be sure to leave out somebody.”

“I don’t want to talk about garden-parties,” said Godfrey. “This is something much more serious.”

“There’s no use coming to me about it,” I said. “I told you last time that your tailor could bring you into the County Court if he liked. I shan’t pay him again.”

The inference was a natural one. Godfrey had said that he wanted to talk about something more important than a garden-party. But the inference was wrong. Godfrey looked offended.

“I sent Nicholson and Blackett a cheque last week,” he said.

I waited patiently. If Godfrey’s business had nothing to do with garden-parties or tailors’ bills, I could only suppose that he meant to make some fresh complaint about Crossan.

“Pringle cashed it all right,” said Godfrey, after a short pause. “I went in there the day after your party and played tennis with his daughter. They were awfully pleased.”

I dare say they were. People attach a surprising amount of importance to Godfrey’s social patronage. I myself should be more inclined to cash his cheques for him if he stayed away from my house. But I did not want to argue with Godfrey about Pringle’s taste in guests.

“What’s Crossan been doing to you?” I asked at last.

“He hasn’t been doing anything to me.”

“Then for goodness’ sake, Godfrey, let the man alone.”

“I don’t like the way he’s going on.”

“You never did. There’s nothing fresh about that. You’ve complained about him regularly every week for five years.”

This was an exaggeration. I am sometimes away from home for more than a week at a time and Godfrey does not always complain about Crossan in his letters.

“Look here, Excellency,” said Godfrey, “it’s far better for you to know what Crossan’s doing. He’s going about all over the country day after day. He’s got a motor car.”

I can quite understand that Crossan’s owning a motor car must have a very irritating effect on Godfrey. I cannot afford to keep one. That any one else in the district over which I ought, according to Godfrey’s theory, to be a kind of king, should assume a grandeur impossible for me is simply an aggravated kind of insolence. No wonder that Godfrey, with the honour of the family at heart, resented Crossan’s motor car. I tried to soothe him.

“It’s probably quite an inferior machine,” I said. “It will break down soon.”

“It’s not only that,” said Godfrey, “though I think Crossan ought to stay at home and mind his business. He must be neglecting things. But—I wish you’d walk up to the store with me, Excellency. Crossan’s away.”

“I’d much rather go when Crossan’s at home,” I said; “but, of course, if you won’t leave me in peace until I do, I may as well go at once.”

I got my hat and walking stick. On the way up to the store Godfrey preserved an air of mysterious importance. I had no objection whatever to his doing this; because he could not talk and look mysterious at the same time, and I particularly dislike being talked to by Godfrey. I expect he tried to be dignified with a view to impressing me, but just before we reached the store he broke down and babbled fatuously.

“Marion told me yesterday,” he said, “that she’d had a letter from that fellow Power.”

“She told me that too,” I said.

“Well, I think you ought to put a stop to it. It’s not right.”

“My dear Godfrey,” I said, “you appear to forget that he’s one of the Powers of Kilfenora and private secretary to a millionaire.”

This twofold appeal to the highest and strongest feelings which Godfrey possesses ought to have silenced him. He did, I think, feel the force of what I said. But he was not satisfied.

“If you knew all that was going on,” he said, “you wouldn’t like it.”

We reached the store. The young woman who controls the sale of miscellaneous goods was alert and smiling behind her counter. Whatever Crossan might be doing she at all events was attending to her business. Godfrey took no notice of her. He led me through the shop to the yard behind it. He pushed open the door of one of the outhouses.

“That door ought to be locked,” he said.

This was true. I was somewhat surprised to find it open.

“I forced the lock this morning,” said Godfrey, “with a screw driver.”

“In that case,” I said, “you can hardly blame Crossan for its being open. Why did you do it?”

“I wanted to see what he had inside,” said Godfrey, “and I wanted you to see.”

There was a good deal inside. In fact the outhouse, a large building, was filled from floor to ceiling with packing-cases, some of them very large indeed. Godfrey pointed to a small one near the door.

“Just lift that up, will you, Excellency?” said Godfrey.

“No, I won’t. Why should I? I’m not a railway porter, and it looks heavy.”

“It is heavy. Just watch me for a moment if you don’t want to lift it yourself.”

Godfrey with evident difficulty lifted the packing-case, staggered a few steps with it and then set it down. The packing-case may have been heavy but it was quite small. It seemed to me that Godfrey was making a rather pitiful exhibition of his physical feebleness.

“You ought to do things with dumb bells,” I said. “The muscles of your arms are evidently quite soft.”

Godfrey took no notice of the taunt. He was in a state of tremendous moral earnestness.

“I want your permission to open these cases,” he said.

“I won’t give you any such permission,” I said. “How can I? They’re not my packing-cases.”

Godfrey argued with me for quite a long time, but I remained firm. For some reason which I could not understand, Godfrey was unwilling to open the packing-cases without permission from somebody. I should have supposed that having already forced a door he would not have boggled at the lid of a packing-case; but he did. He evidently had some vague idea that the law takes a more serious view of smashing packing-cases than it does of housebreaking. He may have been right. But my record so far was clear. I had not forced the lock of the door.

“What do you suppose is in those cases?” said Godfrey.

“Artificial manure,” I said.

Our store does a large business in artificial manure. It generally comes to us in sacks, but there is no reason why it should not come in packing-cases. It is tremendously heavy stuff.

“Those cases were landed from the Finola,” said Godfrey. “She wouldn’t come here with a cargo of artificial manure.”

“If you’ve brought me all the way up here to accuse Conroy of smuggling,” I said, “you’ve wasted your own time and mine.”

“I don’t accuse Conroy of smuggling,” said Godfrey. “In fact, I’m going to write to him to-night to tell him what’s going on.”

“Very well,” I said. “You can if you like, but don’t mix my name up with it.”

We walked back together as far as the village. Godfrey was silent again. I could see that he still had something on his mind, probably something which he wanted me to do. He kept on clearing his throat and pulling himself together as if he were going to say something of importance. I was uncomfortable, for I felt sure that he intended to attack me again about Marion’s correspondence with Bob Power. I have never, since she was quite a little girl, interfered with Marion’s freedom of action. I had not the smallest intention of making myself ridiculous by claiming any kind of authority over her, especially in a matter so purely personal as the young man she chose to favour. Besides, I like Bob Power. At worst there was nothing against him except his smuggling, and smuggling is much less objectionable than the things that Godfrey does. I should rather, if it came to that, have a son-in-law who went to prison occasionally for importing spirits without consulting the government than one who perpetually nagged at me and worried me. But I did not want to provoke further arguments by explaining my feelings to Godfrey. I was therefore rather relieved when he finally succeeded in blurting out what was in his mind.

“I hope, Excellency,” he said, “that you will take the first chance you get of speaking to Crossan.”

In sudden gratitude for escaping a wrangle about Marion and Bob Power I promised hurriedly that I would speak to Crossan. I was sorry afterwards that I did promise. Still, I very much wished to know what was in the packing-cases. I did not really believe it was artificial manure. I did not believe either that it was smuggled brandy.

My chance came two days later. I met Crossan in the street. He was standing beside his motor car, a handsome-looking vehicle. He evidently intended to go for a drive. I felt at once that I could not ask him a direct question about the packing-cases. I determined to get at them obliquely if I could. I began by admiring the motor.

“She’s good enough, my lord,” said Crossan.

He is a man of few words, and is sparing of his praise. “Good enough” is, from Crossan, quite an enthusiastic compliment.

“If your lordship would care about a drive any day,” he said, “it’ll be a pleasure to me.”

Crossan always interjects “my lord” and “your lordship” into the middle of the remarks he makes to me; but he says the words in a very peculiar tone. It always seems to me that he wishes to emphasize the difference in our social station because he feels that the advantage is all on his side. “The rank,” so his tone suggests, “is but the guinea stamp. The man”—that is in this case Crossan himself—“is the gowd for a’ that.”

“You can get about the country pretty quickly in that car,” I said.

Crossan looked at me with a perfectly expressionless face for some time. Then he said said—

“If you think, my lord, that I’m neglecting my work, you’ve only to say so and I’ll go.”

I hastened to assure him that I had no intention of finding fault with him in any way. My apology was as ample as possible. After another minute spent in silent meditation Crossan expressed himself satisfied.

“It suits me as little to be running round the country,” he said, “as it would suit your lordship.”

“I quite understand that,” I said. “But then I don’t do it. You do.”

“It has to be,” said Crossan.

I did not quite see why it had to be; but Crossan spoke with such conviction that I dared not contradict him and did not even like to question him. Fortunately he explained himself.

“I’m the Grand Master, as your lordship is aware,” he said.

“Worshipful” is the title of courtesy applied to Grand Masters, and I’m sure no one ever deserved it better than Crossan.

“If we’re not ready for them, my lord, they’ll have our throats cut in our beds as soon as ever they get Home Rule.”

“They,” of course were the “Papishes,” Crossan’s arch enemies.

I wanted very much to hear more of his activities among the Orangemen. I wanted to know what steps he, as Grand Master, was taking to prevent cut-throats creeping in on us while we slept. I thought I might encourage him by telling him something he would be pleased to hear.

“McConkey,” I said, “who is foreman in the Green Loaney Scutching Mill, is buying a splendid quick-firing gun.”

The remark did not have the effect I hoped for. It had an exactly opposite effect. Crossan shut up like a sea anemone suddenly touched.

“Your lordship’s affairs won’t be neglected,” he said stiffly. “You may count on that.”

I felt that I could. I have the utmost confidence in Crossan’s integrity. If a body of “Papishes” of the bloodiest kind were to come upon Crossan and capture him; if they were to condemn him to death and, being God-fearing men, were to allow him half an hour in which to make his soul; he would spend the time, not in saying his prayers, not even in cursing the Pope, but in balancing the accounts of the co-operative store, so that any auditor who took over the books afterwards might find everything in order.

“If you really feel it to be your duty,” I said, “to go round the district working up—”

“You’ll have heard of the Home Rule Bill, maybe,” said Crossan.

I had heard of it, several times. After my visit to Castle Affey I even understood it, though it was certainly a measure of great complexity. I think I appreciated the orthodox Protestant view of it since the day I talked to McConkey. I wanted Crossan to realize how fully I entered into his feelings, so I quoted a phrase from one of Babberly’s speeches.

“In this supreme crisis of our country’s destiny,” I said, “it is the duty of every man to do his uttermost to avert the threatened ruin of our common Protestantism.”

That ought to have pacified Crossan even if it did not rouse him to enthusiasm. Huge crowds have cheered Babberly for saying these moving words. But Crossan received them from me in sullen silence.

“It would be well,” he said at last, “if your lordship and others like you were more in earnest.”

Crossan is not by any means a fool. I have occasionally been tempted to think he is, especially when he talks about having his throat cut at night; but he has always shown me in the end that he has in him a vein of strong common sense. He recognized that I was talking bombast when I spoke about the supreme crisis; but, curiously enough, he is quite convinced of Babberly’s sincerity when he says things of that sort.

It was nearly an hour after Crossan left me when I recollected that I had not found out anything about the packing-cases. The subject somehow had not come up between us, though I fully intended that it should. Our talk about Home Rule gave me no clue to what was in the cases. I could scarcely suppose that they were full of gorgets for distribution among Orangemen, defensive armour proof against the particular kind of stabs which Crossan anticipated.

Godfrey called on me the next morning in a white heat of righteous indignation. He had received an answer to the letter which he wrote to Conroy. Before showing it to me he insisted on my reading what he called his statement of the case. It occupied four sheets of quarto paper, closely type-written. It accused Bob Power and McNeice of using the Finola for smuggling without the owner’s knowledge. It made out, I am bound to say, quite a good case. He had collected every possible scrap of evidence, down to Rose’s new brooch. I suppose Marion told him about that. He said at the end of the letter that he had no motive in writing it except a sincere wish for Conroy’s welfare. This was quite untrue. He had several other motives. His love of meddling was one. Hatred of Crossan was another. Jealousy of Bob Power was a third.

“Now is there anything objectionable in that letter? Anything that one gentleman would not write to another?”

I admitted that on the whole it was a civil letter.

“Now look at his answer,” said Godfrey.

Conroy’s answer was on a post-card. It consisted of six words only.

“Do not be a damned fool.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s sound advice even if it’s not very politely expressed.”

“Conroy’s in it too,” said Godfrey, vindictively, “and I’ll make them all sorry for themselves before I’ve done with them.”