Hyacinth Part 12

'Oh, going out to fight for the Boers. Now, don't, like a good fellow, say you're acting on principle. It's all well enough to give Finola credit for that kind of thing. She is, as we agreed, a splendid woman.

But you mustn't ask me to believe in the whole corps in the same way.'

Hyacinth meditated a reply. It was clearly impossible to a.s.sert that he wanted to fight for liberty, to give his life to the cause of an oppressed nationality. It would be utterly absurd to tell the story of his father's vision, and say that he looked on the South African War as a skirmish preliminary to the Armageddon. Sitting opposite to this cynical man of the world and listening to his talk, Hyacinth came himself to disbelieve in principle. He felt that there must be some baser motive at the bottom of his desire to fight, only, for the life of him, he could not remember what it was. He could not even imagine a good reason--good in the estimation of his companion--why anyone should do so foolish a thing as go out to the Transvaal. The Captain was not at all impatient. He sat smoking quietly, until there seemed no prospect of Hyacinth answering; then he said:

'Well, if you don't want to tell me, I don't mind. Only I think you're foolish. You see, little accidents happen in these affairs. There are such things as bullets, and one of them might hit you somewhere that would matter. Then it would be my duty to send home your last words to your sorrowing relatives, and it would be easier to do that if I knew exactly what you had done. The death-bed repentance of the prodigal is always most consoling to the elder brother--much more consoling, in fact, than the prodigal's return. Now, how the deuce am I to make up a plausible repentance for you, if I don't know what you've done?'

'But I've not done anything,' said Hyacinth ineffectively.

The Captain ignored him.

'Come, now, it can't be anything very bad at your age. Have you got into a mess with a girl? Or'--he brightened up at the guess--'are you hopelessly enamoured of the beautiful Finola? That would be most suitable. The bold, bad woman sends the minstrel boy to his death, with his wild harp slung behind him. I could draw tears from the stoniest-hearted elder brother over that.'

If he could have thought of a crime at the moment, Hyacinth would probably have confessed it; but he was bewildered, and could hit on nothing better than:

'I have no elder brother--in fact, no relation of any sort.'

'Lucky man! Now, I have a perfect specimen of a brother--James Quinn, Esquire, of Ballymoy. He's a churchwarden. Think of that! If it should be your melancholy duty to send the message home to him--in case that bullet hits me, I mean--tell him------ Oh, there's no false pride about me. Fill your gla.s.s again. I don't in the least mind your knowing that I wouldn't go a step to fight for Boer or Briton either if it wasn't for a little affair connected with some horses and a cheque. You see, the War Office people sent down a perfect idiot to buy remounts for the cavalry in Galway and Mayo. He was the sort of idiot that would tempt an Archbishop to swindle him. I rather overdid it, I'm afraid, and now the matter is likely to come out.'

For all his boasted powers of observation, Captain Quinn failed to notice the disgust and alarm on Hyacinth's face.

'I stuck the fool,' he went on, 'with every old screw in the country. I got broken-winded mares from the ploughs. I collected a regular hospital of spavined, knock-kneed beasts, and he took them from me without a word at thirty pounds apiece. It would have been all right if I had gone no further. But, hang it all! I got to the end of my tether. I declare to you I don't believe there was another screw left in the whole county of Mayo, and unless I took to selling him the a.s.ses I couldn't go on. Then I heard of this plan of your friend Finola's, and I determined to make a little coup and clear. I altered a cheque. The idiot was on his way to an out-of-the-way corner of Connemara looking for mounted infantry cobs.

I knew he wouldn't see his bank-book for at least a week, so I chanced it. That's the reason why I am so uncommonly anxious to get clear at once. If I once get off, it will be next door to impossible to get me back again. General Joubert will hardly give me up. I'm not the least afraid of those ridiculous policemen who walk about after Finola. But I am very much afraid of being tapped on the shoulder for reasons quite non-political. I can tell you I've been on the jump ever since yesterday, when I cashed the cheque, and I shan't feel easy till I've left France behind me. I fancy I'm safe for the present. The idiot is sure to try fifty ways of getting his accounts straight before he lights on my little cheque; and when he does, I've covered my tracks pretty well. My dear brother hasn't the slightest notion what's become of me.

I dare say he'll stop making inquiries as soon as the police begin. Poor old chap! He'll feel it about the family name, and so on.'

He smiled at his own reflection in the mirror over the chimneypiece. He was evidently well satisfied with the performance he had narrated. Then at last Hyacinth found himself able to speak. Again, as when he had defeated Dr. Spenser in the college lecture-room, his own coolness surprised him.

'You're an infernal blackguard!' he said.

Captain Quinn looked at him with a surprise that was perfectly genuine.

He doubted if he could have heard correctly.

'What did you say?'

'I said,' repeated Hyacinth, 'you are an infernal blackguard!'

'Did you really suppose that I would be going on this fool of an expedition if I wasn't?'

'I shall tell Miss Goold the story you have just told me. I shall tell her to-morrow morning before the boat sails.'

'Very well,' said the Captain; 'but don't suppose for a moment that you'll shock Finola. She doesn't know this particular story about me, but I expect she knows another every bit as bad, and I dare say she will regard the whole thing as a justifiable spoiling of the Egyptians. By the way '--there was a note of anxiety in his voice--'I hope you won't find it necessary to repeat anything I've said about the lady herself.

_That_ might irritate her.'

'Is it likely,' said Hyacinth, 'that I would repeat that kind of talk to any woman?'

'Quite so. I admire your att.i.tude. Such things are entirely unfit for repet.i.tion. But seriously, now, what on earth do you expect to happen when you tell her? I'm perfectly certain that every single volunteer she's got is just as great a blackguard--your word, my dear fellow--as I am, and Finola knows it perfectly well.'

Hyacinth hesitated. The phrase in Miss Goold's letter in which she had originally described her men as blackguards recurred to his mind. He remembered the story of Doherty. His anger began to give way to a sick feeling of disgust.

'Think, now,' said the Captain: 'is it likely that you could enlist a corps of Sunday-school teachers for this kind of work? I'll give you credit for the highest motives, though I'm blest if I understand them; but how can you suppose that there is anyone else in the whole world that feels the way you feel or wants to act as you are doing?'

'I dare say you are right,' said Hyacinth feebly.

'Of course I'm right--perfectly right.'

Hyacinth tried to lift his gla.s.s of whisky-and-water to his lips, but his hand trembled, and he was obliged to put it down. Captain Quinn watched him wipe the spilt liquid off his hand, and then settle down in his chair with his head bowed and his eyes half shut.

'Sit up, man,' he said. 'It's all right. You've done nothing to be ashamed of, at all events. But look here, you ought not to come with us at all.

It's no job for a man like you. You back out of it. Don't turn up to-morrow morning. I'll explain to Finola if she's there, and if not I'll write her a letter that will set you straight with her. I'm really sorry for you, Conneally.'

Hyacinth looked up at him.

'I'm sorry I called you a blackguard,' he said. 'You're not any worse than everyone else in the world.'

'Nonsense,' said Captain Quinn. 'Don't take it like that. From your point of view you were quite right to call me a blackguard. And, mind you, there are plenty of people in the world who aren't blackguards.

There's my brother, for instance. He's a bit of a prig--in fact, he's as priggish as he well can be--but he's never done anything but run straight. I don't suppose he could go crooked if he tried.'

Hyacinth got up.

'Good-night,' he said, 'and good-bye. I shan't go with you.'

'Wait a minute,' said Captain Quinn. 'I think I've done you one good turn to-night in stopping you going to South Africa. Now I'll do you another, and one at the same time to that brother of mine. I left him in a hurry. I told you that, but I don't think I mentioned that I was in his employment. He runs a woollen factory down in Mayo. I owned a share in the business once, but that went long ago, and the whole thing belongs to James now. I was a sort of clerk and general agent. I wasn't really the least use, for I never did any work. James was for ever complaining, but I'm bound to say he stuck to me. I'll give you a letter to him, and I dare say you may get the job that I've chucked. It's not much of a thing, but it may suit you for a while. Sit down till I write my letter.'

Hyacinth obeyed. Since his anger evaporated a sort of numbness had crept over his mind. He scarcely understood what was said to him. He had a vague feeling of grat.i.tude towards Captain Quinn, and at the same time a great desire to get away and be alone. He felt that he required to adjust his mind to the new thoughts which had been crowded into it. When he received the letter he put it into his pocket, and rose again to go.

The Captain saw him to the door.

'Good-bye.' Hyacinth heard him, but his voice seemed far off, and his words meaningless. 'Take my advice and run down to Ballymoy at once.

Don't hang about Finola any more. She's a splendid woman, but she's not for you. If you married her you'd be perfectly miserable. Not that I think she'd ever marry you. Still, she might. Women do such odd things.

If by any chance she does, you'll have to be very careful. Give her her head, and take her easy up to the jumps. Don't try to hustle her, and for G.o.d's sake don't begin sawing at her mouth. I'd very much like to be here to see you in the character of Mr. Augusta Goold.' He sighed.

'But, of course, I can't. The British Isles will be too hot for me for a while. However, who can tell what might happen if I win a good medal from old Kruger, and capture a few British Generals? I might act best man for you yet, if you'll wait a year or two.'

When Hyacinth got home to his lodgings the first object that met his eye was Grealy's ancient rifle. He tied a label round its barrel addressed to the owner. Then he packed his few belongings carefully and strapped his bag. So far he was sure of himself. He had no doubt whatever that he must leave Dublin at once. He felt that he could not endure an interview with Augusta Goold. She might blame him or might pity him. Either would be intolerable. She might even justify herself to him, might beat him into submission by sheer force of her beauty and her pa.s.sion, as she had done once before. He would run no such risk. He felt that he could not sacrifice his sense of right and wrong, could not allow himself to be dragged into the moral chaos in which, it seemed to him now, Miss Goold lived. He was unconscious of any Divine leading, or even of any direct reliance on the obligations of honour. He could not himself have told why he clung with such desperate terror to his plan of escaping from his surroundings. Simply he could not do certain things or a.s.sociate as a friend with people who did them. To get away from Dublin was the first necessity. For a moment it occurred to him that he might go to Dr.

Henry, tell him the whole story, and ask for advice and help. But that was impossible. How could he confess the degradation of his ideal?

How could he resist the inevitable reminder that he had been warned beforehand? Besides, not even now, after all that he had seen, could he accept Dr. Henry's point of view. He still believed in Ireland, still hoped to serve her, still looked for the coming of his father's captain to lead the saints to the final victory. Miss Goold had failed him, but he was not yet ready to enrol himself a citizen of England.

No, he must leave Dublin. But where to go? His lamp burnt dim and expired as he sat thinking. His fire had long ago gone out. He shivered with cold and misery, while the faint light of the dawn stole into his room. He heard the first twitter of the birds in the convent garden behind his lodging. Then came the noise of the earliest traffic, the unnaturally loud rattle of the dust-carts on their rounds. A steamer hooted far away down the river, and an early bell rang the neighbouring nuns to prayer. Hyacinth grew desperate. Could he go home, back to the fishing-boats and simple people of Carrowkeel? A great desire for the old scenes seized upon him. He fought against it with all his might. He had rejected the offer of the home life once. Now, no doubt, it would be closed against him. The boat that might have been his was sold long ago.

He would not go back to confess himself a fool and a failure.

Gradually his mind worked back over the conversation in the hotel with Captain Quinn. The recollection of the latter part of it, which had meant nothing at the time, grew clear. He felt for the letter in his pocket, and drew it out. After all, why should he not offer himself to James Quinn? Ballymoy was remote enough to be a hiding-place. It was in County Mayo, the Captain had said. He had never heard of the place, and it seemed likely that no one else, except its inhabitants, knew of it either. At least, there was no reason that he could see why he should not go there. His brain refused to work any longer, either at planning or remembering. His lips formed the word Ballymoy. He repeated it again and again. He seemed to go on repeating it in the troubled sleep which came to him.

CHAPTER XIII

The Irish get credit, even from their enemies, for being a quick-witted, imaginative, and artistic people, yet they display astonishingly little taste or originality in their domestic architecture. In Connaught, where the Celtic genius may be supposed to have the freest opportunity for expressing itself, the towns are all exactly alike, and their resemblance consists in the absence of any beauty which can please the eye. An English country town, although the English bucolic is notoriously as stupid as an ox, has certain features of its own. So has a Swiss cottage or a French village. It is possible to represent these upon Christmas cards or the lids of chocolate-boxes without labelling them English, Swiss, or French. Any moderately well educated young lady will recognise them at once, and exclaim without hesitation, 'How truly English!' or 'How sweetly Swiss!' But no one can depict an Irish town with any hope of having it recognised unless he idealizes boldly, introducing a highly-intelligent pig, or a man in knee-breeches kissing a fancifully-attired colleen. And then, after all, he might as well have labelled it Irish at once in good plain print, and saved himself the trouble of drawing the symbolic figures.

To describe Ballymoy, therefore, mountains, rivers, and such like natural eccentricities being left out of the count, is to describe fifty other West of Ireland towns. There is a railway-station, bleak, gray, and windswept, situated, for the benefit of local car-owners, a mile and a half from the town, and the road which connects the two is execrable.

There is a workhouse, in Ballymoy as everywhere else in this lost land the most prominent building. There is a convent, immense and wonderfully white, with rows and rows of staring windows and a far-seen figure of the Blessed Virgin, poised in a niche above the main door. There is a Roman Catholic church, gray-walled, gray-roofed, and unspeakably hideous, but large and, like the workhouse and the convent, obtruding itself upon the eye. It seems as if the inhabitants of the town must all of them be forced, and that at no distant date, either into religion or pauperism, just as small bodies floating in a pond are sucked into connection with one or other of the logs which lie among them. The shops in the one tortuous street block the footpaths in front of their doors with piles of empty packing-cases. The pa.s.senger is saluted, here by a buffet in the face from a waterproof coat suspended outside a draper's, there by a hot breath of whisky-laden air. Two shops out of every three are public-houses. These occupy a very beautiful position in the economic life of the town. Their profits go to build the church, to pay the priests, and to fill the coffers of the nuns. The making of the profits fills the workhouse. A little aloof stands the Protestant church, austere to look upon, expressing in all its lines a grim reproach of the people's life. Beyond it, among scanty, stooped trees, is the rectory, gray, as everything else is, wearing, like a decayed lady, the air of having lived through better days.