The Red Hand of Ulster Part 10

"It is heavy. Just watch me for a moment if you don't want to lift it yourself."

G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey 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."

G.o.dfrey 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."

G.o.dfrey argued with me for quite a long time, but I remained firm. For some reason which I could not understand, G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey.

"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 G.o.dfrey. "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 G.o.dfrey. "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. G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey. 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 grat.i.tude 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 a.s.sure 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 t.i.tle 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 G.o.d-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 antic.i.p.ated.

G.o.dfrey 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 sc.r.a.p 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.