The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 4 August 1921, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By William O’Brien.)

WHEN WE WERE BOYS

CHAPTER XXVl.— (Continued.) Admiral Ffrench was a gentleman of ancient stock and of an ancient school. As a curly-headed boy, he volunteered from the British Navy to accompany Canaris in the almost incredible adventures of his fireships, and with his own hand tore down the ensign of the Turkish ViceAdmiral at Navarino. The last chapter of his youthful book of Greek romance was a marriage with a beautiful princess of the House of ' psilanti, whom he brought home and worshipped with simple rapture for twenty year,3 at Castle Ffrench, and at whose grave he continued to worship with a gentle resignation ever since. In the simplehearted old gentleman who lived like an easy father among his tenants, presided over the bench of magistrates with the sweet stateliness of an Eastern Haroun, and warmed the community generally like an unobtrusive old sun beaming out of a silvery mist, it required some effort of imagination to remember the bright reckless curls and fiery eyes of the British boy who bounded, up the rigging of the Turkish frigate “Amurath the Second’’ to the music of the guns at Navarino. It was indeed difficult to figure to oneself Admiral Ffrench being hard upon anybody. Nevertheless, there was some faint flush of Navarino under his brows this morning that rather discomposed the agent as he said; ‘‘l do think Lord Drurnshaughlin might have spared us this. If he will not remain here himself to do his duty by his people, at least ho might have some consideration for those who do not desert their post. Either that, or he might be a little more candid, and appoint his estate bailiff to the Commission of the Peace at once ” “Well, well, my dear Admiral, you know what Lord Drurnshaughlin is,” began the agent, humbly. I knew what he was —a gentleman, and a not unworthy one,’ said the old Admiral, with something like a sigh. “Of course, old Dargan is rather a trial to one in your -position,” pursued the agent, passing over the interruption; “but, you see, the old donkey kept pestering; he has got a. good bit of land in one way or another — ratepayer, and all to that —and there was such a row, you know, about the Roman Catholics not being represented on the Bench; and he has a ridiculous wife, who would sell herself to the devil to be called a Justice of the Peace’s lady absurd creatures! But I do assure you, my dear Admiral, old Dargan is quite harmless, and understands, you know —he will make no mistakes as between him and yon, depend on it; and, after all, a local man like that may be useful. The Sub-Inspector has married that little girl of his—a very presentable little girl, and a tidy thing, you may he sure,” rattled along the agent, who saw nothing better for it than to rattle along. “He’s up for the Club — I do hope you won’t say anything against it— your voice would bo decisive, Admiral Ffrench; but you’re too goodnatured to do anything of the sort. He has promised a subscription of £SO a year to the Hunt, and, between ourselves, unless somebody like that comes to the rescue, I don’t see how we’re to avoid selling the dogs.” “Sell them, and be hanged, sir!—or, better still, shoot them, if our sport is to depend upon the alms or the bribes of a gombeen-man!” the old Admiral at last burst out, with a flash and shock as if every gun in Navarino’s Bay was in action; but the smoke and thunder instantly died away. “I don’t presume to understand ‘how the world goes now,” he proceeded, calmly. “In my day we used to think that a man wanted some better credentials than his bank-book to be called a gentleman. But I dare say, so many things are changing, we old fogeys may as well reconcile ourselves to Lord Drumshaughlin’s latest appointment as well as to the rest.” “Just like your kind heart, my dear Admiral,” cried the agent. “How lucky! here Dargan just comes. How do, Mr. Dargan ? Wish you joy. Admiral, will you kindly let me introduce ”

Will you kindly let me tell a constable to call my coachman!” said the old Admiral,. stately moving towards the door, hat in hand. ‘'‘The Petty Sessions’ Book is all ready, sir. You arc not going?” exclaimed the Petty Sessions Clerk, staring with all his eyes. For nearly twenty years there had not been a Drumshaughlin Petty Sessions without that kindly old. magistrate beaming down from the chair like an Angel of Justice grown soft-hearted and ancient. “Thanks, Sibwight, you may go on. I don’t feel well to-day,” said Admiral Ffrench, as his carriage-came to the door. Sibwight never saw the Admiral’s face again at that same dooi*. * “The old Admiral’s looking shaky— shouldn’t be surprised if ’twas a fit, poor old boy,” observed Mr. Hans Harman, turning undauntedly to the new magistrate, who was at the moment too much engaged in deliberating whether he should keep on his canary-colored gloves on the bench or no, to concern himself with minor troubles. “The old order changeth, Humphrey, my good friend; these old buffers would leave the business of the country in a pretty way without an infusion of vigorous new blood like yours and mine. The devil drown them black!” he added, in confidential soliloquy. Then he turned to Lord Dnnmanns’ agent — bald, bland, and comfortable-looking. Pilkington, I move you take the chair. I know no man so worthy of being the poor old Admiral’s successor. You don’t know our new colleague, Mr. Dargan?” And Pilkington’s smooth face, lighted with joy by his new distinction, graciously extended the illumination to Hans Harman’s protege in the canary-colored gloves.

Alas! how the day-dreams cozen us the moment they cease to be dreams! Did ever new member, waiting for the Speaker's command to advance to the table, find the indifferent yawning House around him quite the glory he had paid for? Did ever world-enthralling orator await his turn to rise without thinking how much better it would be to go home and get to bed? Did ever even lover (for no novelist of discretion is likely to place a mere listening senate on a level with his incomparable audience of one) —did ever even lover (of twenty or upwards) languish over the roseate cheek of beauty at any great length without finding the language of the affections a little tedious? Humphrey Dargan, even in the first bliss of his arm-chair on the judicial heights to Mr. Pilkington's left, was reflecting that he had passed happier moments in his own little fly-blown parlor behind the pawnshop. Women are sturdier idol-worshippers. Mrs. Dargan was all that day floating in a very heaven. All her heart could desire further would be that the president of the Ladies' St. Vincent de Paul Society and other ladies of her acquaintance should be admitted to a distant view of her beatitude. She learned with some indignation that it was only ladies with black eyes and in a more or less paulo-post state of intoxication that were wont to mingle with the audience in the Sessions' Court, even upon occasions of magnitude. She dressed Humphrey for the ceremony and combed his muddy grey locks, as she had combed Lionel's curls for his first children's tea. party (how she now hugged herself, by the way, on her courage in calling him Lionel, instead of branding the boy for life with some odious nickname like Kennedy 'or Paddy The old fellow assured her, almost with tears in his eyes, that there was no special costume as a magistrate prescribed in his commission; but fire could not melt out of her the opinion that something on a super-Sunday scale of splendor was called for, and a light blue tie, the languishing yellow gloves, and a blazing diamond ring, specially selected from the jewel-box in the pawnofficc, were the least that would satisfy her stern conceptions of duty to society. She flattened her face against the window-pane to observe the impression made upon the public by the new justice on his way up the street, and pranced with indignation when a raw young policeman let him pass, like any civic varlet, without rais" ing his hand to his helmet in salute. She rang the bell and said to her husband's confidential man, who answered the summons: "I think, Sweeny, you might walk over and incidentally remind Sub-constable Doody who Himself is The young man may not be able to read the paper, but I think you might hint to him that his officer is," said the

magistrate’s wife, grandly casting her eyes upon a cabinet photo of Mr. Augustus George Flibbert, which illustrated the mantelpiece. Sweeny, hastening upon the heels of the ill-starred policeman, was properly indignant to find the passage between, the pawn-office and the dwelling-house blocked by the ragged figure of our friend Meehul, from Cnocaunacurragchooish, got up on a humble scale of Sunday magnificence pf his own, with his best shirt trying to frown the tattered ends of the flannel waistcoat out of view, and his old locks ruthlessly debarred from their privilege of taking the air through the roof of his hat. “Is he within ” whispered Meehul the Magnificent, with a jerk of his thumb towards the back parlor. “His wardship is gone to the coort,” said Sweeny, with a gesture scarcely less grand than his mistress’s apostrophe of Sub-constable Doody. “/vc ha shin? (who’s that?)” asked Meehul, scratching his poll, “ ’tisn’t his wardship I want, but ould Humphrey — about the little bill,” he added, in a tremulous whisper. “Misther Dargan is a ma.m.sf-rate,” quoth Sweeny. “Stand out of the way, and don’t make so free with your betthers,” flinging the old fellow rudely against the doorpost, and hieing after the policeman, while poor Meehnl meekly pursued his old hat into the gutter, where his little contrivance for improving the appearance of his headgear by stuffing a red handkerchief between his hair and the open sky stood pitilessly exposed to the public.

Old Humphrey, in the meanwhile, not being composed of the undaunted mettle of his wife, did not find it.too gay to feel the eyes of the world fixed upon him. Truly, he had solved the glove enigma by the expedient of pulling one glove off, and leaving the other on, but he was oppressed with a horrid suspicion that the eyes of the world were fixed on the one staring yellow glove that remained, and the finger of the world pointing with scorn and derision to his miserable compromise; and the feeling grew so intolerable that he nervously jerked the yellow hand off the desk and plunged it in his small-clothes, as if the limb, like that of Mutius. Scacvola, had been roasting in a slow yellow flame, and he had just ducked it in a pool of water to ease the pain. His one judicial action was not of propitious omen. ‘‘Speck up to the gentlemen, mem; give us your neem !” he said to a virago, who was endeavoring to defend the poker as an implement in neighborly controversy. •‘Mo name, is it?” cried the amazon, who thought she scented a foe in his worship. ‘‘lt’s an homester name than your own, you ould common extortioner! And if you haven t my name, you have many’s the good pound of my value in your pop-shop, you hoary ould catamountain !—“ Gintlemin, av ye plaze ! Troth, the gintlemin would want to have an eye to their watches while they’re keeping your company, Humphrey, me honey.” At which Mr. Pilkington s round face rippled with fat merriment, while he offered a decorous appeal for “silence” to the roar from the gallery. Mr. Dargan could not help thinking that justice was much better vindicated by Head-Constable Muldudden, nho shook the woman with the grip of a brown bear,/find said: “How daar you talk like that—to his worship? Do you know you’ve just been guilt of a contimpt punishable by seven days summarily under the 29th Section of the Petty Sessions Act? Do yon know th-nt?” — and his worship followed with much respect the legal opinions with which Head-Constable Mnldndden (a potentate of might in Drumshaughlin) from time to time favored the magistrates during the sitting. He was not at all sorry when public justice nas satisfied for the day, and (Mr. Hans Harman and he strolled back to the Bank together. I see you re knocking: away the shop from your own diggings. Quite right,’, said the agent, pleasantly, nodding to where Con Lehane was at work on the partition wall. “And, of course, you’ll arrange to give up the retail licence?” “Well, sir, the sperrits line brings in a pretty penny. Don t you think, now, it s rather a sheeme, now, specking as a sinsible man who' knows what treede is, sir?” said Dargan, discontentedly.

"The Chancellor's got some nonsense in his head about it— won't have whisky," said the agent. "Hullo, Meehul, so you're not out of Cnockaawn yet? you have more lives than a cat, you old slyboots!"—this to the old Cnoc-

aunacurraghcooish mountainy-man, who was in waiting around the door, his hand raised to his hat in enchanted attitude, as if waiting to have some spell taken off before it could be lowered, and his knees also cringing dutifully in a position of submissive discomfort.

“There’s no use in your coming about this door, my good man,” said the new magistrate, haughtily. * “I’ll seize, or give you twenty pounds to clear out. I never’ll make my own of the land.” “Shure, ’twas only tin pound your honor lint me two years ago, when the owld cow got the red wather. I paid you back five an’ twinty pounds honest one time with another since, and afther all that you bring out forty pound agin me. Begor, it’s the quarest ’rithmetic ever I seen!!” said the old peasant, growing bolder in his perplexity and desperation. “You fget the account for the Indian meal, my man,” said the new J.P. " The account for the Injia male ! That manes the two shillins’ a bag more than I could get it in any house in the town for,” said Meehul. And be the. same token, Meehul,” struck in the sinister factotum Sweeny, “your wife is daling in the shop the bridge, for tay an’ yellow male, my fine fellow.” “I can’t stop talking to you here,” said Mr. Dargan. “You can take twenty pounds or the Sheriff,” and he entered the hall with the agent. _ “Twinty pound! ’Tis hardly ’twould bring the childher as far as the workhouse!” groaned Meehul, his eyes following in a stupid despair. “Don’t go for a bit, Meehul, and I’ll sec what I can do for you—but he’s a devilish hard nut, Meehul, between ourselves—a devilish hard nut,” said Mr. Hans Harman, who had dropped behind for a. moment to whisper this in tho ear of the old peasant, with a knowing wink. . . The old moimtainy-man scratched his head, in a curious puzzle of gratitude, suspicion, and grinding misery. Begoi, they may all say what they like of him,” he muttered to himself as the door closed, “ but there are worse clivels than Hans Harman going.” (To be continued.)