Part 13

The morrow came, and with it the meeting. The stockholders were not present in large numbers, but enough were there to crowd uncomfortably the directors' room where the meeting was held. O'Connor had not put in an appearance, nor had we heard from him since his and his wife's hurried departure of the day before. Our side was not a very hopeful party. True, Emley had cabled his attorney to give Mr. Cutting a proxy, and it was now safe in Mr. Cutting's possession, with the others he had obtained. But we were sure of only twenty-two thousand out of a total of fifty thousand shares, and to our knowledge (now, alas! at the last moment) the other side had been working like beavers to obtain proxies. Still, there was a chance for us. It is as misleading to count your proxies before they are voted, as to count your chickens before they are hatched. Some of the enemy's might be revoked at any moment, or be superseded by others bearing later dates. At any rate, preparation was passed. The fight was on.

Mr. Cutting was seated at the side of the room, surrounded by a little group of his fellow-directors and friends. I was beside the president, the necessary books and papers at my hand, ready to perform my duties as secretary. It was a position I held through Mr. Cutting's kindness and influence. At last the president called the meeting to order.

The reading of the minutes of the previous meeting was dispensed with, for which I was grateful. Something in the air told me that the enemy were eager for action. As many formalities as could be were omitted or summarily disposed of. The instant the treasurer's report had been read and accepted, Mr. Walker, the ex-president, was on his feet.

Then followed a very able, if wholly misleading, attack upon the policy pursued by the board of directors during their term of office. Mr. Walker was a man of force and a good speaker; and his remarks had their effect upon not a few uncertain ones, if one could judge by the look of approval apparent on the faces of many who were present. But as he neared the end, either his personal enmity toward Mr. Cutting or the excitement due to the occasion, got the better of his judgment. He closed by a personal attack upon the counsel, whom he characterized as "the non-commissioned general who had cunningly devised this whole campaign of extravagance, wickedly designed to elate and bamboozle the smaller stockholders, who, when the inevitable result of such reckless expenditure should come—namely, a crash—would find themselves obliged to sell their little hard-earned holdings." "To whom," Mr. Walker ended, "it is hardly necessary for me to say."

From where I sat I commanded a view of the door that led directly into the corridor of the building. Just as Mr. Walker's spleen was beginning to take possession of him, I saw this door open and O'Connor enter. He was accompanied by a short, stocky, red-haired young Irishman, whom I recognized as his bartender, "Chimmie."

The old chap looked hot and excited, but not tired, and far from dejected. There was a new alertness about him, much like that you will see in an old and experienced bull-terrier, who has every reason to believe that the rat-trap is about to be opened. I watched him.

With head bent forward, and with one bunchy hand curled like a warped oyster-shell about his ear, he listened to every word. I saw him ask a man next him who was speaking. I could tell that this was his question by the effect the man's answer produced upon him. His eyebrows lowered and contracted, and from beneath them he glared at "Jarge Double-ye," while the far from pleasant grin appeared, grew, and hardened about his mouth. Meanwhile he was gradually edging his way forward, his faithful companion at his elbow, nearer and nearer to the speaker. In the general interest in Mr. Walker's remarks, few noticed the pair.

At last the descendant of the last King of Ireland was in a position squarely in front of the speaker, and separated from him by the width of the directors' long table, upon which now reposed the old tall hat so familiar to me and to Mr. Cutting.

The instant Mr. Walker was seated, after his speech, he of the royal blood seized his opportunity.

"Mr. Prisidint," he said, firmly and clearly, depositing his large red cambric handkerchief in the hat beside him. The president bowed, saying:

"You have the floor, Mr. ——. Excuse me; you are a stockholder, I suppose?"

"I am, sor."

I was amazed.

"Your name, please."

"Michael O'Connor, twinty-wan —— Wharf, junk-dealer and licensed liquor-seller."

There was a slight stir of expectancy among those present. The president glanced at me, waiting for me to verify O'Connor's statement. I had run my finger down the O's in the list of names, well knowing, of course, O'Connor's was not there. I shook my head.

"Your name does not seem to appear on the list, Mr. O'Connor," said the president.

"Shure, I only bought me shtock this mornin', sor," replied O'Connor with a reassuring and comforting wave of the hand to the chief officer of the company. Chimmie, at his elbow still, handed him a paper from a bunch of many he held ready in his hand. O'Connor passed it up to the president, with the remark, "Here is me credintials, sor, av you plaze."

That gentleman merely glanced at it, then returned it to O'Connor, and said,

"A certificate of stock, I see. Did you expect to vote?"

"Dthat's phwat I kem here fer," said O'Connor, with a quick nod of the head, which showed that the royal blood was stirring.

Then the president explained to him that the transfer-books were closed, and that, by the by-laws of the company, nobody was allowed to vote at its meetings except such persons as were duly registered holders of its stock, or were holders of a proxy from somebody who was.

"Proxy, is ut!" exclaimed O'Connor. "Chimmie, me boy, give me the odther wan." Jimmie handed him a second paper, which he in turn handed to the president.

"This seems to be perfectly regular, dated to-day, from Andrew J. Ahearn, for five hundred shares," the president said, and handed the proxy to me.

The stir of expectation had become a ripple of excitement. I observed that Mr. Walker moved uneasily.

"Yis, sor," said O'Connor, with a touch of ludicrous _aplomb_. "Andy Ahearn—shure, the ould divil wouldn't give me the wan widout I bought the odther. And now, thin, sor, I have the privilege to vote, is ut?"

The president bowed and looked about the room for some other person who might have business before the meeting.

"Thin I, Michael O'Connor," the old fellow continued, to everybody's surprise and amusement, "do hereby vote on these five hunder' shares"—here he held the certificate aloft in his right hand—"for Mr. Hinry Haitch Cutting, Esquire, so help me God, and——"

He was interrupted by a roar of laughter. Mr. Walker was now on his feet. When the laughter ceased, he said:

"Mr. President, are we to take this stockholder as a fair example of Mr. Cutting's faithful following?"

The question was greeted with silence. Mr. Walker had made a blunder, and he was instantly made to feel it. O'Connor spoke again, quietly and slowly, addressing the presiding officer, but looking angrily at the interrupter through half-closed eyelids, his nose held high. As he spoke he gently smoothed down his long upper lip at the corners with thumb and forefinger.

"Mr. Prisidint," he said, "I think—I dunno-o—but may-be-e—I have the floo-or?"

The president bowed, but added that it was not yet time to take a vote. Those who are familiar with the Irish well know how rarely you find one with absolutely _no_ knowledge of parliamentary procedure. It seems to be imbibed with the mother's milk. O'Connor was not in the least disconcerted. "Thin, sor," he continued, "wid your kind permission, I will make a few remarks."

"I shall be glad to hear them, Mr. O'Connor," the president said. A small wave of approval passed over the meeting. O'Connor placed his thumbs firmly in the armholes of his waistcoat, planted his feet well apart, and began. The royal blood was up.

"Mr. Prisidint and gintlemin," with a low, sweeping bow from left to right, "and Jarge Double-ye Walker." Here he cleared his throat to allow his sarcasm time to penetrate the understanding of his hearers. It did. "Whidther or not I am a fair example uv _ahl_ Mr. Hinry Haitch Cutting Esquire's fait'ful follyers, I am unabil to say, they bein' so large in noomber, by God's justice. _But_, Mr. Prisidint and gintlemin, and Jarge Double-ye Walker, wid ahl modesty, I do claim to be a fair example av some thirty-foor av Mr. Hinry Haitch Cutting Esquire's fait'ful follyers, who owns bechune thim two t'ousand wan hunder' and sivin shares, countin' me own five hunder'. They are ivery wan av thim Oirish, includin' mesilf, and I have the proxies av ivery wan av thim, includin' me own. Put that in your poipe, Jarge Double-ye Walker." The royal blood was getting hot. A round of applause burst from Mr. Cutting's party, but it quickly subsided at the sharp rap of the president's gavel upon the table. This, however, had little effect upon O'Connor. The royal blood was now at boiling-point.

"Moreover, Jarge Double-ye Walker," he continued, too quickly for interruption, and emphasizing each clause with clenched fists, "they pays their taxes, they pays their bills. They has paid for their little hard-earned holdin's in this company, and—some av thim owns tinimint-houses, but not one wid bad plumbin' and defective drainage, Jarge Double-ye Walker."

Caution had been royally thrown to the winds. The president rapped hard and long upon his desk. The listeners moved uneasily in their seats.

"Mr. O'Connor," the president said, sharply, "you must confine your remarks to the business in hand and address them to the chair, or I must ask you to take your seat."

"I ax your pardon, Mr. Prisidint," said O'Connor. He was now his old self, and went on with homely courtesy, to say: "It is my wish, sor, to say just a few worruds more regyardin' me idee av phwat conshtitutes the fitness av a man for the job av managin' the affairs av odthers than himself—wid your kind permission, Mr. Prisidint, and I'll not be long, at all, at all." The president bowed. As the old Irishman continued, his voice grew soft and tender, at times sinking almost to a whisper.

"I am unabil, bein' mesilf uneddi_cay_ted and a plain man, to deshcribe to yez just phwat I'm wantin' to tell yez. But maybe you'll know from this. Twinty year ago come the tinth av this prisint month, I wint to worruk for a certin gintleman, to do chores about the place and phwat gyardenin' and potherin' round the grounds was nicissary. He had a purty place in the country—a rale pur-rty place, and there was a shweet little house there he putt me in—all for mesilf and me wife and me baby—a little gurrul she was, wan year old. I had been to worruk in the city, where I lived in a tinimint—noomber t'ree Gay's Alley, so called it was. Me wife was ailin', and the baby was takin' afther her modther at the time; so, shure, it was deloighted we was at the chanst to live in the country and wid our new place. A lovely home it was. Well, just tin days afther we kem, me wife was tuk wid fever—typhide fever it was—and two days afther little Mollie was tuk, too, just the same. Oh! wurra! wurra! but thim was heart-breakin' days! But niver moind, I'll not bodther you wid ahl av it. Wan night me wife was terrible bad, little Mollie bein' ashleep in the nixt room, and not near so bad as her modther, to my thinkin'. The docthor kem, and wid him the gintleman that emplyed me. Whin the docthor had looked at the two, he sez to me, 'The modther is very low,' he sez, 'but she will come t'rough all right; but the young un,' he sez, 'is in a viry criticil condition. She'll need conshtant attintion,' he sez, 'and I cannot be here mesilf,' he sez, 'to save her life!' Me heart died in me that minute.

"But quick, wid no hesitation, the gintleman sez to the docthor, callin' him by name, he bein' a frind av his, he sez, 'John,' he sez, 'I'll look afther the little one mesilf durin' the night,' he sez. 'I've done it before this, as you know,' he sez; 'and come again, you, in the mornin',' he sez."

Here the old man paused. There was perfect silence in the room. When he again spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper, but he could be distinctly heard.

"For t'ree whole nights—long, sad, weary nights—the gintleman niver lift the side av Mollie's bed, onliss whin he crep' in to putt his hand on me shoulder and say to me, 'Keep up, me man. We'll pull 'em both t'rough, all right'—and we did that same. Glory be to God and the Blessed Virgin! they're alive and well this day, the two av thim.

"Well, Mr. Prisidint and gintlemin, I am not eddi_cay_ted and I dunno-o—I may be wrong, but to my moind that gintleman is the kind av a man that hav fitness for the job av managin' the affairs av odthers beside himself. And that gintleman is Mr. Hinry Haitch Cutting, Esquire."

He paused and looked about him sheepishly; then turning so as to face Mr. Walker, he said:

"Mr. Jarge Double-ye Walker, I ax your pardon for shpeakin' so rough to ye, sor. 'Tis ahl past and gone now, sor, and I bear ye no ill-will." Then to the president he said, quietly, "Thank you kindly, Mr. Prisidint;" and taking his hat, moved back among those who were standing near the door.

Mr. Cutting now moved that we proceed to the election of officers for the ensuing year. The motion was carried.

When the ballots were counted, it was found that the existing officers had received the votes of twenty-seven thousand and some odd shares, thus having a clear majority. We could, of course, tell exactly how many votes were due to O'Connor's proxies; but how many more were due to his personal presence at the meeting, we could only estimate.

THE SHIP OF STARS

By A. T. Quiller-Couch (Q.)

XVIII

THE BARRIERS FALL

There were marks of teeth on his right boot, but no marks at all on his body. Fright—or fright following on that evening's frenzy—had killed him.

He was buried three days later, and Mr. Raymond read the service. No rain had fallen, and the blood of the three hounds still stained the gravel dividing the grave from the porch, where the crowd had shot them down.

For awhile his death made small difference to the family at the Parsonage. They had fought the shadow of his enmity and proved it for what it was; a shadow and little else. But they had scarcely realized their success, and wondered why the removal of the shadow did not affect them more.

About this time Taffy began to carry out a scheme which he and his father had often discussed, but hitherto had found no leisure for—the setting up of wooden crosses on the graves of the drowned sailormen. They had wished for slate: but good slate was expensive and hard to come by, and Taffy had no skill in stone-cutting. Since wood it must be, he resolved to put his best work into it. The names, etc., should be engraved, not painted merely. Some of the pew-fronts in the church had panels elaborately carved in flat and shallow relief—fine Jacobean designs, all of them. He took careful rubbings of the narrowest, made tracings, and set to work to copy them on the face of his crosses.

One afternoon, some three weeks after the Squire's funeral, he happened to return to the house for a tracing which he had forgotten, and found Honoria seated in the kitchen and talking with his father and mother. She was dressed in black, of course, and either this or the solemnity of her visit gave her quite a grown-up look. But to be sure, she was mistress of Tredinnis now, and a child no longer.

Taffy guessed the meaning of her visit at once. And no doubt this act of formal reconciliation between Tredinnis House and the Parsonage had cost her some nervousness. When he entered his parents stood up and seemed just as awkward as their visitor. "Another time, perhaps," he heard his father say. Honoria rose almost at once, and would not stay to drink tea, though Humility pressed her.

"I suppose," said Taffy next day, looking up from his Virgil, "I suppose Miss Honoria wants to make friends now, and help on the restoration?"

Mr. Raymond, who was on his knees fastening a loose hinge in a pew-door, took a screw from between his lips.

"Yes, she proposed that."

"It must be splendid for you, dad!"

"I don't quite see," answered Mr. Raymond, with his head well inside the pew.

Taffy stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and took a turn up and down the aisle.

"Why," said he, coming to a halt, "it means that you have won. It's victory, dad, and _I_ call it glorious!" His lip trembled. He wanted to put a hand on his father's shoulder, as any other comrade would. But his abominable shyness stood between.

"We won long ago, my boy." And Mr. Raymond wheeled round on his knees, pushed up his spectacles, and quoted the famous lines, very solemnly and slowly:

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.

"I see," Taffy nodded. "And—I say, that's jolly. Who wrote it?"

"A man I used to see in the streets of Oxford, and always turned to stare after: a man with big oddly shaped feet and the face of a god—a young tormented god. Those were days when young men's thoughts tormented them. Taffy," he asked, abruptly, "should you like to go to Oxford?"

"Don't, father!" The boy bit his lip to keep back the tears. "Talk of something else—something cheerful. It has been a splendid fight, just splendid! And now it's over I'm almost sorry."

"What is over?"

"Well, I suppose—now that Honoria wants to help—we can hire workmen and have the whole job finished in a month or two at farthest: and you——"

Mr. Raymond stood up, and leaning against a bench-end examined the thread of the screw between his fingers.

"That is one way of looking at it, no doubt," he said, slowly; "and I hope God will forgive me if I have put my own pride before His service. But a man desires to leave some completed work behind him: something to which people may point and say, '_he_ did it.' There was my book, now: for years I thought that was to be my work. But God thought otherwise and—to correct my pride, perhaps—set me to this task instead. To set a small forsaken country church in order and make it worthy of His presence—that is not the mission I should have chosen. But so be it: I have accepted it. Only, to let others step in at the last and finish even this—I say He must forgive me, but I cannot."

"Your book ... you can go back to it and finish it."

"I have burnt it."

"Dad!"

"I burned it. I had to. It was a temptation to me, and until I lifted it from the grate and the flakes crumbled in my hands, the surrender was not complete."

Taffy felt a sudden gush of pity. And as he pitied, suddenly he understood his father.

"It had to be complete?"

"Either the book or the surrender. My boy"—and in his voice there echoed the aspiration and the despair of the true scholar who abhors imperfection and incompleteness in a world where nothing is either perfect or complete, "it is different with you. I borrowed you, so to say, for the time. Without you I must have failed; but this was never your work. For myself, I have been humble and learnt my lesson; but, please God, you shall be my Solomon and be granted a temple to build."

Taffy had lost his shyness now. He laid a hand on his father's sleeve.

"We will go on, then."

"Yes, we will go on."

"And Jacky? Where has he been? I haven't seen him since the Squire died."

Mr. Raymond searched in his coat-pocket and handed over a crumpled letter. It ran:—

"DEAR FRIEND.—This is to say that you will not see me no more. The dear Lord tells me I have made a cauch of it. He don't say how, all He says is go and do better somewheres else.

"Seems to me a terrable thing to think _Religion_ can be bad for anny man. It have done me such powars of good. The late Moyle esq he was like a dirty pan all the milk turned sour no mattar what. Dr friend I pored Praise into him and it come out Prayer and all for him self. But the dear Lord says I was to blame as much as Moyle esq so must do bettar next time but feel terrable timid.

"My respects to Masr Taffy. Dr friend I done my best I come like _Nicodemus_ by night. Seeming to me when Christians fall out tis over what they pray for. When they _praise God_ forget diffnses and I cant think where the quaraling comes in and so no more at present from

"Yours respflly

"J. Pascoe."

After supper that night, in the Parsonage kitchen, Humility kept rising from her chair, and laying her needlework aside to re-arrange the pans and kettles on the hearth. This restlessness was so unusual that Taffy, seated in the ingle with a book on his knee, had half raised his head to twit her when he felt a hand laid softly on his hair, and looked up into his mother's eyes.

"Taffy, should you like to go to Oxford?"

"Don't, mother!"

"But you can." The tears in her eyes answered his at once. She turned to his father. "Tell him——"

"Yes, my boy, you can go," said Mr. Raymond; "that is, if you can win a scholarship. Your mother and I have been talking it over."

"But—" Taffy began and could get no farther. He knew nothing of his parents' affairs except that they were poor: he had always supposed, almost desperately poor.

"We have money enough, with care," said Mr. Raymond.

But the boy's eyes were on his mother. Her cheeks, usually so pale, were flushed; but she turned her face away and walked slowly back to her chair. "The lace-work," he heard her say: "I have been saving ... from the beginning——"

"For this?" He followed and took her hand. With the other she covered her eyes; but nodded.

"O mother—mother!" He knelt and let his brow drop on her lap. She ceased to weep; her palms rested on his bowed head, but now and then her body shook with a sob that would not be restrained. And but for the ticking of the tall clock there was silence in the room.

It was wonderful; and the wonder of it grew when they recovered themselves and fell to discussing their actual plans. In spite of his idolatry, Mr. Raymond could not help remembering certain slights which he, a poor miller's son, had undergone at Christ Church. He had chosen Magdalen, which Taffy knew to be the most beautiful of all the colleges; and the news that his name had been entered on the college books for years past gave him a delicious shock. It was now July. He would matriculate in the October term, and in January enter for a demyship. But (the marvels followed so fast on each other's heels) there would be an examination held in ten days' time—actually in ten days' time—a "Certificate" examination, Mr. Raymond called it—which would excuse the boy not only the ordinary Matriculation test, but Responsions too. And, in short, Taffy was to pack his box and go.

"But the subjects?"

"You have been reading them and the prescribed books for four months past. And I have had sets of the old papers by me for a guide. Your mathematics are shaky—but I think you should do well enough."

It was now Humility's turn, and the discussion plunged among shirts and collars. Never had evening been so happy; and whether they talked of mathematics or of collars, Taffy could not help observing how from time to time his father's and mother's eyes would meet and say, as plainly as words, "We have done rightly," "Yes, we have done rightly."