The Simpkins Plot | Page 3

deeper and deeper into a
kind of mire which, after a time, she began to dislike very much. She
had in reality simple tastes of a domestic kind, and might have been
very happy sewing baby clothes if she had married a peaceable man
and kept out of literary society. Fortunately, or unfortunately--the
choice of the adverb depends upon the views taken of the value of
detailed analysis of marriage problems--Miss King had not come across
any man of a suitable kind who wanted to marry her. She had, on the
other hand, met a large number of people who praised, and a few who
abused her. She liked the flattery, and was pleased to be pointed out as

a person of importance. She regarded the abuse as a tribute to the value
of her work, knowing that all true prophets suffer under the evil
speaking of a censorious world. Latterly she had begun to consider
whether she might not secure the praise, without incurring the blame,
by writing novels of a different kind. With a view to perfecting a new
story of adventure and perfectly respectable love, she determined to
isolate herself for a couple of months. As certain Irishmen played a part
in her story, she fixed upon Connacht as the place of her retirement,
intending to study the romantic Celt on his native soil. A house
advertised in the columns of The Field seemed to offer her the
opportunity she desired. She took it and the fishing attached to it;
having bargained with her uncle, Sir Gilbert Hawkesby, that she was to
be relieved of the duty of catching salmon, and that he should pay a
considerable part of the heavy rent demanded by the local agent.
CHAPTER II.
These are a few things better managed in Ireland than in England, and
one of them is the starting of important railway trains. The departure,
for instance, of the morning mail from the Dublin terminus of the
Midland and Great Western Railway is carried through, day after day,
with dignity. The hour is an early one, 7 a.m.; but all the chief officiate
of the company are present, tastefully dressed. There is no fuss.
Passengers know that it is their duty to be at the station not later than a
quarter to seven. If they have any luggage they arrive still earlier, for
the porters must not be hustled. At ten minutes to seven the proper
officials conduct the passengers to their carriages and pen them in. Lest
any one of independent and rebellious spirit should escape, and insist
on loitering about the platform, the doors of the compartments are all
locked. No Irishman resents this treatment. Members of a conquered
race, they are meek, and have long ago given up the hope of being able
to resist the mandates of official people.
Strangers, Englishmen on tour, are easily recognised by their
self-assertive demeanour and ill-bred offences against the solemn
etiquette of the railway company. Since it is impossible to teach these
people manners or meekness, the guards and porters treat them, as far

as possible, with patient forbearance. They must, of course, be got into
the train, but the doors of their compartments are not locked. It has
been found by experience that English travellers object to being
imprisoned without trial, and quote regulations of the Board of Trade
forbidding the locking of both doors of a railway carriage. There is
nothing to be gained by a public wrangle with an angry Englishman.
He cannot be got to understand that laws, those of the Board of Trade
or any other, are not binding on Irish officials. There is only one way of
treating him without loss of dignity, and that is to give in to him at once,
with a shrug of the shoulders.
Thus, Miss King, entering upon the final stage of her journey to
Ballymoy, reaped the benefit of belonging to a conquering and imperial
race. She was, indeed, put into her compartment, a first-class one, ten
minutes before the train started; but her door, alone of all the doors,
was left unlocked. The last solemn minutes before the departure of the
train passed slowly. Grave men in uniform paraded the platform,
glancing occasionally at their watches. The engine-driver watched from
his cabin for the waving of the green flag which would authorise him to
push over his levers and start the train. The great moment had almost
arrived. The guard held his whistle to his lips, and had the green flag
ready to be unfurled, in his left hand. Then a totally unexpected, almost
an unprecedented, thing occurred. A passenger walked into the station
and approached the train with the evident intention of getting into it. He
was a clergyman, shabbily dressed, imperfectly shaved, red-haired, and