# Spanish Gold/Chapter 22
### CHAPTER XXII

TWO hours later Mr. Willoughby and Father Mulcrone returned to the Granuaile. The Chief Secretary's face wore an expression of delight, tempered by anxiety. Father Mulcrone was jubilant and triumphant. They descended at once to the cabin where Meldon still slept on the sofa. Father Mulcrone shook him vigorously.
"Mr. Meldon, wake up; wake up at once."
Meldon opened his eyes, and saw the Chief Secretary and the priest standing over him.
"Hullo!" he said. "I believe I must have had a nap. Breakfast has been cleared away, I see. I wonder what they did with my cigar. I had a cigar, I know, and I don't believe I finished it."
"Here's the box," said Mr. Willoughby, "take another."
"Thanks, I will. Where are Sir Giles and Langton? They were here at breakfast, weren't they?"
"They're on shore," said Mr. Willoughby.
"Oh, are they? They haven't gone off in the Aureole by any chance?"
The priest smiled. "They have not," he said.
"I told you they wouldn't—couldn't, in fact. Nobody but me knows how rotten that boat is and what a little bump would knock a hole in her."
"We've been on shore," said Mr. Willoughby.
"Have you? Pleasant spot that island. I wonder more people don't come here in the summer."
"We heard the whole story," said Mr. Willoughby, "and we both want to congratulate you on the way you behaved."
"Now, who did you hear it from?"
"Well, partly from Thomas O'Flaherty and——"
"I didn't think the old boy was such a fool."
"And partly," went on Mr. Willoughby, "from a little girl."
"Mary Kate O'Flaherty," said the priest.
"I thought better of Mary Kate," said Meldon. "She ought to have had a keener eye to her own interest than to tell that story. I suppose you've grabbed the treasure in the name of the Government."
"He has not, then," said Father Mulcrone grinning.
"No," said Mr. Willoughby. "There was no treasure to grab. At least we couldn't find any. To put the matter plainly, the Aureole has been looted."
"That's all right," said Meldon. "I wouldn't have liked to see poor old Thomas O'Flaherty Pat robbed by the Government any more than by Sir Giles. But how did you get the story? As far as I know Thomas O'Flaherty he's not the sort of man to talk more than he need, and I never got more than half a dozen words and a grin out of Mary Kate at one time."
"The way of it was this," said Father Mulcrone. "No sooner did Sir Giles and Langton leave us to go down to the Aureole than all the children on the island, seven or eight of them, began to boo at them and throw stones. Mary Kate O'Flaherty was at the head of the crowd."
"She would," said Meldon. "I always said she was a high-spirited little thing besides being intelligent. I expect, now, she hit them with as many as three out of every four stones she threw."
"I shouldn't wonder," said the priest. "Anyhow, Sir Giles lost his temper."
"He's always doing that. I hope he didn't hurt Mary Kate in any way or use language that a little girl oughtn't to listen to."
"The language," said Mr. Willoughby, "so far as I could hear it—I was some way off—was pretty bad. But he didn't do the children any bodily harm."
"It wasn't for want of wishing to if he didn't," said the priest. "He looked as if he'd have been glad to skin the lot of them alive and pickle them afterwards."
"They ran for their lives, I suppose?"
"No, then, they did not. But the fathers and the mothers of them came at Sir Giles with scythes and pitchforks and hayrakes and all sorts. It was then we thought we'd better interfere. Well, I'm not a coward exactly. You'll give me credit for that. But I give you my word I didn't fancy running into that crowd at all. I could have faced the men right enough, but the women——! Did ever you notice, Mr. Meldon, that a woman when she gets her blood up is twice as reckless as any man? She doesn't care who she hits or where she hits him. I tell you I thought twice about facing the women. But the Chief Secretary is a hero, a regular hero."
"It was nothing," said Mr. Willoughby modestly. "I'm accustomed to women. A Cabinet Minister must be nowadays. If he didn't get hardened to it he would be dead in a year."
"Anyway you went for them like an hero," said Father Mulcrone. "I never admired a man more."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Meldon to the priest, "you ought to let him off those seed potatoes as a token of your respect and esteem."
"I will," said the priest. "I'll do that. I wish you'd seen young Mrs. O'Flaherty brandishing a flail and looking as if she'd skelp an archbishop if he came her way."
"Had she Michael Pat with her?"
"She had not."
"Well, if nobody was left at home to mind Michael Pat I expect the old woman's dead by now. But that can't be helped. Go on with the story."
"We got them quietened down after a bit," said Father Mulcrone, "and then Mr. Willoughby made them a short speech."
"Was it Devolution, land, or universities?" asked Meldon.
"I can't for the moment recollect which it was, but I know it was a soothing sort of speech," said Mr. Willoughby.
"I expect it was Devolution, then," said Meldon, "not that it matters, of course, so long as you pacified the people. But I'd like to know where Higginbotham was all the while. You don't mean to tell me he slept through a battle of that kind, and it raging in front of his hall door."
"I understand," said Mr. Willoughby, "that the people locked Mr. Higginbotham into his hut earlier in the day. He wasn't able to do anything except give us good advice through the window."
"The fact is," said Father Mulcrone, "that when they started to pillage your yacht——"
"I expect Thomas O'Flaherty Pat was in the thick of that work," said Meldon.
"He might," said the priest. "Anyhow, when they started at the yacht—that was while we were at breakfast on board here—Mr. Higginbotham came out of his hut and tried to stop them. Of course they weren't going to put up with any interference from him. They ran him back into the hut and locked him up."
"They didn't hurt him," said Mr. Willoughby. "They seem rather to like Higginbotham."
"Are you sure Mary Kate didn't fling a stone at him?" said Meldon.
"Not that I heard of."
"I shouldn't have wondered a bit if she had. She had a grudge against him on account of a misunderstanding about some sugar-candy, and she might have considered it a good opportunity of paying him out. However, you say she didn't, so I suppose that's all right. Go on with the story. You left off just where you had made a soothing speech."
"After that," said Mr. Willoughby, "everybody began to talk at once. I imagine that most of them spoke in Irish. I couldn't understand a word anybody said. Fortunately, Father Mulcrone kept his head. He got old O'Flaherty away from the crowd and dragged the truth out of him somehow. Then he took the little girl and got the rest of the story out of her. There's just one thing we can't any of us understand, and that is how you managed to get down the hill from the old man's house to the place where the child found you."
"Oh, that was simple enough. I rolled."
"Rolled!"
"Yes. Rolled. That's the reason I asked you for sticking-plaster this morning. I haven't rolled as much for years and years, and it's a kind of exercise that requires preliminary training. But what have you done with Sir Giles and Langton? If you've left them unprotected on the island Mary Kate will have at them again and Michael Pat's mother will back her up. She has it in for Sir Giles ever since the day he wouldn't give the bottle to the old woman."
"What bottle?" asked Mr. Willoughby. "I heard nothing about a bottle. It seems to me that this affair is even more complicated than I thought. You alluded casually a moment ago to sugar-candy, and now you speak of a bottle."
"The sugar-candy and the bottle are side-issues. I strongly recommend you not to go into them at all. You'll gain nothing by it if you do, and you'll get yourself confused. But you haven't told me what you did with Sir Giles."
"He's quite safe. We locked him and Mr. Langton into Higginbotham's hut. It was Father Mulcrone's suggestion."
"I hope you let Higginbotham out first."
"Oh, yes. We let him out. In fact, we left him on guard outside the door."
"And did O'Flaherty get his treasure back safe?"
"I didn't get any very definite information about the treasure," said Mr. Willoughby.
"If you ask me," said Father Mulcrone, "I should say that every man on the island has his own whack of that treasure by this time. If half old O'Flaherty says is true, they have money enough among them now to buy out the island without asking a penny from the Board."
"Then poor Higginbotham will be out of his job. I'm sorry for Higginbotham. I intended to give him a trifle if I got the treasure, to make up for not taking him entirely into my confidence at the start, and on account of the tuberculosis business."
"That, I suppose, is another side-issue," said Mr. Willoughby, "and perhaps of a pragmatist kind."
"It is," said Meldon with a grin. "It's both. But I think you might stop rubbing that pragmatist philosophy into me now. It's not my philosophy, you know, any more than it's yours. I'm not continually throwing it in your teeth that you're a politician, although you are. Why can't you let the dead past bury its dead? It's not good form to be for ever dragging skeletons out of cupboards. I see that I've forgotten to wind up my watch and it's stopped. Would you mind telling me what time it is?"
"It's half-past twelve."
"I dare say you'll be lunching early to-day. I may as well stay where I am till after that. Then I'll ask you to have me rowed across to the Spindrift. The Major will be getting anxious about me if I stay away too long. In fact, I expect he's rather worried now. I wonder if you'd mind going over to him, Father Mulcrone, and reassuring him a bit. He'll be delighted to see you. You'll get sardines and biscuits for lunch. He hadn't any bread when I left him, and I don't see how he can have got any since."
"Take a loaf with you if you go," said Mr. Willoughby, "and the remains of the ham we had at breakfast"
"Are you sure we can spare the ham?" said Meldon. "It was a very good ham."
"There's another on board," said Mr. Willoughby.
"Very well, then, Father Mulcrone, take the loaf and the ham and give them to him with the Chief Secretary's compliments. That will reassure him. As you will be spending some time with him, you may as well tell him the whole story. It'll give you something to talk about. If you don't tell him I shall have to, and I hate telling stories to the Major."
"Isn't he interested in stories?" said Mr. Willoughby.
"He's too interested," said Meldon. "He keeps on asking questions, questions about details; and any one who has ever told a story knows that the details won't always bear working out. It's awfully good of you, Father Mulcrone, going like this just to oblige me. You're sure you don't mind?"
"Not a bit," said the priest. "I shall enjoy telling the story, as much as I know of it."
"You're doing a kind act," said Meldon. "The Major's a lonely man at the best of times, and he's been shut up on the Spindrift ever since the Granuaile came into the bay."
"Mr. Meldon," said the Chief Secretary after the priest had left them, "I should like to say that I think you behaved uncommonly——"
"Oh, don't start that," said Meldon. "You wouldn't expect me to join in robbing old Thomas O'Flaherty Pat, would you? Besides, if I'd wanted to itself I couldn't have done it. They didn't give me a chance. Sir Giles knocked me on the head without any preliminary negotiations."
"It isn't simply about last night's work that I wanted to speak. The fact is that I've got something rather important to say to you, and I'm very glad of this opportunity of speaking privately."
"Is it the geological survey again?"
"No, no, not that"
"It can't be the tuberculosis business, or the national school. Surely to goodness old O'Flaherty hasn't raked up the Athalonia miserabilis?"
"It's nothing of that sort. It's something quite different. Just before I left Dublin I had a letter from my friend Lord Cumberley."
"I don't know him," said Meldon. "Is he an Irish peer?"
"No. He's an Englishman."
"That wouldn't prevent his being an Irish peer."
"Do listen to me," said Mr. Willoughby. "What I have to say is really rather important, and I can't get on with it if you keep interrupting me."
"Go ahead," said Meldon. "I won't open my lips till you give me leave."
"Lord Cumberley is a man with a large property in Nottinghamshire and he is the patron of several livings there. One of them is now vacant, and he writes to me to know if I can recommend a man to him whom he might nominate. He wants an Irishman because he thinks that only the Irish Church now produces genuine evangelicals." Mr. Willoughby paused.
"Am I to say anything yet?" asked Meldon.
"Perhaps not yet. Let me tell you a little more. The value of this particular living has been largely increased lately by the opening of a coal mine. It used to be a quiet country parish. Now it's becoming a small town, a town inhabited by colliers. I understand that from an ecclesiastical point of view colliers are not pleasant parishioners. Lord Cumberley writes that he wants an energetic man, not thin-skinned, resourceful, determined, and capable of making some impression on a rather rough class of people. From what I've seen of you since I came to Inishgowlan I think you'd suit the work very well. By the way, are you married?"
"Not at present, but I have a little girl—Gladys Muriel is her name—who is engaged to be married to me. I have her photograph in my coat pocket. I'll just get it. Where is my coat?"
"Don't trouble to get it. Lord Cumberley is anxious to get a married man; but the lady's personal appearance is not of any importance."
"It is to me," said Meldon, "and I think you'd like to see the photo."
"I should. But not just now. Would you mind telling me, are you an evangelical?"
"Now, that," said Meldon, "is a difficult question. I may say at once that I'm not a ritualist; but it doesn't quite follow that I'm what your friend would call an evangelical. Some time ago there was rather a row about a sermon I preached."
"I can quite understand that there might be. In fact, I'm surprised if there's only been one row."
"A dear old sheep went bleating to the bishop—"
"Had you been preaching in its field?"
"I was speaking figuratively," said Meldon severely. "When I said a sheep I meant an elderly country gentleman. You know what they are, Mr. Willoughby. Excellent old fellows, every one of them, with a kind of Mrs. Hemans' way of looking at things."
"I've come across them at times," said Mr. Willoughby. "They form an interesting class. But why do you speak of them as sheep? Is it the prevailing type of countenance which suggests the comparison?"
"Partly, and partly their habit of following each other through gaps. Also they're all so respectable, and they let themselves be driven in flocks by people who bark at them. But I needn't go on working out the idea. If your friend, Lord Cumberley, is the kind of man who expects a parson always, to say precisely the usual thing he'd better not get me into one of his parishes."
"I respect your wish to make your position clear," said Mr. Willoughby. "How did the—the bleat to the bishop end?"
"The bishop was asked to excommunicate me, or haul me up before all the rest of the bishops, or something, that's all."
"But what happened?"
"Nothing happened. Father Mulcrone may say what he likes about bishops, but they aren't absolute fools."
"If nothing happened, I suppose we may take it that the incident is of no real importance?"
"Not the least bit in the world. Only, if Lord Cumberley happens, as I said before, to be that kind of man, there might be unpleasantness—unpleasantness for him, I mean. I shan't mind."
"I think we may risk it," said Mr. Willoughby. "He never goes near the parish himself. He lives miles away and detests the place."
"Goodbye," said Meldon. "I think I must be getting back to the Spindrift at once."
"But you said you would stay for luncheon."
"Can't possibly. If we're to get home to-night we must start at once."
"But need you get home to-night?"
"Of course I must. I have to telegraph to my little girl to tell her to get ready to be married at once. If Lord Cumberley insists on a married man there's no time to be lost."
"But I'm sure Lord Cumberley wouldn't wish to hurry Miss—Miss Gladys Muriel in any way."
"Oh, she won't mind. She's just as keen on getting married as I am. By the way, now that the Aureole's wrecked, what's going to happen to Sir Giles and Euseby Langton? You can't leave them here marooned on the island. It would be rough on Higginbotham."
"I can't well take them in the Granuaile," said the Chief Secretary. "I wonder if Father Mulcrone would keep them on Inishmore till I send off a hooker for them from the mainland?"
"I should think not. They wouldn't get on with him a bit, and I don't think he likes them. If you've no other plans for disposing of them I'll persuade Major Kent to bring them back in the Spindrift."
"But won't that be rather unpleasant for you and Major Kent?"
"It will. But I'd put up with more than that to do you a good turn. I owe it to you on account of the parish. And you are in rather a hole about those two thieves, aren't you?"
"I suppose I am, though I confess the difficulty hadn't occurred to me till you suggested it. I'm greatly obliged to you for helping me out."
"Don't mention it. Apart altogether from my feelings of gratitude to you personally, I enjoy helping people out of difficulties. If ever you find yourself in any kind of fix——"
"I'm never out of a fix," said Mr. Willoughby. "The position of Chief Secretary for Ireland is one which involves a man in a continual series of fixes."
"Well," said Meldon, "you've nothing to do when you're stuck but wire to me. I'll go to you at once. But I haven't time to go into any more of your difficulties just now. I must be off at once."
"I'm inclined to think," said Mr. Willoughby meditatively, "that you ought to be Chief Secretary and let me go to Lord Cumberley's parish. You would get on admirably."
"I'm sure I should. But how would you suit the parish?"
"I'm afraid I should be a failure."
"That's it. We can't risk that. A man at your time of life, with a reputation to keep up, can't run the risk of coming a bad cropper. It will be better to leave things as they are. You stick to Ireland. I'll go and hammer the fear of God into those colliers."