The Simpkins Plot Read online

  CHAPTER X.

  Major Kent came down to breakfast next morning in a frock coat and awhite waistcoat. His silk hat, carefully brushed and glossy, lay onthe hall table with a pair of pale grey kid gloves beside it. Meldon,who was a little late for breakfast, paused in the hall and looked atthe hat. Entering the dining-room he took a long stare at his friend.

  "Major," he said, "you're a wonderful man. I had forgotten howwonderful you are. Now that I am getting to know you again I am struckdumb with absolute amazement."

  The Major was uneasily conscious that his attire was in strong contrastto Meldon's shabby jacket and wrinkled trousers.

  "I don't suppose," said Meldon, "that there's another man in the wholeworld who could go on dressing himself up like that Sunday after Sundayin a place like Ballymoy. However, the habit will turn out beneficialfor once. I expect you'll produce an excellent effect on Miss King."

  "I was thinking over that plan of yours last night," said the Major,"and--"

  "I was under the impression that I distinctly told you not to think.There's not the slightest necessity for you to exert yourself in thatway; and besides, so far as I know, you invariably think wrong.However, if you really have thought, you'd better get the result offyour chest at once."

  "It occurred to me--" said the Major.

  "That's not quite the same thing as thinking. I don't blame you somuch, now that I know that the thing, whatever it is, merely occurredto you. No man can be held responsible for the things that occur tohim. There was one of the ancient Egyptian hermits who made a verysensible remark on that subject. You'll find it in Migne's 'PatrologiaLatina,' in the volume which contains the 'Verba Seniorum.' I can'tquote the exact words at the moment, but they are to this effect: 'Ifyou can't stop the wind from blowing, neither can you prevent evilthoughts from entering your mind.' I daresay the thing that occurredto you wasn't actually evil in the sense which the hermit meant, but itis pretty sure to have been foolish; and that, for all practicalpurposes, is the same thing. By the way, this is excellent bacon;quite the best I've tasted for a long time. Does Doyle supply it?"

  "No; I get it down from Dublin. But about that plan of yours. Itoccurs to me that Miss King is not likely to be in church."

  "Of course she'll be in church. Why shouldn't she?"

  "Well, if she's a disciple of that man you were speaking about lastnight, she can hardly be what's generally called a Christian, can she?"

  "Of course not. But she'll come to church just the same."

  "But surely-- Not if she doesn't believe in Christianity?"

  "My dear Major! your ideas in some respects are extraordinarilyprimitive. The less anybody likes Christianity for himself, the moresure he is that it's an excellent religion for other people. That'sthe reason you find statesmen all over the world supporting whateverChurch is uppermost at the moment in the particular country they happento be dealing with. Look at the history of Ireland, for instance. Fora century and a half British statesmen steadily fatted up our church.Now they are dropping any plums that they can spare--CongestedDistricts Boards and such things--into the mouths of the Roman Catholicbishops. Do you suppose they care a pin for either? Not they. Allthey want is to strengthen up some form of religion which will keep thepeople quiet. They think that Christianity is an excellent thing foreverybody they have to govern, though they take jolly good care not toact on it themselves. In just the same way you'll see that Miss Kingwill be in church to-day. As a follower of Nietzsche she doesn'therself accept the ethics of Christianity, but she'll consider it herduty to encourage everybody else to accept them, and the only practicalway she has of doing that is to attend church regularly."

  "You're preaching to-day, aren't you, J. J.?"

  "Yes, I am. I promised the poor old rector that I would do all I couldto help him while I'm here. Why do you ask?"

  "I was wondering," said the Major, "if you were going to give us thatdoctrine out of the pulpit."

  "Well, I'm not. You ought to know, Major, that my sermons are alwaysstrictly practical, and deal entirely with matters of pressing localimportance: the ordinary difficulties and dangers of the people I'mpreaching to. There won't be any statesmen in church to-day, sothere'd be no point in my explaining that theory. If I'm ever asked topreach before the House of Commons I shall give it to them."

  This account of Meldon's theory of sermons made the Major a littlenervous. He asked his next question anxiously.

  "Are you going to be personal, J. J.? I hope not."

  "I can't preach the whole sermon to you beforehand, Major; but I don'tmind telling you that it will deal with the vice of squabbling which Ifind rampant in small communities. I shan't, of course, mention youand Simpkins; or, for the matter of that, Doyle and O'Donoghue, thoughit wouldn't matter much if I did mention them. Being Roman Catholics,they won't be there to object."

  "The sermon will be personal, then?"

  "No, it won't. I shan't even allude to the subject of fishing. Ishall preach in such a way as to get at everybody who has everquarrelled with anybody else. After listening to what I say, you willbe much more inclined to take Simpkins out in the _Spindrift_."

  Meldon's sermon was all that he boasted. He chose as his text a verseout of the Book of Proverbs which compares any one who meddlesunnecessarily with strife to a man who takes a dog by the ears. Hespoke feelingly, from what appeared to be the recollection ofunpleasant experience, of the way in which spirited dogs behave whenany one takes them forcibly by the ears. He explained in a shortparenthesis the best way of dealing with dog-fights. He also describedin simple language the consequences which result from beingbitten--consequences which range from hydrophobia and tetanus down tosimple blood-poisoning. Then he passed on to show that human bites,inflicted, so he said, oftener with the tongue than with the teeth,were far more dangerous than those of dogs. The congregation becamegreatly interested at this point, and allowed themselves to be sweptforward by a violent sophism which carried the preacher far beyond theoriginal statement of Solomon. All quarrelling, not merely interferingwith existing quarrels of long standing, was denounced in forciblelanguage. Major Kent felt uncomfortable; then, as the preacher workedhimself up, resentful. Finally, he was cowed. Meldon seized thepsychological moment and closed his discourse with a quotation from thepoetry of Dr. Watts. He made a remarkably apposite citation of thewell-known lines which exonerate dogs, bears, and lions from any blamewhen they bark, bite, growl, or fight, and emphasised the entirelydifferent position of the human race.

  Major Kent, bruised by the vigour of his friend's eloquence, accostedMiss King in the church porch after service; apologised for not havingformally called on her; and invited her to go yachting with him nextday in the _Spindrift_. Miss King accepted the invitation, and then,worked up perhaps to an unusual pitch of friendliness by the sermon,asked the Major to go back to Ballymoy House with her for luncheon.Meldon appeared from the door of the vestry room and urged the Major toaccept the invitation.

  "As I expected," he said, "Simpkins wasn't in church.--How do you do,Miss King? I'm glad you and the Major have made friends. You're sureto like each other.--So I shall have to go round to his house and lookhim up. I daresay he'll give me a bite to eat; and if he doesn't,Doyle will. You will of course accept"--he appeared to be addressingMajor Kent--"Miss King's invitation. I'll call round for you at aboutfour. I daresay Miss King will give us both a cup of tea. You driveher home in your trap, Major. I can walk down to Simpkins' house quiteeasily."

  Meldon, carrying his hat in one hand, strode off in the direction ofMr. Simpkins' house. Miss King looked at Major Kent.

  "You see it's all settled for you," she said. "You'll have to comeback with me."

  "I suppose I had better," said the Major. Then after a pause he added,"Of course I'm delighted to, and it's very kind of you to ask me."

  Simpkins was stretched in a hammock chair reading a novel when Meldonfound him. He received a severe lecture
for not attending church,which seemed to surprise him a good deal, especially as his absence wasattributed by Meldon to shame and a consciousness of guilt, feelingsfrom which Simpkins had never in his life suffered. Then--and thisseemed to astonish him still more--he was warmly invited to go for aday's yachting in the _Spindrift_.

  "I didn't hear," he said doubtfully, "that Major Kent was going away."

  "He isn't," said Meldon. "Don't I tell you he's giving a picnic in hisyacht?"

  "Are you sure he wants me?"

  "Certain. He sent you an invitation, which is a plain proof that hewants you. He would have delivered it himself, only that Miss Kingcaught him after church and carried him off to luncheon. But I haveone of his cards with me, and if you insist on everything being done inthe most accurate and correct possible manner, I'll leave it on theumbrella stand in your hall as I go out."

  Meldon had provided himself with a few of the Major's visiting cardsbefore leaving Portsmouth Lodge in the morning. He was a man whoprided himself on leaving nothing to chance. Since it was justpossible that the cards might turn out to be useful, he had put a fewin his pocket.

  "In fact," he went on, "to prevent any possible mistake ormisunderstanding I may as well hand it over to you at once." Heproduced a card, slightly crumpled and a good deal soiled, from hiswaistcoat pocket, and laid it on Simpkins' knee. Simpkins looked at itdoubtfully, took it up in his hand, and examined both sides of it.Then he spoke slowly.

  "I think you know," he said; "in fact, I've told you myself, that theMajor and I aren't on very good terms. I was obliged to speak to himrather strongly about the way he used to fish in a part of the river--"

  "I know all about that; you needn't go into it again. It's entirelyover and done with. An era of peace is beginning to dawn. Afterlistening to my sermon this morning--it's a great pity for your ownsake that you weren't in church, Simpkins--the Major finds himself in aposition to forget the past and to start fresh. His attitude now--verylargely owing to my sermon--is that of the dove which came to the arkwith an olive leaf plucked off in its mouth."

  Simpkins was not apparently prepared to accept the olive leaf. Heasked Meldon whether that dove was the text of his sermon.

  "No, it wasn't. I might have alluded to it, but I didn't. I mighthave explained, if I'd thought of it at the time--in fact, I willexplain to you now. The dove is of all birds the most peaceful and theleast inclined to quarrel with other birds. You'd know that by thesoothing way it coos, and also by the colour of its breast. Tennyson,the poet, notes the fact that the peculiar bluey shade of its feathersarouses feelings of affection in people who weren't thinking ofanything of the sort before they saw it. I'm not prepared to assertthat positively myself, but I shouldn't wonder if there was somethingin the idea. Then the olive branch is the regular, recognised symbolof peace. The reason of that is that oil is got out of olives, and oilis one of the most soothing things there is. Of course, you get oilfrom other sources too--from whales, for instance; but the olive branchis chosen as a symbol because it's such a much more convenient thing tocarry about than a whale is. No explorer, when meeting a savage tribewith which he doesn't want to fight, could possibly wave a whale, evenif he had one with him--and he wouldn't be likely to, unless he wasexploring the polar regions--whereas he can wave an olive branch, andalways does. That's the reason the olive branch and not the whale ischosen as the symbol of peace. You'll be able to realise now howextraordinarily peaceable the Major is when I compare him to a dovewith an olive leaf in his mouth."

  "If," said Simpkins, who had only partially followed the reasoningabout the dove and the olive--"if the Major apologises for the way hespoke, I'm quite ready--"

  "He doesn't actually apologise," said Meldon. "You can hardly expectthat of him. I think myself he's going as far as can reasonably beexpected of him when he asks you out for a day's yachting. Very fewmen would do as much; and I may say to you, Simpkins, that if you'dbeen in church to-day and heard my sermon, you wouldn't be inclined nowto stand out for an apology. You would, in fact, most likely belooking out for an olive leaf and a dove of your own to carry to theMajor."

  "But he was entirely in the wrong about the fishing. I admitted allalong that he was perfectly entitled to fish below the bridge, but heinsisted---"

  "Quite so," said Meldon. "That's my exact point. Any fool canapologise when he's been in the right. That gives him such acomfortable sense of superiority that he doesn't a bit mind grovellingbefore the other fellow. What is totally impossible is to apologisewhen you're in the wrong. You must be able to realise that."

  "I'm not at all sure," said Simpkins, "that I ought to accept theinvitation. Major Kent's hostility to me has been most marked.Everybody about the place has noticed it."

  "Unless you're perfectly sure that you ought not to accept theinvitation," said Meldon, "I think you'd better give yourself thebenefit of the doubt. It will be a most enjoyable expedition. MissKing is coming. By the way, I hope you haven't quarrelled with MissKing in any way?"

  "No, I haven't. Why should I?"

  "I'm glad to hear it, I was afraid perhaps you and she might havefallen out over something. But if you haven't, why didn't you go nearher for the last two days?"

  "I was there on Thursday afternoon. I can't with any decency call onher every day in the week."

  "Oh yes, you can; and, if you mean to marry her, you ought to. Believeme, there's nothing estranges a woman's affection so rapidly as thatkind of studied neglect. She can't call on you, you know, withoutputting herself in a wholly false position."

  "I haven't quite made up my mind about marrying her."

  "Oh, well, the day in the _Spindrift_ will do that for you. There'ssomething very exhilarating, Simpkins, about a fresh sea breeze. Itsimply sweeps away all hesitation, and renders you capable of marryingalmost any one. That's the reason why sailors are famous for having awife in every port they call at, and why nobody blames them for it.Exposed, as they necessarily are, to the sea air at its purest, theysimply can't help themselves. They become exaggeratedly uxoriouswithout in the least meaning to."

  "Besides," said Simpkins, "I've no reason to suppose that Miss Kingwould marry me."

  "Have you any reason to suppose she won't?"

  "No. I've only seen her once, you know."

  "Then I think it extremely likely that she will. Everybody knows thatmost people do things not so much because they want to as because theyhaven't any reason for refusing. Take the average party, forinstance--tea party, tennis party, garden party, or dinner party. Howmany men go to parties because they want to? Not one in a hundred.The other ninety-nine go simply because there's no available reason fornot going. It's just the same with marrying. Unless you give MissKing some good reason for refusing you, she'll marry you as soon asever you ask her. And if I were you I'd ask her to-morrow. We'll landon an island for luncheon. The Major and I will slip off by ourselvesand give you your opportunity."

  "I'm not sure--"

  "Come now, Simpkins, have you anything against the girl? Has anybodybeen circulating stories about her of any sort? I know this is agossipy sort of place, and--"

  "Oh no; it's simply that I don't know her."

  "If that's all," said Meldon, "a day in the _Spindrift_ will set itright. You'll be surprised how intimate you become with a person whenyou're sitting for hours crammed up against him or her in the cockpitof a five-ton yacht. By the time you've disentangled her twice fromthe mainsheet, with the Major swearing all the time, and been obligedto haul her up to windward whenever the boat goes about and she getsleft with her head down on the lee side, you get to feel as if you'dknown her intimately for years. By the way, what time do you lunch?"

  "Half-past one," said Simpkins. "Will you--"

  "Thanks," said Meldon; "I will, if you're quite sure there's enough fortwo. I'm due at Miss King's at four. The Major's there. Miss Kingasked him to luncheon with her. But you needn't mind. He hasn't theleast notion of
marrying her or anybody else. You can come with me inthe afternoon if you like. In fact, I think it would be a very goodplan if you did. I'll clear the Major out of the way at once, and thenyou can have a good innings. If you play your cards properly to-day,you'll certainly be in a position to propose to her to-morrow."

  At four o'clock Meldon led the rather embarrassed Simpkins up toBallymoy House. Miss King and Major Kent were sitting together on thelawn, and were apparently getting on very well indeed. The greetingbetween Mr. Simpkins and the Major was constrained and cold. Miss Kingseemed to feel that the situation demanded tact. She suggestedordering tea at once, and having it out of doors.

  "Not for us, thanks," said Meldon. "The Major and I must be off atonce. We haven't a moment to delay."

  Major Kent looked surprised, and seemed inclined to ask questions. Heresented the arrival of Simpkins, but he did not want to leave MissKing so soon.

  "I said this morning," said Meldon, "that we'd stop for tea; but sincethen I find that I'm tied--in fact, we're both tied--to a mostimportant engagement, and must absolutely run if we are to be in time.Come along, Major." He seized him by the arm as he spoke. "Good-bye,Miss King. Good-bye, Simpkins. We'll see you both at Portsmouth Lodgeat ten to-morrow morning."

  "I suppose, J. J.," said the Major, when Meldon, reaching the highroad,slackened his pace--"I suppose that I'm being hustled about like thisso that Simpkins can have Miss King all to himself, but--"

  "Exactly," said Meldon. "I may tell you, Major, that I now look uponSimpkins as practically a dead man. I don't see how he can possiblyescape."

  "What I was going to say," said the Major, "is that I think you aremistaken about Miss King. She doesn't seem to me the least like acriminal."

  "Of course not. She wouldn't be the successful murderess she is if shehadn't the manners and appearance of a very gentle and gracious lady.That's what gives her the pull she has when it comes to the verdict ofa jury. You ought to know, Major, that the old Bill Sykes sort ofcriminal, the brutalised-looking man with a huge jaw and a lowforehead, is quite out of date now. No one gets himself up in thatstyle who means to go in for serious crime. In a book published theother day there was a composite photograph made up of the faces offifty or sixty criminals of the most extreme kind. I assure you thatthe net result was an uncommonly good-looking man. That shows you thetruth of what I'm saying."

  "In any case, J. J., setting aside her personal appearance and manner--"

  "Your impression of her personal appearance. I wasn't taken in by it."

  "She isn't the sort of woman you said she was. She'd never heard ofthat philosopher of yours."

  "Do you mean to say that she denied ever having heard the name ofNietzsche?"

  "Not exactly. The fact is that I couldn't recollect his name, but Igave her a sketch of his doctrines--"

  "I don't expect she recognised your sketch. You were probably grosslyinaccurate."

  "I gave her almost word for word what you said last night about murderbeing a very virtuous thing and bullying being the highest form ofmorality."

  "Even so I don't expect she recognised it. You see I had to paraphrasethe whole thing to bring it down to the level of your understanding.If you'd been in a position to quote a phrase or two, like HerrenMorale, for instance, she'd have recognised the system at once, evenwithout the name of Nietzsche."

  "I couldn't do that, of course."

  "Now I come to think of it, I don't suppose she'd have owned up toNietzsche in any case. She'd have been bound to deny any knowledge ofthe system. You see she doesn't know that I've told you who she reallyis. She probably distrusts you as a magistrate. After the brutal wayin which Sir Gilbert Hawkesby summed up against her, she wouldnaturally be a bit shy of any one occupying any sort of judicialposition. Of course if she knew that you were keenly interested in thedeath of Simpkins it would have been different. She'd have spokenquite openly to you then."

  "I don't believe she'll kill Simpkins."

  "She will if she marries him. Not that Simpkins is a particularlyobjectionable man in my opinion. I rather like him myself. But MissKing lives for her art, and once Simpkins proposes to her his fate issealed."

  "She did mention her art once or twice," said the Major. "Now that youremind me of it, I distinctly recollect her saying that it was thegreat thing in her life."

  "There you are then. Perhaps now you'll believe me for the future, andnot be starting miserable, sceptical objections to every word I say.What did you say when she talked to you about her art? Did youcross-question her about what it was?"

  "No, I didn't. I wasn't thinking of your absurd theories when I wastalking to her. I thought she meant painting, or something of thatsort. I felt sorry for her, J. J. She seems to me to have a verylonely kind of life."

  "Of course she does--in the intervals."

  "What?"

  "There are intervals, of course. Miss King isn't the sort of woman toform an intimacy with another man until she is really a widow. It'squite natural that she should feel lonely just now, for instance. Themere absence of the excitement she's been accustomed to for so longwould have a depressing effect on her."