Ballybeg Junction. An episode ... Illustrated by John F. O'Hea

Front matter

BALLYBEG JUNCTION " GOOD NIGHT." Frontispiece. Payer*. BALLYBEG JUNCTION AN EPISODE IsV F. M. ALLEN AUTHOR OF "THROUGH GREEN GLASSES," "THE MERCHANT OF KILLOGUE," ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN F. O'HEA DOWNEY & CO. 12 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. The K. and B. J. R i II. Good-bye 12 III. Parkinson's Letter 20 IV. Rose 33 V. The Plan of Campaign Discussed . . 42 VI. A Visit to Gracedieu .... 50 VII. The Guard of the Mail . . . .61 VIII. Welcome to Ballybeg Junction . . 73 IX. The Installation of the New Secretary 91 X. The Ragged Merchant of Ballybeg 106 XI. A Modest Lover 117 XII. Ballybeg in Sight 126 XIII. On the Platform 140 XIV. The Royal International Hotel . . 153 XV. Supper and a Song 162 XVI. John Farthingale 179 XVII. An Unexpected Intrusion . . -193 XVIII.

A Little Fun 203 XIX. Passengers from Whelan's Bridge . 216 XX. In the Van 229 XXI. Smash 240 XXII. Curran's Freak 258 XXIII. At Kilmahone LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE " Good night " Frontispiece " Ah, is that the darlint little man himself? '' . . 78 " Well, it's this way, Parkinson," said Finnerty no " That's yer bed "

Chapter I. The

K. AND B. J. R. The Kilmahone and Ballybeg Junction Railway — known to the faculty as the " K. and B. J. R."— was not in a very flourishing condition. It laid claim in official returns to thirty-seven miles of rails " open," but for all the benefit the original shareholders derived from the traffic, the K. and B. J. R. might as well be advertised as thirty-seven miles " closed " (like the foreign teacher's face) " for alterations and repairs." The line had been inaugurated with a flourish of trumpets. Since civilized people began to build railways there never had been such an opportunity for the paying of enormous dividends as that afforded by the exploitation of the B country which lay between Kilmahone and Ballybeg. Copper-ore had been found near Kilmahone, and the mines could be acquired for a mere song.

The railway itself, according to the prospectus — and what better authority can one have than a prospectus ? — would run through a part of the province of Munster which teemed with cattle, and was rich beyond the dreams of avarice in agricultural produce. The earth and the bowels thereof in the neighbourhood of the projected 'line "were full of undeveloped mineral wealth. The magnificent Bay of Kilmahone stood at one end and the thriving market-town of Ballybeg at the other. At Ballybeg — to quote from the florid prospectus — the K. and B. J. R. would come into contact with one of the great iron arteries which communicated direct with the heart of Ireland, the metropolis of Dublin. Extensive engineering works were to be started in the Bay of Kilmahone, which would render that magnificent arm of the sea one of the finest and safest harbours in the United Kingdoms.

Kilmahone would of necessity become a flourish- The K. and B. J.R. 3 ing seaport. Lines of steamboats in connection with the railway would assuredly arise, and there would be no lack of sailing-ships, to carry away the cereal and copper and four-footed and finny freights — the surrounding seas were as full of fish as an egg is of meat — which would force themselves upon the quays of the splendid harbour. Coal from English, Welsh, and Scotch ports would positively flow into Kilmahone, and would be distributed through the country by means of the projected railway. What reason was there, then, for doubt concerning the prospects of the K. and B. J. R. ? The prospectus (the work of a solicitor who was a power in the land) was calculated to appeal to the heart as well as to the pocket of the enthu siastic Celt ; but the enthusiastic Celt seldom possesses a well-lined pocket — if it should appear to be well-lined, there is sure to be a secret hole in the bottom of it — and the projectors and promoters of the new railway found it a herculean task to get the shares taken up in Ireland.

Though the prospectus may have attempted too B f much in the matter of rhetoric, it did not altogether err in matters of fact. There was copper— plenty of it — in and around Kilmahone. A good harbour might be made at Kilmahone, at enor mous expense. The country that lay between Kilmahone and Ballybeg Junction was rich in cattle and agricultural produce. As for fish ! words could scarcely describe the plenitude Kilmahone Bay and the adjacent waters abounded in fish. Every division of the finny tribe tried, in its own aqueous way, to emulate the proceedings of the pig in the fable — that philanthropic porker who stuck a knife and fork in his succulent frame, and perambulated the streets crying plaintively, " Who'll eat me ? " But, alas ! as is the fate of many a project that glows with promise, the projected railway proved an ignominious failure.

Bad was the beginning, and worse remained behind. The line itself was erected at a ruinous cost, and in a style which, had it been a terrace of houses, would have caused a professional jerry-builder pangs of envy. Then the costs of promotion, parliamentary and other- T/ie K. and B. J. R. 5 wise, hung like a millstone round the neck of the K. and B. J. R. Money had to be borrowed at ridiculously high rates of interest (mostly in Great Britain) on mortgages, debentures, and what not. A good deal of the original shares had, after tremendous exertion on the part of the promoters (especially on the part of the solicitor), been taken up by local landlords, by a few speculators in Dublin, and by shopkeepers in Kilmahone and Ballybeg ; but not a penny piece had they ever seen in the shape of interest for their money.

In building the line, the directorate did not, of course, " bind themselves to accept the lowest or any tender ; " but, acting on the advice of their solicitor, they accepted a tempting tender which was sent in by a contractor whose chief experience had been confined to the erecting of railways on the pampas. He did the worst work that could be done for money. The Board of Trade refused to grant a certificate, and a good deal of the original "permanent way" had to be ripped up and re-laid by a native contractor. The only persons who profited by the undertaking were the contractors and the solicitor. The latter, as soon as traffic was declared open, bought a handsome property (which he had carefully mismanaged for many years), retired from business, and became a country gentleman, procuring for himself the right to affix to his name those magical letters so dear to the heart of the Irish squireen — "J. P." After some years of hopeless struggling, the K. and B. J. R. fell entirely into the hands of an English syndicate.

A speculative gentleman from London — a good sportsman and a good fellow— happened to travel over the line one summer. He came for pleasure, but his keen grey eyes were never closed for business. Railways were a fad of his ; he had pulled a few out of the slough of despond in his time. He was struck by the flagrant evidences of decay as he landed from the Dublin train at Ballybeg Junction and stepped on to the platform allotted to the K. and B. J. R. John Farthingale was not a man to be deceived wholly by appearances. He knew the history of The K. and B. J.R. 7 the K. and B. J. R. He knew its stock was a by word in the mouths of those who dealt in railway stock. But this knowledge did not discourage him. He was a dogged man, and once he took the bit in his teeth it was impossible to control him.

Inquiries were instituted by him, and then he surveyed the decaying rail-road out of the window of his compartment as he travelled from Ballybeg Junction to Kilmahone at the express rate of fourteen miles an hour (with " stops " of about a quarter of an hour's duration each at the stations which broke the monotony of the journey). Finally, he explored the abortive copper-ore works, and circumnavigated the embryonic pier which was to make Kilmahone one of the finest and safest harbours in the United Kingdoms. " There's money in this," said the traveller. And ere long it came to pass that the K. and B. J. R. fell bodily into the hands of certain English capitalists who were ever ready to " operate " with John Farthingale. The new proprietors made a great splash. The Ballybeg Ju nctio n . copper-works were soon in full swing ; the pier at Kilmahone was developed and matured ; every vestige of grass and weeds was removed from the permanent way ; and the termini and intervening stations were freshened up with a coat of paint.

But the great Atlantic did not long lie quiescent, gazing with its green and jealous eyes on the attempts of puny man to destroy the picturesqueness of Kilmahone Bay, to alter in a year the whole aspect of a work which the tire less ocean had taken tens of thousands of years to accomplish. One gloomy September night the Atlantic was disturbed to its inmost depths. It showed its pitiless white teeth, opened wide its foaming, wrathful mouth, and roared and bellowed with omnipotent rage. The pier was eaten up as if it had been only a mouthful of sand, and the copper mines —to abandon metaphor for the moment, and to confine oneself to a bald statement of facts ■were flooded. The heart of the English syndicate — if a syndicate may be credited with a heart— was stricken The K. and B. J. R. 9 with a severe fit of palpitation.

Even John Farthingale suffered from an attack of nerves ; but he was a plucky man, and he recovered quickly. He visited Kilmahone, and brought with him to that " magnificent arm of the sea " a dis tinguished engineer, who pledged his reputation that he could defy the Atlantic, with all its works and pomps, for a certain sum of money. The magnitude of this sum disconcerted John Far thingale, but it did not daunt him. However, before again drawing further supplies from the auriferous well which springs eternal in Lombard Street, he decided to inquire personally and minutely into the management of the railway. The chief result of his inquiries was an order for the dismissal of Mr. T. O'Gorman Molyneux, the popular secretary and traffic-manager of the K. and B. J. R. The only complaint Mr. Farthingale could urge against the secretary was that he was "an infernally slow coach."

The only prospect he could hold out to his fellow-capitalists of re couping themselves and of putting life into the rail way was to make a change in the management of Ballybeg Junction. 10 the traffic department. An active and intelligent Briton was what the K. and B. J. R. required. Yes ; here was a good opening for John Far thingale's pushing kinsman, Andrew Parkinson. Shrewd, energetic fellow, Parkinson. Narrow visioned and bigoted and conceited certainly, but narrowness — or, rather, concentration — of vision would be all the better on this miserably-managed little Irish line ; and his very conceitedness would fire the somewhat cold-blooded Parkinson to try and make a success where another man had made a failure. He vvas not himself very fond or proud of Cousin Andrew, but business was business.

"And blood, after all, is thicker than water," reflected John Farthingale, with a splendid dis regard for originality. So Mr. O'Gorman Molyneux was obliged to shake the dust of Ballybeg Junction off his feet, his only solace being a cheque for six months' salary in lieu of notice. The chief clerk, William Macready Walsh, was then appointed secretary pro tern., with the under standing that he was to fall back into his former The K. and B. J.R. 11 position of chief clerk in the event of Mr. Far thingale finally deciding to send his kinsman to Ballybeg Junction, there to direct the fate and to make the fortune of the K. and B. J. R.

Chapter II. Good-bye

" Is it to be good-bye, Rose — good-bye for ever " ? Rose O'Donnell did not raise her head nor offer to speak. She was a brave girl, but the tears were in her eyes, and she was ashamed of her tears. Night had fallen. The perfume of roses, wakened from sleep by a gentle shower of rain which had gladdened the thirsty earth as the sun went down, filled the quiet air. It was strangely dark for a summer's night. Though the rain had ceased, the sky was still heavy with threatening clouds. The young girl stood inside a low wooden gate, her hands clasped in front of her. Outside the Good-Bye. 13 gate, his arms resting upon it, was a young man, his head bent, for there were in his eyes hot tears, of which he too was ashamed. Behind the pair — some half a dozen yards back from the gate — was a pretty cottage, with latticed windows, and a porch clothed with verdure.

In one window a light shone — the light from a candle placed upon a table in the room. Through the dim panes the figure of a middle-aged woman, bent over some sewing, could be seen. For many minutes there was dead silence at the gate. Then the young man sighed and lifted his head. " Is there no hope, Rose ? " he asked in a husky voice. " None," answered the girl, not daring to trust herself beyond a monosyllable. " I am very sorry," he said quietly. " I thought it might have been otherwise. I had hopes, high hopes, foolish hopes — but why should I tantalize myself? I know I am a little wild, and I know that elderly people cannot find excuses for pranks which they would, perhaps, have entered into . 14 themselves when they were my age. I cannot expect to change your father's mind, but I thought you cared for me, Rose."

The girl did not move or speak. If he had stormed or raved, used wild words, endearing words, angry words, her task would have been so much easier. She could then have found courage to face him. But the quietness of his voice and manner abashed her. " Good-bye, Rose," he said, with something that sounded like a sob. He held out his hand. " Perhaps," murmured Rose O'Donnell, with a violent effort to control her voice, " we may meet again. It is a small place." " It will be too small to hold me any longer. I will clear out, Rose — put the broad Atlantic between us." " Oh, Willie, you must not say that ! " she gasped. " Then you do care for me still, Rose — you do love me?" he pleaded. Rose O'Donnell drew back from the gate. She dared not answer the question. Good-Bye : 15 The young man's heart was chilled by her movement.

" Why should you recoil from me ? " he asked pitifully. " I know it is all over. Your father has rejected me with scorn. But why should you scorn me now, Rose ? I do not deserve it. Rose, dearest Rose, do not make our last meeting more bitter than I can bear." " I cannot listen to you, Willie," interrupted the girl. " I dare not. It cannot be. You are only torturing yourself and me. I must go in. Good night — good night." She held out her hand tremblingly. William Walsh drew himself up. He felt he had been cruelly used — played with, fooled with, dismissed with a cold good-night by the girl he worshipped, by the girl who had allowed him to worship her. " Good night," he said, turning to walk away. " Willie ! " Her voice was low and plaintive. He turn round again, facing the young girl, who was now standing erect, her right hand outstretched.

" Willie, you must not part with me in anger. God knows it is hard for me to say good-bye to you — it is the saddest word I ever spoke. But it must be so." And then a great sob burst from her. With a swift movement the young man caught her in his arms, and kissed her on cheeks and eyes and lips. And then, before Rose could utter a word, her lover had disappeared down the dark road. Rose O'Donnell stood for some moments at the garden gate, spell-bound. Her cheeks were burning, and a dizzy feeling in her throbbing head caused her to clutch the gate for support. At first a strange delight filled her, a delight which gradually became a torture. He was gone — gone for ever. She had done her duty. She had dismissed the man she loved. Would she ever see him again ? He was impulsive and wild. Perhaps before to-morrow's sun he would have left the neighbourhood for ever.

He had threatened to leave the country if she sent him away from her — to put the great ocean between them. She Good- Bye. 17 was powerless to recall him. Her parents' will must be obeyed — their command was paramount. It was very cruel ; but she had been And at what a cost ! Everything seemed now to have faded out of her life — everything that could make life dear to her. Then, as her thoughts wandered thus far, her conscience smote her with a quick and deadening blow, and, turning round, she stared with wild and tearful eyes at the window, through which the dim light of the flickering candle shone, and at the woman sitting by the table in the room. Her mother ! Her mother whom she loved ! Her mother who loved her ! Rose's heart was numbed as she stood gazing through the window pane. She had suddenly lost all hopes, all desires.

She was possessed of only one feeling, the pious love of a child for her mother. For many minutes she stood with her back to the garden gate, until it seemed to her that even her mother had no interest for her — that nothing in life could ever interest her again. Was she going mad ? She hadbetter enter the house. c The sound of footsteps now startled her, and caused her heart to flutter. She listened intently for a moment. It was someone coming along the road towards the house. Could it be Willie — Willie coming back to her ? Her heart seemed to leap into full life again with a bound — and yet, she asked herself, what good could come of it all ? Could she face him again ? Dare she face him, now that he had kissed her ? She felt his kisses on her lips ; and a hot flush mounted to her cheeks.

No. This was not his step. It was her father's heavy tread. She had better go in-doors at once. As she stepped towards the cottage, a gruff voice broke harshly upon her ears. " Is that you, Rose ? " " Yes, sir. " What keeps you out at this hour ? I hope it wasn't that scamp, Walsh. I met him down the road. If I thought you'd dare to disobey me, I'd " and the remainder of his threat was lost in a low growl. " See here ! " he cried. " You haven't answered me. You know my mind about that play-aethor." Good-Bye. 19 " Yes, sir." " Well, he's got his answer from me, and don't let me catch you exchanging a word or a look with the scamp again. Mind me, now ! " " Yes, sir." Rose O'Donnell was now inside the porch. She scarcely knew what she was saying or doing. Her father's words had brought her back to a more prosaic mood ; but she had not yet regained her ordinary composure, and a strong desire to rise in revolt against her father's tyranny seized the timid daughter of the house. C

Chapter III. Parkinson's Letter

The business of the head office at Ballybeg Junction was conducted by four clerks. Their names were William Macready Walsh (now acting as temporary secretary), John Patrick Curran, Joseph Sullivan, and Denis Maguire. Walsh — he was usually called " Mac " by his friends — was a stoutly-built, good-looking man, about thirty years of age. His cheeks were almost devoid of colour, and his dark, curling hair wandered freely over a square, white forehead. He had a finely-chiselled aquiline nose, and his brown eyes sparkled when he was in a lively mood. He owned a voice of wonderful power and flexibility. The secretary, pro tern., of the K. and B. J. R. was the Beau Brummel of Ballybeg. At any rate he could lay claim to be the best dressed man in that thriving Munster town. He danced well ; he had been " a powerful jumper " (the long jump), but he was rapidly growing too heavy for athletics; and he sang with considerable taste.

His besetting sins were a love for private theatricals and practical jokes, and a weakness for verse-making ; his cardinal virtue was book keeping. There wasn't a more untrustworthy " Hamlet " in the county than " Mac " (a corruption of the Macready which he had sandwiched between his plain William and his plain Walsh when he had been first stricken with the stage-fever), and there wasn't a more perfect set of account-books in all Ireland than those over which he presided at Ballybeg Junction. Mac's rhyming lucubrations — his ambling Pegasus made no attempt to rise to blank verse — often shone in the Poet's Corner of the Ballybeg Independent. Walsh's temperament knew no middle mood. Its active mood was light, fantastic, boisterous. Its passive mood was weighted with profound melancholy. Curran was a tall, thin, pale-faced, leaden-eyed young man, about the same age as Walsh.

His weakness was oratory ; his strong point surliness, with a mixture of craftiness. To a stranger John P. Curran — his fellow clerks always addressed him as John Philpott, or " Philpott," in remembrance of an Irish orator — seemed to be as meek as a lamb and as mild as milk, but when the passion of speech seized him his ordinarily dull eyes sparkled, and his ordinarily pale cheeks glowed. Sullivan and Maguire were junior hands — not yet out of their teens. They were still too young to exhibit any striking characteristics, or to have developed any distinctive fads, except that Maguire, who had been taken on as an extra hand after the dismissal of Mr. O'Gorman Molyneux, had an Orlando-like mania for carving " K. B. J. R." on wooden posts ; and had even, in his spare moments, endeavoured to chisel these cabalistic letters on the lid of his office desk.

Mac ruled his clerks {pro tern) with a rod of steel, flexible but strong. The young men (barring Maguire) were in their different ways deeply sorry for the dismissal of Secretary Molyneux. They knew it had been a terrible blow to their chief. He was advanced in the fifties, and not likely to get a new berth in a hurry. He had been a popular secretary with those who had business with the railway, as well as with his ownsmall staff. All along the line from Ballybeg to Kilmahone there was keen indignation at his abrupt and unmerited dismissal. He had always worked hard for the Company, but it was no fault of his that he could not work miracles. He was a good man of business, but there was little or no field for business on the K. and B. J. R., and energy was only thrown away. A petition for the reinstatement of Molyneux, signed by almost every man of influence in the district, had been forwarded to the directorate in London, but the only reply vouchsafed to the petitioners was that the decision of the board had been final.

Some of the petitioners who dealt in live-stock grew wroth at the curt reply, and decided — though they were alive to the fact that they were hurting themselves — to put into operation a certain kind of secret machinery known in these islands as " the boycott." On the morning of Monday, the 19th of August, the four clerks were seated at their desks in the head office of the K. and B. J. R. The mail from Dublin had just been delivered, and amongst the correspondence was a letter addressed to " The Secretary //-0 tern." bearing the postmark " Black moor." Mac was in a desperately morose humour. The loss of the girl he loved had plunged him into despair, and he had made up his mind to leave the Green Island at the earliest possible opportunity. The memory of all that had passed at the garden gate the previous Saturday night was thick upon him as he had walked from his home in Ballybeg town to Ballybeg Junction on Monday morning, and he felt that his cherished account books would suffer sadly during the day.

The Junction itself was a bleak, wooden structure, situated, as a good many Irish railway stations are, at a considerable distance from urban habitations, and Mac was obliged to lengthen his walk this Monday morning, for the direct road would bring him past the cottage where Rose O'Donnell lived. Mac looked at the envelope bearing the Black moor postmark. He knew, or thought he knew, what it contained — a letter announcing the coming of Mr. Farthingale's kinsman. " His advent will be almost welcome now," reflected William Walsh, as he fingered the envelope. " When he comes, I go. It would kill me to stop in Ballybeg trying to live down my despair quietly. Heigho ! " Then a new mood seemed to possess the volatile Mac, and a cheerful smile lit up his face. Why should he let it be known or guessed that he had been jilted ?

Why not wear a bold and boisterous front until he had turned his back on his native town for ever ? " Boys," said he, addressing the staff in a voice which, he flattered himself, was an excellent imitation of the voice of a distinguished tragedian when enacting the part of " Richard the Third," " the blow is struck. I have before me a letter which is, without doubt, an announcement that the threatened Andrew Parkinson is to take my place. We have no correspondent in Blackmoor save and except the aforesaid Parkinson, who, as you know, is one of the shining lights of the Blackmoor and Mountain Vale Railway in Broadshire, and a relative of our boss — John Farthingale. Boys, I will read the new see's letter. Attention! " Assuming a tragic frown, William Macready Walsh ripped open the envelope with a paper knife, and was about to recite the letter when the clerks observed him clapping his hand theatrically to his sorehead.

Then they saw him turn over the letter, probably to read the signature at the foot of it ; and then their secretary {pro tern.) continued the perusal of his letter with vivid in terest. " Fellow-countrymen," he said, when he had devoured every word of the Blackmoor epistle, ' put down your pens and lend me all your ears ! " He stood up as he spoke. " I hold in my hand a etter written, as I surmised, by our new secretary, but at the foot it is addressed, not to me, but to John Farthingale, Esquire. Pray don't think I am quoting from a farce, and please blush with all your might for the man with soul so dead who, towards the close of the nineteenth century — I believe they call it fin de sihle in cultivated circles — puts a wrong letter into a right envelope, or vice versa. It is an old trick of the playwrights, but I thought the custom had grown musty.

Anyhow — Maguire, you can resume your wood carving operations after office hours — this is the letter :— "Dear lack (Oh, to think of it ! The high and mighty Farthingale addressed as Jack !) — To-morrow, D. V. (mark the D.V.) / start for Ballybeg. I feel I shall be dreadfully sea sick crossing the Irish Channel. (I hope, old Boreas,. you will do your duty. Is not the wind in the north ?) Audi confess I am in some trepidation at being suddenly fung into the midst of a set of Munster Yahoos. I am sorry you cannot accept my suggestion about the dismissal of the whole staff at Ballybeg function. That is my idea of the proper form of boycoiling. From what you tell me, that black man, with his tragedy manner and his hankering after poetry, must be a ridiculous bore and an awful nuisance. (That's me, boys," observed Mac, with a deep sigh.)

"I hope tlie other clerks wash them selves occasionally." A fearful groan from Curran interrupted the secretary pro tern. " Take it more quietly, Philpott," said Mac ; " and keep your soapless savagery to yourself until I have done." "I have never (quoth Parkinson) been able to make up my mind whether you are jesting or not about the stockingless and bootless condition of tlie people in and around Ballybeg ; but, indeed, nothing would surprise tne about the South or West of Ireland. Fllzvake up the K. and B. J R.,you may depend, (Think of that, boys ! Already the Blackmoor bugle-blast sounds in my unwashed ears.) and am only sorry I can't add about eight inches of stature to my spare frame. (From which I judge that our new secretary is not very much over five feet four inches in his vamps — oh, boys, isn't it Parkinson s Letter. 29 grand ?