MR HOLOHAN,
assistant
secretary
of
the Eire Abu Society, had been walking
up
and
down
Dublin
for
nearly
a
month,
with
his
hands
and
pockets
full
of
dirty pieces
of
paper, arranging
about
the
series
of
concerts.
He
had
a
game
leg
and
for
this
his
friends called
him
Hoppy Holohan.
He
walked
up
and
down
constantly, stood
by
the
hour
at
street
corners arguing the
point
and
made
notes; but
in
the
end
it
was
Mrs. Kearney
who
arranged everything.
Miss
Devlin had
become
Mrs. Kearney
out
of
spite.
She
had been educated
in
a
high-class convent,
where
she
had learned French
and
music.
As
she
was
naturally
pale
and
unbending
in
manner
she
made
few
friends
at
school.
When
she
came
to
the
age
of
marriage
she
was
sent
out
to
many
houses
where
her playing
and
ivory
manners
were
much
admired.
She
sat
amid
the chilly circle
of
her accomplishments, waiting
for
some
suitor
to
brave
it
and
offer
her
a
brilliant
life. But the
young
men
whom
she
met
were
ordinary
and
she
gave
them
no encouragement, trying
to
console
her romantic desires
by
eating
a
great
deal
of
Turkish
Delight
in
secret. However,
when
she
drew
near
the
limit
and
her friends began
to
loosen
their
tongues
about
her,
she
silenced
them
by
marrying Mr. Kearney,
who
was
a
bootmaker
on
Ormond Quay.
He
was
much
older
than
she.
His
conversation,
which
was
serious, took
place
at
intervals
in
his
great
brown beard.
After
the first
year
of
married life, Mrs. Kearney perceived
that
such
a
man
would wear
better
than
a
romantic person, but
she
never
put
her
own
romantic ideas away.
He
was
sober, thrifty
and
pious;
he
went
to
the
altar
every
first Friday, sometimes
with
her, oftener
by
himself. But
she
never
weakened
in
her
religion
and
was
a
good
wife
to
him.
At
some
party
in
a
strange
house
when
she
lifted her
eyebrow
ever
so
slightly
he
stood
up
to
take
his
leave
and,
when
his
cough
troubled him,
she
put
the eider-down
quilt
over
his
feet
and
made
a
strong
rum
punch.
For
his
part,
he
was
a
model
father.
By
paying
a
small
sum
every
week
into
a
society,
he
ensured
for
both
his
daughters
a
dowry
of
one
hundred
pounds
each
when
they
came
to
the
age
of
twenty-four.
He
sent the older daughter, Kathleen,
to
a
good
convent,
where
she
learned French
and
music,
and
afterward
paid her fees
at
the Academy.
Every
year
in
the
month
of
July Mrs. Kearney found
occasion
to
say
to
some
friend: "My
good
man
is
packing
us
off
to
Skerries
for
a
few
weeks."
If
it
was
not Skerries
it
was
Howth
or
Greystones.
When
the Irish Revival began
to
be
appreciable
Mrs. Kearney determined
to
take
advantage
of
her daughter's
name
and
brought an Irish teacher
to
the house. Kathleen
and
her
sister
sent Irish
picture
postcards
to
their
friends
and
these
friends sent
back
other
Irish
picture
postcards.
On
special
Sundays,
when
Mr. Kearney went
with
his
family
to
the pro-cathedral,
a
little
crowd
of
people
would
assemble
after
mass
at
the
corner
of
Cathedral
Street.
They
were
all friends
of
the Kearneys—musical friends
or
Nationalist friends; and,
when
they
had played
every
little
counter
of
gossip,
they
shook hands
with
one
another
all together, laughing
at
the crossing
of
so
many
hands,
and
said good-bye
to
one
another
in
Irish.
Soon
the
name
of
Miss
Kathleen Kearney began
to
be
heard
often
on
people's lips.
People
said
that
she
was
very
clever
at
music
and
a
very
nice
girl
and, moreover,
that
she
was
a
believer
in
the
language
movement. Mrs. Kearney
was
well
content
at
this.
Therefore
she
was
not surprised
when
one
day
Mr. Holohan came
to
her
and
proposed
that
her
daughter
should
be
the accompanist
at
a
series
of
four
grand
concerts
which
his
Society
was
going
to
give
in
the Antient
Concert
Rooms.
She
brought
him
into
the drawing-room,
made
him
sit
down
and
brought
out
the decanter
and
the
silver
biscuit-barrel.
She
entered
heart
and
soul
into
the details
of
the enterprise, advised
and
dissuaded:
and
finally
a
contract
was
drawn
up
by
which
Kathleen
was
to
receive
eight
guineas
for
her services
as
accompanist
at
the four
grand
concerts.
As
Mr. Holohan
was
a
novice
in
such
delicate
matters
as
the wording
of
bills
and
the disposing
of
items
for
a
programme, Mrs. Kearney helped him.
She
had tact.
She
knew
what
artistes should
go
into
capitals
and
what
artistes should
go
into
small type.
She
knew
that
the first
tenor
would not
like
to
come
on
after
Mr. Meade's
comic
turn.
To
keep
the
audience
continually diverted
she
slipped the doubtful items
in
between
the
old
favourites. Mr. Holohan called
to
see
her
every
day
to
have
her
advice
on
some
point.
She
was
invariably
friendly
and
advising—homely,
in
fact.
She
pushed the decanter
towards
him, saying: "Now,
help
yourself, Mr. Holohan!"
And
while
he
was
helping
himself
she
said: "Don't
be
afraid! Don't
be
afraid
of
it!" Everything went
on
smoothly. Mrs. Kearney bought
some
lovely
blush-pink charmeuse
in
Brown Thomas's
to
let
into
the
front
of
Kathleen's dress.
It
cost
a
pretty penny; but there
are
occasions
when
a
little
expense
is
justifiable.
She
took
a
dozen
of
two-shilling tickets
for
the
final
concert
and
sent
them
to
those
friends
who
could
not
be
trusted
to
come
otherwise.
She
forgot nothing, and,
thanks
to
her, everything
that
was
to
be
done
was
done. The concerts
were
to
be
on
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday
and
Saturday.
When
Mrs. Kearney arrived
with
her
daughter
at
the Antient
Concert
Rooms
on
Wednesday
night
she
did
not
like
the
look
of
things.
A
few
young
men, wearing
bright
blue badges
in
their
coats, stood idle
in
the vestibule;
none
of
them
wore
evening
dress.
She
passed
by
with
her
daughter
and
a
quick
glance through the
open
door
of
the
hall
showed her the
cause
of
the stewards' idleness.
At
first
she
wondered had
she
mistaken the hour. No,
it
was
twenty
minutes
to
eight.
In
the dressing-room
behind
the
stage
she
was
introduced
to
the
secretary
of
the Society, Mr. Fitzpatrick.
She
smiled
and
shook
his
hand.
He
was
a
little
man,
with
a
white,
vacant
face.
She
noticed
that
he
wore
his
soft
brown
hat
carelessly
on
the
side
of
his
head
and
that
his
accent
was
flat.
He
held
a
programme
in
his
hand, and,
while
he
was
talking
to
her,
he
chewed
one
end
of
it
into
a
moist
pulp.
He
seemed
to
bear
disappointments lightly. Mr. Holohan came
into
the dressingroom
every
few
minutes
with
reports
from
the box-office. The artistes talked
among
themselves
nervously, glanced
from
time
to
time
at
the
mirror
and
rolled
and
unrolled
their
music.
When
it
was
nearly half-past eight, the
few
people
in
the
hall
began
to
express
their
desire
to
be
entertained. Mr. Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly
at
the room,
and
said: "Well now, ladies
and
gentlemen. I
suppose
we'd
better
open
the ball." Mrs. Kearney rewarded
his
very
flat
final
syllable
with
a
quick
stare
of
contempt,
and
then
said
to
her
daughter
encouragingly: "Are
you
ready, dear?"
When
she
had an opportunity,
she
called Mr. Holohan
aside
and
asked
him
to
tell
her
what
it
meant. Mr. Holohan
did
not
know
what
it
meant.
He
said
that
the
Committee
had
made
a
mistake
in
arranging
for
four concerts: four
was
too
many. "And the artistes!" said Mrs. Kearney. "Of
course
they
are
doing
their
best, but really
they
are
not good." Mr. Holohan admitted
that
the artistes
were
no
good
but the Committee,
he
said, had decided
to
let
the first
three
concerts
go
as
they
pleased
and
reserve
all the
talent
for
Saturday night. Mrs. Kearney said nothing, but,
as
the
mediocre
items followed
one
another
on
the
platform
and
the
few
people
in
the
hall
grew fewer
and
fewer,
she
began
to
regret
that
she
had
put
herself
to
any
expense
for
such
a
concert. There
was
something
she
didn't
like
in
the
look
of
things
and
Mr. Fitzpatrick's
vacant
smile
irritated her
very
much. However,
she
said
nothing
and
waited
to
see
how
it
would end. The
concert
expired
shortly
before ten,
and
everyone went
home
quickly. The
concert
on
Thursday
night
was
better
attended, but Mrs. Kearney
saw
at
once
that
the
house
was
filled
with
paper. The
audience
behaved indecorously,
as
if
the
concert
were
an informal dress rehearsal. Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed
to
enjoy
himself;
he
was
quite
unconscious
that
Mrs. Kearney
was
taking
angry
note
of
his
conduct.
He
stood
at
the
edge
of
the screen,
from
time
to
time
jutting
out
his
head
and
exchanging
a
laugh
with
two
friends
in
the
corner
of
the balcony.
In
the
course
of
the evening, Mrs. Kearney learned
that
the Friday
concert
was
to
be
abandoned
and
that
the
Committee
was
going
to
move
heaven
and
earth
to
secure
a
bumper
house
on
Saturday night.
When
she
heard this,
she
sought
out
Mr. Holohan.
She
buttonholed
him
as
he
was
limping
out
quickly
with
a
glass
of
lemonade
for
a
young
lady
and
asked
him
was
it
true. Yes,
it
was
true. "But,
of
course,
that
doesn't
alter
the contract,"
she
said. "The
contract
was
for
four concerts." Mr. Holohan seemed
to
be
in
a
hurry;
he
advised her
to
speak
to
Mr. Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Kearney
was
now
beginning
to
be
alarmed.
She
called Mr. Fitzpatrick
away
from
his
screen
and
told
him
that
her
daughter
had signed
for
four concerts
and
that,
of
course, according
to
the terms
of
the contract,
she
should
receive
the
sum
originally stipulated for,
whether
the
society
gave the four concerts
or
not. Mr. Fitzpatrick,
who
did
not
catch
the
point
at
issue
very
quickly, seemed
unable
to
resolve the
difficulty
and
said
that
he
would
bring
the
matter
before the Committee. Mrs. Kearney's
anger
began
to
flutter
in
her
cheek
and
she
had all
she
could
do
to
keep
from
asking: "And
who
is
the Cometty pray?" But
she
knew
that
it
would not
be
ladylike
to
do
that:
so
she
was
silent.
Little
boys
were
sent
out
into
the
principal
streets
of
Dublin
early
on
Friday
morning
with
bundles
of
handbills.
Special
puffs appeared
in
all the
evening
papers, reminding the music-loving public
of
the treat
which
was
in
store
for
it
on
the
following
evening. Mrs. Kearney
was
somewhat
reassured, but
she
thought
well
to
tell
her husband
part
of
her suspicions.
He
listened
carefully
and
said
that
perhaps
it
would
be
better
if
he
went
with
her
on
Saturday night.
She
agreed.
She
respected her husband
in
the
same
way
as
she
respected the
General
Post
Office,
as
something
large, secure
and
fixed;
and
though
she
knew the small
number
of
his
talents
she
appreciated
his
abstract
value
as
a
male.
She
was
glad
that
he
had suggested coming
with
her.
She
thought
her plans over. The
night
of
the
grand
concert
came. Mrs. Kearney,
with
her husband
and
daughter, arrived
at
the Antient
Concert
Rooms three-quarters
of
an
hour
before the
time
at
which
the
concert
was
to
begin.
By
ill
luck
it
was
a
rainy
evening. Mrs. Kearney placed her daughter's
clothes
and
music
in
charge
of
her husband
and
went all
over
the building looking
for
Mr. Holohan
or
Mr. Fitzpatrick.
She
could
find neither.
She
asked the stewards
was
any
member
of
the
Committee
in
the
hall
and,
after
a
great
deal
of
trouble,
a
steward
brought
out
a
little
woman
named
Miss
Beirne
to
whom
Mrs. Kearney explained
that
she
wanted
to
see
one
of
the secretaries.
Miss
Beirne expected
them
any
minute
and
asked
could
she
do
anything. Mrs. Kearney looked searchingly
at
the oldish face
which
was
screwed
into
an
expression
of
trustfulness
and
enthusiasm
and
answered: "No,
thank
you!" The
little
woman
hoped
they
would
have
a
good
house.
She
looked
out
at
the
rain
until
the melancholy
of
the
wet
street
effaced all the trustfulness
and
enthusiasm
from
her twisted features.
Then
she
gave
a
little
sigh
and
said: "Ah, well!
We
did
our
best, the
dear
knows." Mrs. Kearney had
to
go
back
to
the dressing-room. The artistes
were
arriving. The
bass
and
the
second
tenor
had
already
come. The bass, Mr. Duggan,
was
a
slender
young
man
with
a
scattered
black
moustache.
He
was
the
son
of
a
hall
porter
in
an
office
in
the
city
and,
as
a
boy,
he
had sung prolonged
bass
notes
in
the resounding hall.
From
this
humble
state
he
had raised
himself
until
he
had
become
a
first-rate artiste.
He
had appeared
in
grand
opera.
One
night,
when
an operatic
artiste
had fallen ill,
he
had undertaken the
part
of
the
king
in
the
opera
of
Maritana
at
the Queen's Theatre.
He
sang
his
music
with
great
feeling
and
volume
and
was
warmly welcomed
by
the gallery; but, unfortunately,
he
marred the
good
impression
by
wiping
his
nose
in
his
gloved
hand
once
or
twice
out
of
thoughtlessness.
He
was
unassuming
and
spoke
little.
He
said yous
so
softly
that
it
passed unnoticed
and
he
never
drank
anything
stronger
than
milk
for
his
voice's sake. Mr. Bell, the
second
tenor,
was
a
fair-haired
little
man
who
competed
every
year
for
prizes
at
the Feis Ceoil.
On
his
fourth
trial
he
had been awarded
a
bronze
medal.
He
was
extremely
nervous
and
extremely
jealous
of
other
tenors
and
he
covered
his
nervous
jealousy
with
an
ebullient
friendliness.
It
was
his
humour
to
have
people
know
what
an
ordeal
a
concert
was
to
him.
Therefore
when
he
saw
Mr. Duggan
he
went
over
to
him
and
asked: "Are
you
in
it
too?" "Yes," said Mr. Duggan. Mr. Bell laughed
at
his
fellow-sufferer, held
out
his
hand
and
said: "Shake!" Mrs. Kearney passed
by
these
two
young
men
and
went
to
the
edge
of
the
screen
to
view the house. The seats
were
being filled
up
rapidly
and
a
pleasant
noise
circulated
in
the auditorium.
She
came
back
and
spoke
to
her husband privately.
Their
conversation
was
evidently
about
Kathleen
for
they
both glanced
at
her
often
as
she
stood chatting
to
one
of
her Nationalist friends,
Miss
Healy, the contralto. An
unknown
solitary
woman
with
a
pale
face walked through the room. The women followed
with
keen
eyes the faded blue dress
which
was
stretched
upon
a
meagre
body. Someone said
that
she
was
Madam Glynn, the soprano. "I
wonder
where
did
they
dig
her up," said Kathleen
to
Miss
Healy. "I'm
sure
I
never
heard
of
her."
Miss
Healy had
to
smile. Mr. Holohan limped
into
the dressing-room
at
that
moment
and
the
two
young
ladies asked
him
who
was
the
unknown
woman. Mr. Holohan said
that
she
was
Madam Glynn
from
London. Madam Glynn took her
stand
in
a
corner
of
the room, holding
a
roll
of
music
stiffly before her
and
from
time
to
time
changing the
direction
of
her startled gaze. The
shadow
took her faded dress
into
shelter but
fell
revengefully
into
the
little
cup
behind
her collar-bone. The
noise
of
the
hall
became
more
audible. The first
tenor
and
the
baritone
arrived together.
They
were
both
well
dressed, stout
and
complacent
and
they
brought
a
breath
of
opulence
among
the company. Mrs. Kearney brought her
daughter
over
to
them,
and
talked
to
them
amiably.
She
wanted
to
be
on
good
terms
with
them
but,
while
she
strove
to
be
polite, her eyes followed Mr. Holohan
in
his
limping
and
devious
courses.
As
soon
as
she
could
she
excused herself
and
went
out
after
him. "Mr. Holohan, I
want
to
speak
to
you
for
a
moment,"
she
said.
They
went
down
to
a
discreet
part
of
the corridor. Mrs Kearney asked
him
when
was
her
daughter
going
to
be
paid. Mr. Holohan said
that
Mr. Fitzpatrick had
charge
of
that. Mrs. Kearney said
that
she
didn't
know
anything
about
Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her
daughter
had signed
a
contract
for
eight
guineas
and
she
would
have
to
be
paid. Mr. Holohan said
that
it
wasn't
his
business. "Why isn't
it
your business?" asked Mrs. Kearney. "Didn't
you
yourself
bring
her the contract? Anyway,
if
it's not your
business
it's my
business
and
I
mean
to
see
to
it." "You'd
better
speak
to
Mr. Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Holohan distantly. "I don't
know
anything
about
Mr. Fitzpatrick," repeated Mrs. Kearney. "I
have
my contract,
and
I
intend
to
see
that
it
is
carried out."
When
she
came
back
to
the dressing-room her cheeks
were
slightly suffused. The
room
was
lively.
Two
men
in
outdoor dress had taken
possession
of
the fireplace
and
were
chatting familiarly
with
Miss
Healy
and
the baritone.
They
were
the
Freeman
man
and
Mr. O'Madden Burke. The
Freeman
man
had
come
in
to
say
that
he
could
not
wait
for
the
concert
as
he
had
to
report
the lecture
which
an American
priest
was
giving
in
the
Mansion
House.
He
said
they
were
to
leave
the
report
for
him
at
the
Freeman
office
and
he
would
see
that
it
went in.
He
was
a
grey-haired man,
with
a
plausible
voice
and
careful
manners.
He
held an extinguished
cigar
in
his
hand
and
the
aroma
of
cigar
smoke
floated
near
him.
He
had not intended
to
stay
a
moment
because
concerts
and
artistes bored
him
considerably but
he
remained leaning against the mantelpiece.
Miss
Healy stood
in
front
of
him, talking
and
laughing.
He
was
old
enough
to
suspect
one
reason
for
her politeness but
young
enough
in
spirit
to
turn
the
moment
to
account. The warmth,
fragrance
and
colour
of
her
body
appealed
to
his
senses.
He
was
pleasantly
conscious
that
the
bosom
which
he
saw
rise
and
fall
slowly
beneath
him
rose
and
fell
at
that
moment
for
him,
that
the
laughter
and
fragrance
and
wilful
glances
were
his
tribute.
When
he
could
stay no longer
he
took
leave
of
her regretfully. "O'Madden Burke
will
write
the notice,"
he
explained
to
Mr. Holohan, "and I'll
see
it
in." "Thank
you
very
much, Mr. Hendrick," said Mr. Holohan, "you'll
see
it
in, I know. Now, won't
you
have
a
little
something
before
you
go?" "I don't mind," said Mr. Hendrick. The
two
men went
along
some
tortuous
passages
and
up
a
dark staircase
and
came
to
a
secluded
room
where
one
of
the stewards
was
uncorking bottles
for
a
few
gentlemen.
One
of
these
gentlemen
was
Mr. O'Madden Burke,
who
had found
out
the
room
by
instinct.
He
was
a
suave,
elderly
man
who
balanced
his
imposing body,
when
at
rest,
upon
a
large
silk
umbrella.
His
magniloquent
western
name
was
the
moral
umbrella
upon
which
he
balanced the
fine
problem
of
his
finances.
He
was
widely respected.
While
Mr. Holohan
was
entertaining the
Freeman
man
Mrs. Kearney
was
speaking
so
animatedly
to
her husband
that
he
had
to
ask
her
to
lower
her voice. The
conversation
of
the others
in
the dressing-room had
become
strained. Mr. Bell, the first item, stood
ready
with
his
music
but the accompanist
made
no sign. Evidently
something
was
wrong. Mr. Kearney looked straight before him, stroking
his
beard,
while
Mrs. Kearney
spoke
into
Kathleen's
ear
with
subdued emphasis.
From
the
hall
came sounds
of
encouragement, clapping
and
stamping
of
feet. The first
tenor
and
the
baritone
and
Miss
Healy stood together, waiting tranquilly, but Mr. Bell's nerves
were
greatly
agitated
because
he
was
afraid
the
audience
would
think
that
he
had
come
late. Mr. Holohan
and
Mr. O'Madden Burke came
into
the room.
In
a
moment
Mr. Holohan perceived the hush.
He
went
over
to
Mrs. Kearney
and
spoke
with
her earnestly.
While
they
were
speaking the
noise
in
the
hall
grew louder. Mr. Holohan became
very
red
and
excited.
He
spoke
volubly, but Mrs. Kearney said curtly
at
intervals: "She won't
go
on.
She
must
get
her
eight
guineas." Mr. Holohan pointed desperately
towards
the
hall
where
the
audience
was
clapping
and
stamping.
He
appealed
to
Mr Kearney
and
to
Kathleen. But Mr. Kearney continued
to
stroke
his
beard
and
Kathleen looked down, moving the
point
of
her
new
shoe:
it
was
not her fault. Mrs. Kearney repeated: "She won't
go
on
without her money."
After
a
swift struggle
of
tongues Mr. Holohan hobbled
out
in
haste. The
room
was
silent.
When
the strain
of
the silence had
become
somewhat
painful
Miss
Healy said
to
the baritone: "Have
you
seen Mrs. Pat Campbell
this
week?" The
baritone
had not seen her but
he
had been told
that
she
was
very
fine. The
conversation
went no further. The first
tenor
bent
his
head
and
began
to
count
the
links
of
the
gold
chain
which
was
extended
across
his
waist, smiling
and
humming
random
notes
to
observe
the
effect
on
the
frontal
sinus.
From
time
to
time
everyone glanced
at
Mrs. Kearney. The
noise
in
the
auditorium
had risen
to
a
clamour
when
Mr. Fitzpatrick
burst
into
the room, followed
by
Mr. Holohan,
who
was
panting. The clapping
and
stamping
in
the
hall
were
punctuated
by
whistling. Mr. Fitzpatrick held
a
few
banknotes
in
his
hand.
He
counted
out
four
into
Mrs. Kearney's
hand
and
said
she
would
get
the
other
half
at
the interval. Mrs. Kearney said: "This
is
four shillings short." But Kathleen gathered
in
her
skirt
and
said: "Now, Mr. Bell,"
to
the first item,
who
was
shaking
like
an aspen. The
singer
and
the accompanist went
out
together. The
noise
in
hall
died away. There
was
a
pause
of
a
few
seconds:
and
then
the
piano
was
heard. The first
part
of
the
concert
was
very
successful
except
for
Madam Glynn's item. The
poor
lady
sang Killarney
in
a
bodiless gasping voice,
with
all the
old-fashioned
mannerisms
of
intonation
and
pronunciation
which
she
believed lent
elegance
to
her singing.
She
looked
as
if
she
had been resurrected
from
an
old
stage-wardrobe
and
the cheaper parts
of
the
hall
made
fun
of
her high wailing notes. The first
tenor
and
the contralto, however, brought
down
the house. Kathleen played
a
selection
of
Irish airs
which
was
generously applauded. The first
part
closed
with
a
stirring
patriotic
recitation
delivered
by
a
young
lady
who
arranged
amateur
theatricals.
It
was
deservedly applauded; and,
when
it
was
ended, the men went
out
for
the interval, content. All
this
time
the dressing-room
was
a
hive
of
excitement.
In
one
corner
were
Mr. Holohan, Mr. Fitzpatrick,
Miss
Beirne,
two
of
the stewards, the baritone, the bass,
and
Mr. O'Madden Burke. Mr. O'Madden Burke said
it
was
the
most
scandalous
exhibition
he
had
ever
witnessed.
Miss
Kathleen Kearney's musical career
was
ended
in
Dublin
after
that,
he
said. The
baritone
was
asked
what
did
he
think
of
Mrs. Kearney's conduct.
He
did
not
like
to
say
anything.
He
had been paid
his
money
and
wished
to
be
at
peace
with
men. However,
he
said
that
Mrs. Kearney
might
have
taken the artistes
into
consideration. The stewards
and
the secretaries debated
hotly
as
to
what
should
be
done
when
the
interval
came. "I
agree
with
Miss
Beirne," said Mr. O'Madden Burke. "Pay her nothing."
In
another
corner
of
the
room
were
Mrs. Kearney
and
her husband, Mr. Bell,
Miss
Healy
and
the
young
lady
who
had
to
recite
the
patriotic
piece. Mrs. Kearney said
that
the
Committee
had treated her scandalously.
She
had spared
neither
trouble
nor
expense
and
this
was
how
she
was
repaid.
They
thought
they
had
only
a
girl
to
deal
with
and
that, therefore,
they
could
ride
roughshod
over
her. But
she
would
show
them
their
mistake.
They
wouldn't
have
dared
to
have
treated her
like
that
if
she
had been
a
man. But
she
would
see
that
her
daughter
got her rights:
she
wouldn't
be
fooled.
If
they
didn't
pay
her
to
the
last
farthing
she
would
make
Dublin ring.
Of
course
she
was
sorry
for
the sake
of
the artistes. But
what
else
could
she
do?
She
appealed
to
the
second
tenor
who
said
he
thought
she
had not been
well
treated.
Then
she
appealed
to
Miss
Healy.
Miss
Healy wanted
to
join
the
other
group
but
she
did
not
like
to
do
so
because
she
was
a
great
friend
of
Kathleen's
and
the Kearneys had
often
invited her
to
their
house.
As
soon
as
the first
part
was
ended Mr. Fitzpatrick
and
Mr. Holohan went
over
to
Mrs. Kearney
and
told her
that
the
other
four guineas would
be
paid
after
the
Committee
meeting
on
the
following
Tuesday
and
that,
in
case
her
daughter
did
not
play
for
the
second
part, the
Committee
would
consider
the
contract
broken
and
would
pay
nothing. "I haven't seen
any
Committee," said Mrs. Kearney angrily. "My
daughter
has her contract.
She
will
get
four pounds
eight
into
her
hand
or
a
foot
she
won't
put
on
that
platform." "I'm surprised
at
you, Mrs. Kearney," said Mr. Holohan. "I
never
thought
you
would treat
us
this
way." "And
what
way
did
you
treat me?" asked Mrs. Kearney. Her face
was
inundated
with
an
angry
colour
and
she
looked
as
if
she
would
attack
someone
with
her hands. "I'm asking
for
my rights."
she
said. "You
might
have
some
sense
of
decency," said Mr. Holohan. "Might I, indeed?...
And
when
I
ask
when
my
daughter
is
going
to
be
paid I can't
get
a
civil
answer."
She
tossed her
head
and
assumed
a
haughty
voice: "You
must
speak
to
the secretary. It's not my business. I'm
a
great
fellow
fol-the-diddle-I-do." "I
thought
you
were
a
lady," said Mr. Holohan, walking
away
from
her abruptly.
After
that
Mrs. Kearney's
conduct
was
condemned
on
all hands: everyone approved
of
what
the
Committee
had done.
She
stood
at
the door,
haggard
with
rage, arguing
with
her husband
and
daughter, gesticulating
with
them.
She
waited
until
it
was
time
for
the
second
part
to
begin
in
the
hope
that
the secretaries would approach her. But
Miss
Healy had
kindly
consented
to
play
one
or
two
accompaniments. Mrs. Kearney had
to
stand
aside
to
allow
the
baritone
and
his
accompanist
to
pass
up
to
the platform.
She
stood
still
for
an
instant
like
an
angry
stone
image
and,
when
the first notes
of
the
song
struck her ear,
she
caught
up
her daughter's
cloak
and
said
to
her husband: "Get
a
cab!"
He
went
out
at
once. Mrs. Kearney wrapped the
cloak
round her
daughter
and
followed him.
As
she
passed through the doorway
she
stopped
and
glared
into
Mr. Holohan's face. "I'm not done
with
you
yet,"
she
said. "But I'm done
with
you," said Mr. Holohan. Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Holohan began
to
pace
up
and
down
the room,
in
order
to
cool
himself
for
he
his
skin
on
fire. "That's
a
nice
lady!"
he
said. "O, she's
a
nice
lady!" "You
did
the
proper
thing, Holohan," said Mr. O'Madden Burke, poised
upon
his
umbrella
in
approval.