Hyacinth. George A. Birmingham
one of those most deeply interested in the contents of the party’s purse, sprang to his feet. It was clear that he was in a condition of almost dangerous excitement, for he stammered, as he shouted to the chairman:
‘Sir, is this—this—this woman to be allowed to interrupt the meeting? I demand her immediate removal.’
Augusta Goold smiled at him. It was really a very gracious, almost a tender, smile. One might imagine the divine Theodora in her earlier days smiling with just such an expression on a plebeian lover whose passion she regarded as creditable to him but hopeless.
‘I assure you, Mr. Shea, that I shall not interrupt the business for more than a minute. Mr. O’Rourke has only got to say one word—either Yes or No. Are you prepared to give any portion of the funds entrusted to you by the Irish people to assist the Boers in their struggle for freedom?’
Mr. Shea was not at all mollified either by the smile or the politeness of her tone.
‘We shall not permit the meeting to be interrupted any more,’ he shouted. ‘Either you will withdraw at once, or we shall have you removed by force.’
She smiled at him again—a pitying smile, as if she regretted the petulance of his manner, and turned to the chairman.
‘Are you prepared to give——’
Then Mr. Shea’s feelings became too strong for his self-control. He sprang forward, apparently with the intention of laying violent hands upon Augusta Groold. Hyacinth Conneally started up to protect her, and the same impulse moved a large part of the audience. There was a rush for the platform, and a fierce, threatening yell. Mr. Shea hung back, frightened. Augusta Goold held up her hand, and immediately the rush stopped and the people were silent. She went on with her question, taking it up at the exact word which Mr. Shea had interrupted, in the same level and exquisitely irritating tone.
‘—Any of the money entrusted to you by the Irish people to assist the Boers in their struggle for freedom?’
Mr. O’Rourke had sat scowling silently since the failure of his last attempt to explain himself. This final disjointed repetition of the galling question roused him to the necessity of doing something. He was a pitiful sight as he rose and confronted Augusta Goold. There were blotches of purple red and spaces of pallor on his face; his hands twisted together; a sweat had broken out from his neck, and made his collar limp. His words were a stammering mixture of bluster and appeal.
‘You mustn’t—mustn’t—mustn’t interrupt the meeting,’ So far he tried to assert himself, then, with a glance at the contemptuous face of the woman before him, he relapsed into the tone of a schoolboy who begs off the last strokes of a caning. ‘Is this nice conduct? Is it ladylike to come here and attack us like this? Miss Goold, I’m ashamed of you.’
‘I am glad to hear,’ said Augusta Goold, departing for the first time from her question, ‘that there is anything left in the world that Mr. O’Rourke is ashamed of. I didn’t think there was.’
It was Mr. Shea and not his leader who resented this last insult. His lips drew apart, leaving his teeth bare in a ghastly grin. He clenched his fists, and stood for a moment trembling from head to foot. Then he leaped forward towards Augusta Goold. The man who stood next Hyacinth lurched suddenly forward, wrenched his right hand free of the crowd round him, and flung it back behind his head. Hyacinth saw that he held a large stone in it.
‘You are a cowardly blackguard, Shea,’ he yelled—‘a damned, cowardly blackguard! Would you strike a woman?’
Shea turned on the instant, saw the hand stretched back to fling the stone. He seized the chair behind him—the very chair which, while an appearance of politeness was still possible, Mr. O’Rourke had offered to Augusta Goold—and flung it with all his force at the man with the stone. One of the legs grazed Hyacinth’s cheek, scraping the skin off. The corner of the seat struck the man beside him full across the forehead just above his eyes. The blood poured out, blinding, and then, as he gasped, choking him. He reeled and huddled together helplessly. He could not fall, for the pressure of the crowd round him held him up. Hyacinth felt his hands groping wildly as if for support, and reached out his own to grasp him. But the man wanted no help for himself. As soon as he felt another hand touch his he pressed the stone into it.
‘I can’t see,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Take it, you, and kill him, kill him, kill him! smash his skull!’
Hyacinth took the stone. The feel of the man’s blood warm on it and the fierce yelling and stamping of the crowd filled him with a mad lust of hate against Shea, who stood as if suddenly paralyzed within a few feet of him. He wrenched his hand free, and with a mighty effort flung the stone. He saw it strike Shea fair on the forehead. In spite of the tumult around him, he fancied he heard the dull thud of its impact. He saw Shea fling up his hands and pitch forward. He saw Augusta Goold gather her skirts in her hand, and sweep them swiftly aside lest the man should fall on them. Then the crowd pressing towards the platform swept him off his feet, and he was tossed helplessly forward. A giddy sickness seized him. The pressure slackened for an instant, and he fell. Someone’s boot struck him on the head. He felt without any keen regret that he was likely to be trampled to death. Then he lost consciousness.
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