THE ROYAL INTENT By William Maynadier Browne

ONE day, early in June—I cannot recall the exact date—Mrs. Timothy Fennessey, née O'Connor, presented her husband with a fine ten-pound boy. Now, the Fennesseys are of royal descent, as well as are the O'Connors. The last of the House of Fennessey (Tim was collaterally descended) was slain in battle, if I be not mistaken; still, I cannot vouch for this. He may have been assassinated, struck by lightning, or drowned in a bag, as many of Ireland's kings were. I am quite sure, however, he did not die in his bed. Very, very few of those whose names appear in the chronological table of Ireland's rulers reached so prosaic an end as natural death.

Thus, by the wedding of Mollie O'Connor with Tim Fennessey, two royal houses were united, and, as you may imagine, the Heir Apparent was a personage of no small importance.

One week after the baby's birth, his grandfather, dear old O'Connor himself, came to the office to call upon Mr. Cutting and to inform him of the new arrival. Incidentally, I had heard the news some days before, and had been from that time expecting a visit from O'Connor. So, when I saw the office-door slowly and noiselessly move inward, I was quite prepared to see the royal grandparent. But I was not prepared to see so modest an entrance—to use the parlance of the stage.

The door moved inward, gingerly, for perhaps a foot; next I caught sight of a homely, well-used hand clasped about its outer edge. Then followed a much-brushed, tall silk hat of ancient design and of great respectability. This hat was held by the fitting fellow of the hand I had first seen and that still grasped the door-rim. Now, from between the two, came in the white-halo-ed, wrinkled face of Michael J., lineal descendant of Roderic, last King of Ireland.

"Mr. Cuttin', sor," I heard in a husky, happy, excited whisper; "are you busy, sor?" Mr. Cutting looked up from his desk and called out in his brusque, pleasant way:

"Hello! That you, Michael? Not too busy to see you. Come right in." Then followed the real entrance; for what I have thus far described might better be called "an appearance," to again use the vernacular of the stage. With hurried, tender steps, O'Connor almost danced across the room to where Mr. Cutting was seated. His face was completely covered with one expansive smile of radiant happiness, and, as if to even emphasize this, when he had reached his short journey's end, he upraised both his hands, the right one still grasping the royal headgear, and exclaimed in tones of awe at his own joy:

"Oh my, oh my, oh my! Shure, Mr. Cuttin', you should see him!"

"Who?" replied Mr. Cutting, laconically, and with careful indifference to grammar.

"The little felly. Mollie, me daughter, that is now Mrs. Fennessey, do be afther havin' a fine boy. Ah-h! He is a marvil."

"And how is Mollie?" asked Mr. Cutting.

"Shure Mollie's well. She is a fine, strong girl." O'Connor dismissed the interpolation with a kindly wave of the hand and immediately returned to the main proposition. "But the little felly!" At this point he so far forgot himself as to pull his chair close to Mr. Cutting's and to place one of his honest hands on that gentleman's knee. Mr. Cutting quietly allowed his own to rest for a moment upon that of his old friend, and said:

"Tell me all about him, Mike."

In response to this invitation, O'Connor gave his enthusiasm, and his narrative and descriptive powers full rein. "Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor," he began, with manifest determination to do the subject full justice; "as I said before, he is a marvil. Listen, now; yister' mawnin' I wint, as is me custom, to see Mollie an' the little felly."

Here Mr. Cutting, with gentle malice aforethought, again checked the flow, as he gravely winked at me, aside. "By the way, how is Tim Fennessey?" he asked.

"Just the same," O'Connor replied to the interruption. "He do be doin' his worruk as ushal—but wid wan per-pet-chill grin on him." The old man paused long enough to chuckle, then proceeded: "Shure we all av us has that. But lemme till ye, sor. When I leaned over to look at him——"

"Who?" said Mr. Cutting again, keenly enjoying the narration, and evidently anxious to have no mistake or lapse in its progression.

"The little felly, av course," said O'Connor, for once, I believe, doubting Mr. Cutting's mental capacity. "Begorra, phwat do you think, sor? Up kem the two little fists av him—the two to wanst, moind you—an' him but wan week ould!—an' grab me be me whishkers, here. Thin he pulled an' he pulled. Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, what wid de drag on me hair, an' the joy in me heart, I akchilly cried. Then the ould woman—she is mostly at Mollie's now, except whin I needs me meals—you know how modthers is, sor—she sez to me, 'Michael, dear,' she sez, 'go away now, you, from the child. You are annoyin' him,' she sez; an' all the while me unabil to move." O'Connor threw both hands in the air, and then let them fall softly on his knees as he added, earnestly, "He will be a grand man, sor. So, whishper! I kem to emply you." As he finished, he leaned back in his chair with an air of importance hitherto quite foreign to him.

"How so?" asked Mr. Cutting, his face abeam with lack of calculation.

Just here I must digress. Up to this point O'Connor had entirely ignored my presence in the office. He hadn't even looked my way, though I knew him well and deserved better treatment at his hands in return for the few favors I had been able to do him in the past. Still, I was quite alive to his mental condition, entirely due to "the little felly," and knowing, as I did, that all Mr. Cutting's labors in his behalf had been labors of love, and, too, I confess, because I wished to call O'Connor's attention to myself, I could not resist a chance remark. So, when Mr. Cutting asked, "How so?" I interjected, before O'Connor had time to reply:

"As referee—between him and the little fellow." The effect upon O'Connor was instantaneous. He whipped round upon me, stared an instant, and then burst into unconstrained laughter. Mr. Cutting and I joined him, while the old man rose from his seat and slapped his bended knees with delight. Then he crossed to my desk, his hand clumsily extended and apology in every line of his good face.

"Good-morning, sor," he said, as I rose to shake hands with him, "I forgot me manners lately, sor, but—but me moind is occypied, sor." Then, with his free hand across his mouth (I still held the other) he laughed again until he found the breath to say:

"A referee bechune the little felly an' me! Ye young divvil!"—the last remark being accented by an entirely playful poke upon my shoulder. An instant afterward he was all contrition and further apology, which I checked by reminding him of his intention to "emply" Mr. Cutting. At my reminder, he re-crossed to my senior, and resumed his seat and his earnestness with noticeable celerity.

"'Tis this, sor," he began, out of breath from his laughing, but becoming at once grave; "since the little felly kem, I have been sayin' to meself, constant, 'some day you will die.' All men does, some day, sor, God rest their souls! And then—well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, 'tis me juty to make me will."

I saw Mr. Cutting wince a little at the premonition of the responsibility that must inevitably come to him. I knew that, busy man as he was, he could refuse O'Connor nothing, whether of time or thought. Indeed, I doubt if anybody except O'Connor could have made an inroad upon Mr. Cutting's hours and brain on this particular day. At the moment of O'Connor's calling, Mr. Cutting was in the intricate midst of a complicated contract he was drawing for the Traction Co., of which he was counsel. Still, as every man to be thoroughly able must, he possessed the three qualities of patience, kindness of heart, and never-failing sense of humor. So he said:

"Well, Michael, if you want to make your will, I will do my best to draw it up for you. But a will is a pretty important matter."

"That's why I come to you, sor," said O'Connor, simply. I saw Mr. Cutting's eyes glisten with pleasure as he answered:

"Tell me what you want done with your property."

"That's what I don't know, sor," was O'Connor's reply. Here seemed to be a hopeless situation, until it cleared when the old man, after pulling at his beard for a while, added: "I do be thinkin' about the little felly."

"Yes?" said Mr. Cutting, with all the encouragement rising inflection can give.

"Thin," O'Connor responded, "there's the ould woman, who has been a good wife to me." Here he ruminated, his hardened hand across his seasoned lips. At length he added: "No man could ask a betther, God knows. An', thin, there's Mollie, me daughter—a shweet, good gurrul, an' his modther. But I was thinkin' about the little felly—" O'Connor's supply of speech became temporarily exhausted and the sound of his voice ceased with a long sigh of inability to further express himself.

"There may, some day, be other little fellies—or fillies," suggested Mr. Cutting, unable to resist the temptation.

"That's so-o," said O'Connor, thoughtfully. "Shure I forgot that." He leaned back in his chair and considered.

"You love them all, Michael," Mr. Cutting interposed. "Your wife and your daughter as well as your grandson?"

The reply came quickly. "I do that, sor. God bless them, ivery wan. That's what's perplexin' me, sor." Sweeter and better perplexity could no man have. Kindly anxiety overspread the old face.

"You have, of course, entire confidence in your son-in-law?" The question was a steady one, fully anticipating the answer that came at once:

"I'd thrust Tim wid me life. He is a good man, an' a kind man—an' he niver drinks."

"Then, Michael," said Mr. Cutting, gravely and after no slight pause, "the best will you can make is no will."

"How is that?"

"In the first place," Mr. Cutting explained, "if you make no will, it can't be broken." This was a bull that decidedly impressed the would-be client.

"That's thrue, sor," he replied, reflectively.

"In the second place," Mr. Cutting continued, "by leaving no will, those you love will, I believe, benefit by your estate precisely as you would wish them to. The law provides for just that."

O'Connor pondered long. At last he said:

"Well, Mr. Cuttin', sor, if all I need is the law, I'm sorry I bodthered you." I ducked into the recesses of my roll-top desk, whence, after an interval, during which I could almost hear Mr. Cutting restraining his laughter (as I was mine), he replied:

"No bother at all, Michael." Then he added, after a sigh, "I believe I have advised you for the best."

"Ye have that, sor. And I knowed you would." Thus the matter of the will was closed, and nothing further was said regarding it. But I thought I could see there was something more on O'Connor's mind. I knew the unfinished contract was on Mr. Cutting's, though he sat and patiently awaited further developments, meanwhile passing his thumb and forefinger along a lead-pencil, which, in the passing, he turned and turned, alternately resting point and end upon the blotter on his desk. During this, O'Connor, seated on the edge of his chair, hesitated whether to rise and go, or to further unburden his mind. Mr. Cutting relieved the situation.

"What is the little boy's name, Mike?" he asked.

"Shure 'tis that I wished to exshplain, sor," O'Connor hastened to reply, his hesitation gone on the instant. "Whin he was born I sez to my wife, 'Bridget Ann,' I sez, 'we will name him Hinry Haitch Cuttin',' I sez. 'We will do no such thing,' she sez. 'Tim an' Mollie will name the child. 'Tis no affair ov ours,' she sez. So, sor—well—" O'Connor's finish was tinged with regret, and accented by a hopeless wave of the hands.

"And your wife was entirely right, Michael," Mr. Cutting answered, quickly; "although I appreciate and thank you for the compliment you wished to pay me." He was now making marks on his blotter, the pencil in position to jot down a memorandum. "What name did his mother give him?" As the reply came, I saw him let the pencil fall. There was no need of a memorandum.

"Michael Joseph, after mesilf, sor." O'Connor looked very sheepish, but there was an undernote of pleasure in his answer.

"Eminently proper, and the best name he could have," said Mr. Cutting, rising, and thus supplying the necessary fillip to his client's readiness to depart. He walked to the door with the old man, his hand on the royal shoulder, and bade him a warm "good-by," sending his kindest regards and best wishes to all the members of the Royal Family, especially the Heir Apparent.

Then, assuming his most professional manner, and to my surprise making ready to go out, Mr. Cutting remarked to me:

"I shall leave the drawing-up of the contract until my return. I am now going out to luncheon. I may be a little longer than usual because, incidentally, I shall select a silver utensil for one Michael Joseph O'Connor, Junior, and give directions in regard to a suitable inscription to be thereupon engraved."

As he opened the door to leave the office, out broke his pleasant laugh, and I heard it continuing for some moments after the sound of his foot-fall upon the stone hallway had died out in the distance.

It must have been two months after this—indeed, I am sure it was in August, because Mr. Cutting was away on his vacation, and I was alone in the office—that O'Connor called again. I should state, though, in passing, that he had called once in the meantime to thank Mr. Cutting for a certain silver mug, duly inscribed:

MICHAEL JOSEPH O'CONNOR, JUNIOR

FROM HIS AND HIS GRANDFATHER'S FRIEND

HENRY HARTWELL CUTTING.

I have an idea, although I have no word or proof of any kind to uphold it, that O'Connor regarded the omission of "Esq." after "Cutting" as an oversight. Still, he was royally pleased by the gift, and assured Mr. Cutting it should be kept with the greatest care among the most cherished of the family possessions, and at this point, I remember, Mr. Cutting had occasion again to advise his client, and to the effect that if the "little felly" were not to make actual, daily use of the gift—not only as a utensil, but also to bite, pound, dent and treat at will—he, the "little felly," would never acquire real affection for it. Mr. Cutting further explained that it was from such treatment and familiarity real affection sprang; and that he wanted the recipient to come to love the gift—and the giver, too, perhaps, some day. This advice the client accepted with entire faith in its wisdom; as a good client should always accept advice from a good counsellor. But all this was during O'Connor's intermediate visit—not at the time to which I refer.

That time was on a very hot day in August; in fact, it was, as O'Connor tersely put it, when he had seated himself beside me, "too hot altogither."

"Mr. Cutting is away, sor?" was his next remark, made with an inflection that showed it to be not only a statement but an interrogatory as well, intended to serve as an introduction to matters of import. I replied, accordingly:

"Yes, Mr. Cutting is on his vacation. Is there anything I can do for you?"

O'Connor's method of approach melted at once into complete confidence. You may well imagine my pleasure at being consulted, as follows, in my senior's absence:

"It was you I wished to see, sor," the old man went on, placing his tall hat on my desk and his moist red handkerchief within the hat. "Ye have been a friend to me more than once, and I wish your advice." He slowly drew an honest, well-worn wallet from his hip pocket. I protested. "Ye are a young felly, sor, and this is different," he said. "'Tis me intention to pay you for the service I ask."

From "young felly" to "little felly" was a quick mental transition, and instantly I grasped the opportunity that would enable me, as well as the senior counsel, to bear gifts to the Heir Apparent, so I said:

"Well, Mr. O'Connor, if you wish to employ me, of course—" I paused, while he extracted and laid upon my desk a battered ten dollar bill. I immediately secluded it.

In justice to my poor self I must digress once more. The "little felly" now possesses, in addition to a silver mug, (and the "mug" Heaven gave him as a lineal descendant) a silver spoon and a silver fork of no mean dimensions, suitably inscribed. However, that is nobody's business but my own. Probably that is why I tell it. I never could keep my business to myself, any more than I now can O'Connor's.

"'Tis like this, sor," the old fellow proceeded. "I have it in me moind to go to th' ould counthree. I kem over whin I was a lad, so-o—well, sor, there is much I dishremember now. But I would like some day to tell the little felly all about it, and—" Here he paused a moment. "Me sister is there, too," he added, "and sor, well—I would be afther askin' you to arrange the thrip for me. I wish to have it done decent, d'ye moind, and, whishper! I don't know the ropes mesilf, and I don't want the odthers to know I don't know them, d'ye moind?"

Here was confidence from a client, indeed.

Never mind about the succeeding details, consisting of a letter of credit, exchange, passage, and an excellent stateroom in the second cabin. To all these details I attended personally, and can and do vouch for their careful accomplishment.

On a certain day I shall never forget—it was in the latter part of the same August—I stood looking out of the window of our office. From it I had a clear view of the harbor and of the vessels that came to and left it. Soon, a Cunarder glided into my vista, and, passing out, left a quickly lost picture of white wake, purple sea, and low hanging gray smoke. But the thought in my heart as I stood and watched remains:

"God bless his kindly old heart! and God grant he may return safe and sound to the 'little felly.'"

I speak of it as a thought. It must have been a prayer, so quickly was it answered. As I stood watching the slow blending of the smoke with the mellow light of the afternoon, I heard behind me a gentle, initiatory cough.

I turned. There stood O'Connor himself, hat in hand, in the centre of the office. I can tell you nothing of his entrance.

"What in the world!" I exclaimed and asked.

He hung his dear old head, and fingered the rim of the same tall hat I knew so well, while he slowly passed it round and round between his hands. At last he spoke. His voice was all appeal; without a tone of assertion:

"I decided not to go."

"Why?"

"The little felly."

"You went aboard?"

"Yis."

I ventured, from intuition, "But at the last moment you felt homesick? Is that it?"

He answered me over a half-turned, bashful, aged, and patient shoulder.

"Yis."

"So you left the boat before she sailed?"

"Jist that."

"And your baggage?"

"It's gone—wid the boat. But—but that's no differ."

Once more—never mind about the details. We had a long talk, our client and I. I learned that his wife and daughter, Tim Fennessey, too, had parted from him at his own request, a quarter of an hour before the sailing of the liner—"To have no scene," he said—and finally I learned what I could do in his behalf. It was to ease his return to his own people.

"Now, sor," he said, at the close of our interview, "will you be so kind as to go before me and warn me wife?"

"Tell her you changed your mind at the last moment? Is that it?" I asked.

"Yis, sor, 'tis jist that." Then, he added, with the first semblance of assertiveness, "And it was me right."

"Unquestionably," I answered. Then I suggested that we start on our journey, at the end of which I was to be Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Royal Consort.

During our walk through the almost deserted streets, where the heat of the passing day still hung in sluggish malignity, we had plenty of time for further consultation. Old O'Connor at my side, but never once in step, gave me minute instructions.

"You see, sor," he said, by way of additional explanation, "the windie from me place looks to the harbor, and we can see the steamboats as they comes and goes. 'Twas all arranged the little felly should be in wan o' the windies to see me as I wint away; well, when the orf'cer o' the boat sez that all thim that wasn't intendin' to go should go back to the dock, I sez to mesilf, "Are you intendin' to go?" Thin I thinks to mesilf, 'Shure some odther day will do as well and 'tis as well to wait until the little felly is big enough to go with me and see for himself,' dye moind? Wid that I walks off av the boat and comes to your offus."

"Leaving your baggage on board," I added.

"Yis, sor—but that's no differ—shure the duds was all new, and I care little for thim." His eagerness increased as we neared his home, down on the wharf, and above his junk-store and saloon. So our conferences came in short sentences.

"I will get your baggage back," I began.

"Can you do that, sor?"

"Certainly. I will see the steamship company." He sighed comfortably.

"Thank you, sor. 'Twill be a favor to me. But, whishper! When we reaches my place, I will shtand outside forninst the corner. Thin, do you go inside and exshplain to me wife and prepare her for me return, do ye see?"

I quite understood, and said so. As we turned our last corner, we caught the soft caress of a gentle, belated sea-breeze, and I felt my heart uplift and my brain clear.

"Go on, now, you," was his parting instruction. "I will wait here till ye come back and tell me."

You may be sure I made my way to the royal mansion as quickly as the temperature would permit. In response to my knock at the inner door, it was opened by Mrs. O'Connor herself. She greeted me with quiet, simple courtesy and, as soon as I was seated and she had remarked upon the heat of the day (her remarks fitting exactly into my own opinion of the weather) she asked, before I had time to even set the wheels of my diplomacy in motion:

"Is Michael on the corner, sor?"

"Yes," I gasped, any further need for diplomacy gone.

"Tell him, sor, if you will kindly, that Tim and Mollie is here, and the baby, and we have supper most ready and is waiting for him."

"You knew, then?" I asked, weakly.

"Shure we all av us see him leave the boat, sor. We niver thought he'd go. And thank you, kindly, sor, for your trouble." Mrs. O'Connor crossed with me to the door, and a minute smile just beginning at the corners of her shrewd, old mouth let me out.

I soon came back to my principal in the affair. "Everything is all right," I said to him, and with the usual presumption of an ambassador, added, "I have fixed it. You needn't worry."

"God bless you, sor," he said as he grasped my hand. "I'll be in again soon to see you, sor. And now I—I think I will be gettin' home."

So we parted, he to his loved domain, I to my club.

I don't know the rest of the story.