A week passed without my hearing anything from home about Lalage’s
_Gazette_. My mother’s weekly letter--she wrote regularly every Sunday
afternoon--contained nothing but the usual chronicle of minor events. I
had no other regular correspondent. The Archdeacon had written me eleven
letters since I left home, all of them dealing with church finance and
asking for subscriptions. Canon Beresford never wrote to me at all. I
was beginning to hope that the _Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette_ had failed to
catch the eye--ought I to say the ear?--of the public. This would
of course be a disappointment to Lalage, perhaps also to Hilda and
Selby-Harrison, but it would be a great relief to me. The more I thought
of it the more I disliked the idea of being identified with the generous
gentleman whose timely aid had rendered the publication possible.
My hopes were shattered by the arrival of no less than six letters by
one post. One of them was addressed in my mother’s writing, and I feared
the worst when I saw it. It was quite the wrong day for a letter from
her, and I knew that nothing except a serious disaster would induce
her to break through her regular rule of Sunday writing. Another of
the letters came from the Archdeacon. I knew his hand. Two of the other
envelopes bore handwritings which I did not recognize. The addresses of
the remaining two were typewritten. I turned them all over thoughtfully
and decided to open my mother’s first. She made no attempt to soften the
shock I suffered by breaking her news to me gradually.
“Lalage appears to have excelled herself in her latest escapade. I only
heard about it this morning and have not had time to verify the details
of the story; but I think it better to write to you at once in case you
should hear an exaggerated version from some one else.”
My mother is very thoughtful and kind; but in this particular case,
needlessly so. I was not in the least likely to hear an exaggerated
version of Lalage’s performance from any source; because no one in
the world, not even a politician, could exaggerate the truth about the
_Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette_.
My mother went on:
“You appear to be mixed up in the affair, and, on the whole, I advise
you to get out of it at once if you can. Your uncle, who takes these
matters very seriously, is greatly annoyed. Lalage appears to have
published something, a pamphlet probably, but report says variously a
book, a magazine, and a newspaper. I have not seen a copy myself, though
I telegraphed to Dublin for one as soon as the news of its publication
reached me. Your uncle, who heard about it at the club, says it is
scurrilous. He sent out for a copy, but was informed by the news agent
that the whole issue was sold out. The Archdeacon was the first to tell
me about it. He had been in Dublin attending a meeting of the Church
Representative Body and he says that the general opinion there is that
it is blasphemous. Even the Canon is a good deal upset and has gone away
for a holiday to the north of Scotland. I had a postcard from him to-day
with a picture of the town hall at Wick on the back of it. He wrote
nothing except the words, ‘Virtute mea me unvolvo.’ I have Latin enough
to guess that this--is it a quotation from his favourite Horace?--is a
description of his own attitude toward Lalage’s performance. Miss
Pettigrew, who is greatly interested, and I think on the whole
sympathetic with Lalage, writes that eighteen bishops have already begun
actions for libel, and that three more are expected to do so as soon as
they recover from fits of nervous prostration brought on by Lalage’s
attacks on them. A postscript to her letter gets nearer than anything
else I have come across to giving a coherent account of what has
actually taken place. ‘Lalage,’ she writes, ‘has shown a positively
diabolical ingenuity in picking out for the pillory all the most
characteristically episcopal utterances for the last two years.’ You
will understand better than I do what this means.”
I did understand what Miss Pettigrew meant, but I do not think that
Lalage ought to be given the whole credit. Selby-Harrison did the
research.
My mother went on:
“Father Maconchy, the P.P., stopped me on the road this afternoon to
say that he hoped there was no truth in the report that you are mixed up
in what he calls a disgraceful attempt at proselytizing. The Archdeacon
tells me that in ecclesiastical circles (his, not Father Maconchy’s,
ecclesiastical circles) you are credited with having urged Lalage on,
and says he fears your reputation will suffer.”
I put the letter down at this point and swore. Extreme stupidity always
makes me swear. It is almost the only thing in the world which does. The
Archdeacon, who has been acquainted with Lalage since her birth, ought
to have more sense than to suppose, or allow any one else to suppose,
that she ever required urging on. Even Father Maconchy’s reading of the
situation was intelligent compared to that.
“Miss Pettigrew says that the Trinity College authorities have taken
the matter up and are strongly of opinion that you are financing the
publication. Thormanby tells me that the same rumour is current in the
club. He heard it from five or six different men, and says he has been
written to about the matter since he came home by people who are most
anxious about your connection with it. I do not know what to believe,
and I do not want to press my opinion on you, but if, without making
things worse for Lalage than they are at present, you can disclaim
responsibility for the publication, whatever it is, it will probably be
wise for you to do so.”
It did not seem to me to matter, after reading what my mother said,
which of the other letters I took next. I tried one of the two which
bore typewritten addresses, in the hope that it might be nothing worse
than a bill. It was, as a matter of fact, a statement of accounts. The
first sheet ran thus:
Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette Guarantee Fund
Trinity College, Dublin, No. 175, and at the rooms of the Elizabethan
Society
Debtor and Creditor Account
To 8 per cent, due on one third of £30, being amount of
guarantee for one month as per agreement signed August 9th,
ult., equals 1s. 4d. (say, one shilling and fourpence).
Examined and found correct
J. Selby-Harrison.
Stamps (1s. 4d.) enclosed to balance account. Please
acknowledge receipt.
It is very gratifying to a guarantor to receive interest on his promise
in this prompt and business-like way, but I am not sure that 8 per cent,
will be sufficient to compensate me for the trouble I shall have
in explaining my position to the Board of Trinity College, the
Representative Body of the Church of Ireland, the Standing Committee of
the Roman Catholic Hierarchy, the Presbyterian General Assembly, and the
committee of the Kildare Street Club. The next sheet of Selby-Harrison’s
accounts was equally business-like in form.
Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette Guarantee Fund Trinity College,
Dublin, No. 175, and at the rooms of the Elizabethan Society
Per Contra.
By one third of £30, being amount of guarantee for one month
as per agreement signed August 9th, ult., £10, less payment
by advertiser for single insertion, being one twelfth of 7s.
9d. contract price for year, 7.75 pence equals £9-19-4.25
(say nine pounds nineteen shillings and fourpence farthing)
now due by guarantor. Examined and found correct. Kindly
remit at once to avoid legal proceedings.
J. Selby-Harrison.
The last thing in the world I wanted was further legal proceedings. With
eighteen libel actions pending and three more threatened in the near
future, the Irish courts would be kept busy enough without being forced
to deal with a writ issued by Selby-Harrison against me. I sat down at
once and remitted, making out my cheque for the round sum of £10, and
telling Selby-Harrison that he could set the extra 7.75 pence against
postage and petty cash. I pointed out at the same time that the
advertiser, considering the unexpectedly wide publicity which had
been given to his desire for second-hand feather beds, had got off
ridiculously cheap. I suggested that he might, if approached, agree to
pay the extra .25 of a penny.
I turned over the other three envelopes and chose for my next experiment
one addressed in a delicate female hand. It seemed to me scarcely
possible that letters formed as these were could convey sentiments of
any but a fragrant kind. I turned out to be mistaken. This letter was
more pitiless even than Selby-Harrison’s stark mathematical statements.
“Owing to the incessant worry and annoyance of the last three days I am
prostrate with a bad attack of my old enemy and am obliged to dictate
this letter.”
The signature, written with evident pain, told me that the dictator was
my Uncle Thormanby. The “old enemy” was, as I knew, gout.
“Miss Battersby is acting as my amanuensis.”
For the fifth or sixth time in my life I felt sorry for Miss Battersby.
“Canon Beresford’s girl has libelled eighty or ninety bishops in the
most outrageous way. I am not sure of the law, but I sincerely hope that
it may be found possible to send her to gaol with hard labour for a term
of years. Not that I care what she says about bishops. They probably
deserve all they get and in any case it’s no business of mine. What
annoys me is that she has mixed you up in the scandal. Old Tollerton
was sniggering about the club in the most disgusting way the day before
yesterday, and telling every one that you were financing the minx. He
says he has it on the best authority.
“I found a letter waiting for me when I came home from the secretary of
the Conservative and Unionist Parliamentary Association, asking me if
the rumour was true. I had just arranged with them to put you up for the
East Connor division of Down at the general election and everything was
looking rosy. Then this confounded stinkpot of a bombshell burst in our
midst. That outrageous brat of Beresford’s ought to be soundly whipped.
I always said so and it turns out now that I was perfectly right.
“I need scarcely tell you that if your name is connected with these
libel actions in any way your chance of election won’t be worth two
pence. The Nationalist blackguards would make the most of it, of course,
and I don’t see how our people could defend you without bringing the
parsons and Presbyterian ministers out like wasps.
“I have authoritatively denied that you have, or ever had, any
connection with or knowledge of the scurrilous print; so I beg that you
will at once withdraw the guarantee which I understand you have
given. If you don’t do this my position, as well as your own, will be
infernally awkward. I wanted to get a hold of Beresford to-day, but
hear that he has gone to Iceland. Just like him! I thought I might
have bullied him into taking the responsibility and clearing you. The
Archdeacon won’t. I tried him. Tollerton, who insisted on sitting next
me at luncheon in the club, says that you may be able to hush the thing
up by offering to build a new church for each of the bishops named. This
would cost thousands and cripple you for the rest of your life, so we
won’t make any overtures in that direction till everything else fails.
Tollerton always makes the worst of everything. They say he has Bright’s
disease. I shan’t be sorry when he’s gone; but if I have to go through
much more worry of this kind it’s likely enough that he’ll see me out.”
With this letter was enclosed a small slip of paper bearing a message
which appeared to have been very hurriedly written.
“_Please_ do not be too angry with Lalage. I’m sure she did
not mean any harm. She is a very high-spirited girl, but
most affectionate. I’m _so_ sorry about it all especially
for your poor mother.
“Amélie Battersby.”
Miss Battersby need not have made her appeal. Even if I had been very
angry with Lalage my uncle’s letter would have softened my heart
toward her. She deserved well and not ill of me. The decision of the
Conservative and Unionist Parliamentary Association came on me as a
shock. I had no idea that my uncle was negotiating with them on my
behalf. If Lalage’s _Gazette_ disgusted them with me and made it obvious
that I could not succeed as a candidate in the East Connor Division of
County Down I should be greatly pleased, and my ten pounds, or whatever
larger sum might be required to pacify the fiercest of the bishops,
would be very well spent.
I opened the Archdeacon’s letter next. It was, with the exception of
Selby-Harrison’s, the shortest of the whole batch.
“I write, not in anger but in sorrow. Lalage, whom I can only think of
as a dear but misguided child, has been led away by the influence of
undesirable companions into a grievous mistake. I shrink from applying
a severer word. As a man of the world I cannot shut my eyes to the fact
that the money, the considerable sum of money, which you have placed
at the disposal of these young people has proved a temptation, not to
Lalage, but to those with whom she has unfortunately associated herself.
In the event of your deciding, as I strongly urge you to do, to withdraw
your financial guarantee, these unscrupulous persons, seeing no prospect
of further profit, will no doubt cease to lead Lalage astray.”
The idea in the Archdeacon’s mind evidently was that Selby-Harrison
and Hilda had exploited Lalage, and obtained the money for unhallowed
revellings, from me. I should like to hear Hilda’s mother’s opinion of
the Archdeacon’s view. Its injustice was of course quite evident to me.
I had Selby-Harrison’s accounts before me, and nothing could be clearer
than they were. Besides I knew from my mother’s letter that what the
Archdeacon now said about Selby-Harrison and Hilda he had originally
said about me. When the truth, the whole truth, about the publication
of the _Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette_ is published, it will be recognized that
Selby-Harrison, Hilda, and I, so far from urging Lalage on or leading
her astray, were from first to last little more than tools for her use,
clay in her potter’s hands.
My fifth letter turned out to be from the Provost of Trinity College.
It was written in very courteous terms and was, on the whole, the most
encouraging I had yet read.
He wrote:
“You must forgive my meddling in your affairs, and accept the fact that
I am, in some sense, an old family friend, as my excuse for offering
you a word of advice. I knew your father before you were born, and as
a young man I often dined at your grandfather’s table. This gives me a
kind of right to make a suggestion which I have no doubt you will take
in good part. Three young people, who as students in this college are
more or less under my charge, have got into a scrape which might very
well be serious but which, I hope, will turn out in the end to be merely
ridiculous. They have printed and published a small magazine in which no
less than twenty-one of the Irish bishops are fiercely attacked.
“It is only fair to say that they have been actuated by no sectarian
spirit. They are equally severe on Protestant and Roman Catholic
ecclesiastics. The publication was at once brought under my notice, and
I could do nothing else but send for the delinquents. Nothing could have
been more praiseworthy than their candour. They gave me an account of
the purpose of their society--they have formed a society--which showed
that their objects were not in any way vicious, although the means
they adopted for furthering them were highly culpable. I spoke to them
strongly, very strongly indeed, and I trust made some impression on
them. At the same time I must confess that one of them, Miss Lalage
Beresford, displayed the greatest determination and absolutely declined
to give me a promise that the publication of the magazine would be
discontinued, except on conditions which I could not possibly consider.
You will recognize at once that for Miss Lalage’s own sake, as well
as for the sake of college discipline, I cannot have any further
publication of the _Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette_.
“At the same time I am unwilling to proceed to extremities against her
or either of the others. They are all young and will learn sense in
due time. It occurs to me that perhaps the simplest way out of the
difficulty will be for you to withdraw the guarantee of financial
assistance which, as I understand, you have given. If you are prepared
to support me in this way I may safely promise that no further notice of
the absurd publication will be taken by the college authorities. There
are rumours of libel actions pending, but I think we may disregard them.
No damages can be obtained from you beyond the amount of your original
guarantee, which, I understand, did not amount to more than £30. All
the other defendants are minors, dependent entirely on their parents for
their support, so the aggrieved parties will probably not proceed far
with their action. If you agree to stop supplies and so prevent the
possibility of further publication, I shall use my influence to have the
whole affair hushed up.”
There remained only the fifth letter; the second of those which bore a
typewritten address. I opened it and found that it came from Lalage. She
wrote:
“We have only been able, to hire this typewriter for one week so I’m
practising hard at it. That is why I’m typing this letter. Please excuse
mistakes.”
There were a good many mistakes but I excused them.
“Your copy of the _Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette_ went to you first thing.
Hilda nearly forgot to post it, but didn’t quite, which was lucky, for
all the rest were seized from us, except nine, which Selby-Harrison gave
to a news agent, who sold them but didn’t pay us, though he may yet.
Hard Luck, I call that. Don’t you? Some ass sent a copy, marked, to the
Prov. and the next thing we knew was that both offices were raided by
college porters and our property stolen by force. We were furious, but
before we could take any action--we were going to consult a lawyer, a
K.C., whose son happens to be a friend of Selby-Harrison’s on account of
being captain of Trinity 3rd A (hockey), in which Selby-Harrison plays
halfback--our doom was upon us and Selby-Harrison was sent for by the
Prov. He came back shattered, like that telescope man who got caught by
the Inquisition, having spent hours on the rack and nearly had his face
eaten off as well. Our turn came next. We (Hilda and I) had just time
to dart off on top of a tram to Trinity Hall (that’s where we have our
rooms), you know, of course, and jump into our best frocks before 1 P.M.,
the hour of our summons to the august presence. Hilda’s is a tussore
silk, frightfully sweet, and I had a blouse with a lot of Carrickmacross
lace on it.
“Hilda was in a pea-blue funk when it came to the moment and kept
pulling at her left glove until she tore the button off. I was a bit
jellyfishy myself down the back; but I needn’t have been. The minute I
got into the room I could see that the old Prov. was a perfect pet and
didn’t really mean anything, though he tried to look as if he did.”
I have always disliked the modern system of co-education and after
reading Lalage’s letter I was strongly inclined to agree with the bishop
who wants to stamp it out, beginning with the infant schools. I do not
agree with his reasoning. My objection--it applies particularly to the
admission of grown-up young women to universities--is that even-handed
justice is never administered. The girls get off cheap. Some day,
perhaps, we shall have a lady presiding as provost over one of our great
universities. Then the inequalities of our present arrangements will
be balanced by others. The Lalages and Hildas of those days will spend
hours upon the rack. If they are fools enough to jump into tussore
frocks and blouses with Carrickmacross lace on them before being
admitted to the august presence, they will have their faces eaten off as
well. On the other hand, the Selby-Harrisons, if reasonably good-looking
young men, will find the Prov. a perfect pet, who doesn’t really mean
anything; who, perhaps, will not even try to look as if she does.
“He jawed a lot, of course, but we did not mind that a bit; at least I
didn’t, for I knew he only did it because he had to. In the end he asked
us to promise not to annoy bishops any more. Hilda promised. Rather base
of her, I call it; but by that time she had dragged the second button
off her glove and would have promised simply anything. I stuck on and
said I wouldn’t. He seemed a bit put out, and he’d been such a dear
about the whole thing that I hated having to refuse him. You know the
sort of way you feel when somebody, that you want frightfully to do
things for, will clamour on for what you know is wrong. That’s the way
I was and at last I couldn’t stand it any more, so I said I’d promise
on condition that the bishops all undertook not to say any more silly
things except in church. That was as far as I could well go and I
thought the Prov. would have jumped at the offer. Instead of which he
first scowled in a very peculiar way and then his face all wrinkled up
and got quite red so that I thought he was going to get some kind of
fit. Without saying another word he in a sort of way hustled us out
of the room. That was the only really rude thing he did to us; but
Selby-Harrison sticks to it that he was perfectly awful to him. We don’t
quite know what will happen next, but both the other two think that we’d
better not have the college porters arrested for stealing the magazines.
I’d like to, but, of course, they are two to one. Selby-Harrison is
looking like a sick turkey and is constantly sighing. He says he thinks
he’ll have to be a doctor now. He had meant to go into the Divinity
School and be ordained but after what the Provost said to him he doesn’t
see how he can. Rather rough luck on him, having to fall back on the
medical; but I don’t think he’ll mind much in the end, except that
he doubts whether his father can afford the fees. That will be a
difficulty, if true.”
I wonder what the fees amount to. I am inclined to think that it is my
duty to see Selby-Harrison through. I should not like to think of his
whole career being wrecked. At the same time I am inclined to think that
it would be waste to turn him into a doctor. He ought to make his mark
as a chartered accountant if he gets a chance. I shall speak to my
mother about him when I go home and see what she suggests.
“Hilda’s mother has written saying that Hilda is not to spend next hols
with me; which was all arranged before the fuss began. I can’t see what
objection she can possibly have. Anyhow it is frightful tyranny and of
course we don’t mean to stand it. Selby-Harrison says that perhaps if
you wrote to her she would give in; but I don’t want you to do this. I
hate crawling, especially to Hilda’s mother and people like that, but if
you like to do it you can. Selby-Harrison says that your mother being an
honourable, will make a lot of difference, though I don’t see what that
has to do with me. Still if you think it will be any use there’s no
reason why you shouldn’t mention it. Hilda has cried buckets full since
the letter came.”
I am sorry for Hilda but I shall not write to her mother. I have enough
on my hands without that. Besides, as Lalage says, I do not see the
connection between my mother’s position in society and Hilda’s mother’s
schemes for her daughter’s holidays.
“P.S. I hope you got your 8 per cent, all right. I told Selby-Harrison
to send it. We were all three stony at the time and had to borrow it
from another girl who is going in for logic honours, but she’s quite
rich, so it doesn’t matter. Hilda didn’t want to, and said she’d
give her two gold safety pins, which she got last Christmas, if
Selby-Harrison would pawn them for her. But he wouldn’t, and I thought
it was hardly worth while for the sake of one and fourpence, besides
making her mother more furious than ever. We ought not to have had to
borrow more than fourpence, for Selby-Harrison had a shilling the night
before, but went and spent it on having a Turkish bath. Rather a rotten
thing to do, I think, when we owed it. But he said he’d forgotten about
the 8 per cent, and had to have the Turkish bath on account of the way
the Prov. talked to him. That was yesterday, of course, not to-day.”
I was glad when I read this that I had made out my cheque for the whole
ten pounds. Selby-Harrison will be in a position to pay the other girl
back. She may be quite rich, but she will not like being done out of her
money. The fact that she is going in for logic honours shows me that
she has a precise kind of mind and a good deal of quiet determination.
I should be surprised if she submitted meekly to the loss of one and
fourpence.
“P.P.S. I always forget to tell you that Pussy (Miss Battersby) says
she left a hat pin with a silver swallow on the end of it in that first
hotel in Lisbon. Would you mind going in the next day you are passing
and asking for it? I hate to bother you and I wouldn’t, only that we
don’t any of us remember the name of the hotel and so can’t write.”
I rather shrank from asking that hotel keeper for a pin supposed to have
been dropped in one of his bedrooms during the previous August. But
Miss Battersby, at least, does not deserve to suffer. I spent a long
afternoon going round the jewellers’ shops in Lisbon and in the end
secured a pin with two silver doves and a heart on it. I sent this
to Miss Battersby and explained that it was the nearest thing to her
original swallow which the hotel keeper had been able to find. She is,
fortunately, quite an easy person to please. She wrote thanking me for
the trouble I had taken.