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,
N, and at the rooms of the Elizabethan
Society
Debtor
and Creditor Account
To 8 per cent, due on one third of L80, being
amount of
guarantee for one month as per agreement signed
August 9th,
ult., equals 1d. (say, one shilling and fourpence).
Examined and found correct
J. Selby-Harrison.
Stamps (1d.) 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, N, and
at the rooms of the Elizabethan Society
Per Contra.
By one third of L30, being amount of
guarantee for one month as per agreement signed
August 9th, ult., L10, less payment by advertiser
for single insertion, being one twelfth of 75. 9d.f
contract price for year, 7.75 pence equals L9-19-4.25
(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 L10, 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 extr
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 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.
“Amelie 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 L30.
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.