Priscilla's Spies
“It’s not that. It’s something far worse. The fuss that’s going on up
there at the present moment is a thunderstorm compared to what there
would be over our being late.”
“How do you know there’s a fuss?”
“Before she was married,” said Priscilla, “Mrs. Geraghty--that’s the
woman at the gate lodge, the mother of those four children--was our
upper housemaid. Aunt Juliet simply loved her. She rubs her into all
the other servants day and night. She says she was the only sufficient
housemaid. I’m not sure that that’s quite the right word. It may be
efficient. Any how she says she’s the only something-or-other-ficient
housemaid she ever had; which of course is a grand thing for Mrs.
Geraghty, though not really as nice as it seems, because whenever
anything perfectly appalling happens Aunt Juliet sends for her. Then
she and Aunt Juliet rag the other servants until things get smoothed
out again. The minute I saw those children sporting about when by rights
they ought to be in bed I knew that Mrs. Geraghty had been sent for. Now
you understand the sort of thing you have to expect when we get home. I
thought I’d just warn you, so that you wouldn’t be taken by surprise.”
Frank felt that he still might be taken by surprise and urged Priscilla
to give him some further details about the catastrophe.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Priscilla. “At least we may. If it’s
the kind of thing that’s visible, streams of water running down the
front stairs or anything like that, we’ll see for ourselves, but if it
happens to be a more inward sort of disaster which we can’t see--and
that’s the kind there’s always the worst fuss about--then it may take us
some time to find out. Aunt Juliet doesn’t think it’s good for children
to know about inward disasters, and so she never talks of them when
I’m there except in what she calls French, and not much of that because
Father can’t understand her. They may, of course, confide in you. It all
depends on whether they think you’re a child or not.”
“I’m not.”
“I know that, of course. And Aunt Juliet saw you in your evening coat
last night at dinner, so she oughtn’t to. But you never can tell about
things of that kind. Look at the sponge lady for instance. She said you
were the nicest child she ever saw. Still they may tell you.”
Frank did not like being reminded of Miss Rutherford’s remark.
Priscilla’s repetition of it goaded him to a reply which he immediately
afterwards felt to be unworthy.
“If they do tell me,” he said, “I won’t tell you.”
“Then you’ll be a mean, low beast,” said Priscilla.
Frank pulled himself together with an effort. He realised that it would
never do to bandy schoolboy repartee with Priscilla. His loss of dignity
would be complete. And besides, he was very likely to get the worst
of the encounter. He was out of practise. Prefects do not descend to
personalities.
“My dear Priscilla,” he said, “I only meant that I wouldn’t tell you if
it was the sort of thing a girl oughtn’t to hear.”
“Like what Jimmy Kinsella has on Inishbawn,” said Priscilla. “Do you
know, Cousin Frank, you’re quite too funny for words when you go in for
being grand. Now would you like me to wheel you up to the hall-door
and ring the bell, or would you rather we sneaked round through the
shrubbery into the yard, and got in by the gunroom door and so up the
back stairs?”
“I don’t care,” said Frank.
“The back way would be the wisest,” said Priscilla, “but in the state of
grandeur you’re in now----”
“Oh, do drop it, Priscilla.”
“I don’t want to keep it up.”
“Then go by the back door.”
“Do you promise to tell me all about it, supposing they tell you, and
they may? You can never be sure what they’ll do.”
“Yes, I promise.”
“A faithful, solemn oath?”
“Yes.”
“Whether it’s the sort of thing a girl ought to be told or not?”
“Yes. Only do go on. It’ll take me hours to dress, and we’re awfully
late already.”
Priscilla trotted briskly through the shrubbery, crossed the yard and
helped Frank out of the chair at the gunroom door. She gave him her arm
while he hobbled up the back stairs. At the top of the first flight she
deserted him suddenly. She darted forward, half opened a baize covered
swing door and peeped through.
“I just thought I heard them at it,” she said. “Mrs. Geraghty and the
two housemaids are rioting in the long gallery, dragging the furniture
about and, generally speaking, playing old hokey. That gives us a
certain amount of information, Cousin Frank.”
CHAPTER X
ROSNACREE HOUSE was built early in the 19th century by the Lentaigne of
that day, one Sir Francis. At the beginning of that century the Irish
gentry were still an aristocracy. They ruled, and had among their number
men who were gentlemen of the grand style, capable of virile passions
and striking deeds, incapable, constitutionally and by training, of the
prudent foresight of careful tradesmen. Lord Thormanby, who rejoiced in
a brand new Union peerage and was a wealthy man, kept race horses. Sir
Francis, who, except for the Union peerage, was as big a man as Lord
Thormanby, kept race horses too. Lord Thormanby bought a family coach of
remarkable proportions. Sir Francis ordered a duplicate of it from the
same coach-builder. Lord Thormanby employed an Italian architect to
build him a house. Sir Francis sought out the same architect and gave
him orders to build another house, identical with Lord Thormanby’s in
design, but having each room two feet longer, two feet higher and
two feet broader than the corresponding room at Thormanby Park. The
architect, after talking a good deal about proportions in a way which
Sir Francis did not understand, accepted the commission and erected
Rosnacree House.
The two additional cubic feet made all the difference. Lord Thormanby’s
fortune survived the building operations. Lord Francis Lentaigne’s
estate was crippled.
His successors struggled with a burden of mortgages and a mansion
considerably too large for their requirements. Sir Lucius, when his
turn came, shut up the great gallery, which ran the whole length of the
second storey of the house, and lived with a tolerable amount of elbow
room in five downstairs sitting rooms and fourteen bedrooms. Miss
Lentaigne made occasional raids on the gallery in order to see that the
fine old-fashioned furniture did not rot. Neither she nor her brother
thought of using the room.
For Frank Mannix the white tie which is worn in the evening was still
something of a novelty and therefore a difficulty. He was struggling
with it, convinced of the great importance of having the two sides
of its bow symmetrical, when Priscilla tapped at his bedroom door. In
response to his invitation to enter she opened the door half way and put
her head and shoulders into the room.
“I thought I’d just tell you as I was passing,” she said, “that it’s all
right about your ankle.”
Frank, who had just re-bandaged the injured limb, asked her what she
meant.
“I’ve seen Aunt Juliet,” she said, “and I find that she’s quite dropped
Christian Science and is frightfully keen on Woman’s Suffrage. That’s
always the way with her. When she’s done with a thing she simply hoofs
it without a word of apology to anyone. It was the same with the uric
acid. She’d talk of nothing else in the morning and before night it was
withered like the flower of the field upon the housetop, ‘whereof the
mower filleth not his arm.’ I expect you know the sort I mean.”
She shut the door and Frank heard her running down the passage. A couple
of minutes later he heard her running back again. This time she opened
the door without tapping.
“I can’t think,” she said, “what Woman’s Suffrage can possibly have
to do with the big gallery, but they must be mixed up somehow or Mrs.
Geraghty and the housemaids wouldn’t be sporting about the way they are.
They’re at it still. I’ve just looked in at them.”
During dinner the conversation was very largely political. Sir Lucius
inveighed with great bitterness against the government’s policy in
Ireland. Now and then he recollected that Frank’s father was a
supporter of the government. Then he made such excuses for the Cabinet’s
blundering as he could. Miss Lentaigne also condemned the government,
though less for its incurable habit for truckling to the forces of
disorder in Ireland, than for its cowardly and treacherous treatment
of women. She made no attempt to spare Frank’s feelings. Indeed, she
pointed many of her remarks by uncomplimentary references to Lord
Torrington, Secretary of State for War, and the immediate chief of Mr.
Edward Mannix, M.P. Lord Torrington, so the public understood, was the
most dogged and determined opponent of the enfranchisement of women. He
absolutely refused to receive deputations of ladies and had more than
once said publicly that he was in entire agreement with a statement
attributed to the German Emperor, by which the energies of women
were confined to babies, baking and bazaars for church purposes. Miss
Lentaigne scorched this sentiment with invective, and used language
about Lord Torrington which was terrific. Her abandonment of the cause
of Christian Science appeared to be as complete as the most enthusiastic
general practitioner could desire. Frank was exceedingly uncomfortable.
Priscilla was demure and silent.
When Miss Lentaigne, followed by Priscilla, left the room, Sir Lucius
became confidential and friendly. He pushed the decanter of port towards
Frank.
“Fill up your glass, my boy,” he said. “After your long day on the
sea---- By the way I hope your aunt--I keep forgetting that she’s
not your aunt--I hope she didn’t say anything at dinner to hurt your
feelings. You mustn’t mind, you know. We’re all rather hot about
politics in this country. Have to be with the way these infernal Leagues
and things are going on. You don’t understand, of course, Frank. Nor
does your father. If he did he wouldn’t vote with that gang. Your
aunt--I mean to say my sister is--well, you saw for yourself. She
usedn’t to be, you know. It’s only quite lately that she’s taken the
subject up. And there’s something in it. I can’t deny that there’s
something in it. She’s a clever woman. There’s always something in
what she says. Though she pushes things too far sometimes. So does
Torrington, it appears. Only he pushes them the other way. I think
he goes too far, quite too far. Of course, my sister does too, in the
opposite direction.”
Sir Lucius sighed.
“It’s all right, Uncle Lucius,” said Frank. “I don’t mind a bit. I’m not
well enough up in these things to answer Miss Lentaigne. If father was
here----”
“What’s that? Is your father coming here?”
“Oh, no,” said Frank. “He’s in Schlangenbad.”
“Of course, of course. By the way, your father’s pretty intimate with
Torrington, isn’t he? The Secretary of State for War.”
“My father’s under-secretary of the War Office,” said Frank.
“Now, what sort of a man is Torrington? He’s a distant cousin of mine.
My great aunt was his grandmother or something of that sort. But I only
met him once, years ago. Apart from politics now, I don’t profess
to admire his politics--I never did. How men like your father and
Torrington can mix themselves up with that damned socialist crew--But
apart from politics, what sort of a man is Torrington?”
“I never saw him,” said Frank. “I’ve been at school, you know, Uncle
Lucius.”
“Quite so, quite so. But your father now. Your father must know him
intimately. I know he’s rich, immensely rich. American mother, American
wife, dollars to burn, which makes it all the harder to understand his
politics. But his private life--what does your father think of him?
“Last time father stopped there,” said Frank, “he was called in the
morning by a footman who asked him whether he’d have tea, coffee or