Priscilla's Spies
promising. It was most exciting. Peter Walsh upset the Tortoise--on
purpose I now think--but no one else has said so yet--and Lord
Torrington swam for his life while his lovely daughter wrung her lily
hands in shrill despair, this being the exact opposite of what was the
case with Lord Ullin’s daughter. Joseph Antony Kinsella and Jimmy and I
rescued the drowning mariner in your boat. Frank would have done so too,
for he says he never rescued any one from a watery grave--though he won
a prize for life-saving in his swimming bath at school and I think he
wanted to get a medal--but none of us have as yet, nor won’t--but he
couldn’t get down the hill quick enough on account of his sprained
ankle, so we were off without him. I jolly well ballyragged Joseph
Antony Kinsella until he opened his last cask of illicit whisky.
‘Illicit’ is what both father and Lord Torrington called it and at first
I didn’t know what that meant, but I looked it out in the dict. and now
do know, also how to spell it, which I shouldn’t otherwise. Then we had
a most frightful scene in Joseph Antony Kinsella’s cottage. Lady Isabel
was splendid. I never knew any one could be in love so much, especially
with Barnabas. The salt sea was frozen on her cheeks (it had been
raining hard), and the salt tears in her eyes. Sylvia Courtney told
me that that poem was most affecting, so I read it. Have you? Lord
Torrington was frightfully stony-hearted at first and finished two mugs
of illicit whisky (with hot water), coughing and swearing the whole
time. Barnabas crawled. Then Mrs. Kinsella made tea and hot pancakes in
spite of the baby, which screamed; and all was gay, though there was
no butter. Peter Walsh came in while we were at tea, having righted the
Tortoise and bailed her out, but he and Joseph Antony Kinsella went off
together, which was just as well, for there weren’t too many pancakes,
and Lord Torrington, when he began to soften down a bit, turned out
to be hungry. In the end we all went home together in Joseph Antony
Kinsella’s big boat, Lord Torrington having put on his clothes again and
father’s oilskins, which were providentially saved from the wreck. Lady
Isabel and Barnabas held each other’s hands the whole time in a way
that I thought rather disgusting, though Cousin Frank says it is common
enough among those in that state. I hope I never shall be; but of course
I may. One can’t be really sure beforehand. Anyhow I shan’t like it if I
am. Lady Isabel did, which made it worse. Father met us at the quay and
said he didn’t believe there was a single grain of shot in the whole
of Timothy Sweeny’s fat body and that the entire thing was a plant. I
didn’t understand this at the time, though now I do; but it’s too long
to write; though it would interest you if written.
“For days and days Lady Torrington was more obdurate than the winter
wind and the serpent’s tooth. She said those two things often and often,
and the one about the winter wind shows that she has read ‘As You
Like It.’ I don’t know the one about the serpent’s tooth. It may be in
Shakespeare, but is not in Wordsworth’s ‘Excursion.’ I think she meant
Lady Isabel, not herself. Barnabas slept in the Geraghtys’ gate lodge,
a bed being made up for him and food sent down, though he was let in to
lunch with us after a time. There were terrific consultations which I
did not hear, being of course regarded as a child. Nor did Cousin Frank,
which was rather insulting to him, considering that he can behave quite
like a grown up when he tries. But all came right in the end. We think
that Lord Torrington has promised to make Barnabas a bishop in the army,
which Cousin Frank says he can do quite easily if he likes, being the
head of the War Office. Father kept harping on, especially at luncheon,
when Barnabas was there, to find out why they fled to Rosnacree. Rose,
the under housemaid, told me that it came out in the end that Lady
Isabel simply went to the man at Euston station and asked for a ticket
to the furthest off place he sold tickets to. This, may be true.
Rose heard it from Mrs. Geraghty, who came up every day to hook Lady
Torrington’s back. But I doubt it myself. There must be further off
places than Rosnacree, though, of course, not many. At one time there
threatened to be rather a row about our not giving up the fugitives
to justice, and Aunt Juliet tried to say nasty things about aiding and
abetting (whatever they mean). But I said that wouldn’t have happened
because we didn’t particularly care for Lady Isabel and simply loathed
Barnabas, if it hadn’t been for the dastardly way Lord Torrington
sprained Frank’s ankle, so that they had no one to blame but themselves.
Lord Torrington, who isn’t really a bad sort at times, quite saw this
and said he wouldn’t have sprained Frank’s ankle if he hadn’t been upset
at the time on account of Lady Isabel’s having eluded his vigilance and
escaped. This just shows how careful we ought to be about our lightest
and most innocent actions. No one would expect any dire results to come
of simply spraining a young man’s ankle on a steamer; but they did;
which is the way many disasters occur and often we don’t find out why
even afterwards, though in this case Lord Torrington did, thanks to me.
“Joseph Antony Kinsella and Peter Walsh and Timothy Sweeny and Patsy
the smith came up one day on a deputation with a donkey load of turf
for father and Lord Torrington, which seemed curious, but wasn’t, really
because there were bottles and bottles of illicit whisky under the
turf. Lord Torrington made a speech to them and said that all would be
forgiven and forgotten and that he would leave the whisky in his will to
his grandson, who might drink it perhaps; which shows, we think, that
he is taking Barnabas to his heart, or else he would hardly be saving up
the whisky in the way he said he would. So, as Shakespeare says, ‘All’s
well that ends well.’
“Your affect, friend,
“Priscilla Lentaigne.”
“P. S.--I couldn’t write while they were here on account of the
thunderous condition of the atmosphere and not knowing exactly how
things would turn out, which is the cause of your not getting this
letter sooner. Since they left, Barnabas and all, Aunt Juliet has
dropped being a suffragette in disgust (you can’t wonder after the
way Lady Isabel turned out to have deceived her) and has taken up
appendicitis warmly. She says it’s far more important really than uric
acid or fresh air, and is thinking of going up to Dublin next week for
an operation. Father says it was bound to be either that or spiritualism
because they are the only two things left which she hadn’t tried. It’s
rather unlucky, I think, for Aunt Juliet, being so very intellectual.
I’m glad I’m not.”
THE END